William Kienzle: Requiem for Moses

“Wait a minute, Dan. Just what do you think is going to happen?”

“You’re going to have some sort of service for this doctor. This Jewish doctor! This abortionist! ”

Koesler felt as if he’d been hit by shotgun pellets and that he would have a most arduous time trying to dig them out.

“Wait … first, who told you this?”

“It doesn’t matter. If you must know, one of Sorrows’ parishioners got a call inviting him to your insidious-your bacchanal! ”

“Bacchanal? Hardly, Dan. Besides, we’re not going to have a service.”

“What then?” truculently.

“An opportunity for the late doctor’s friends and relatives to view the body.”

“What happened to all the Jewish funeral homes?”

“The widow is a Catholic. This is her wish.”

“Worse yet! You’re granting favors to a Catholic woman who denied-spit on-her faith to marry a heathen!”

“Hey, Dan, you’re way out of line. It happens that the Greens were married in the Church. And the doctor lived up to his part of the bargain; he not only permitted his two children to be raised as Catholics, but even sent them to parochial schools. And, bottom line, the marriage was sanctioned by the Catholic Church.”

“And for this-just for keeping his word-you give him Christian burial!” It was more spat than spoken.

Koesler’s patience was growing thinner than his hair. “I already told you: We’re not having a service, let alone a Mass.”

“That right? Nobody’s going to do anything? Just the body in the church? Nothing at all added?”

Is he fishing? He couldn’t know about the eulogy. That was the final item on Mrs. Green’s list of favors as well as the last request Koesler had granted. It didn’t much matter: A few words were to be spoken, and if Dan Reichert didn’t know that now, he soon would. Might as well get it over with. “Okay,” Koesler admitted, “I agreed to say a few words. A brief eulogy. That’s it.”

“What are you going to tell that bunch of Christ-killers? About all the unborn babies the good doctor murdered?”

“What is this about abortions? Where did you hear about anything like that?”

“He’s a Jew!”

“So?”

“If it weren’t for the Jews, abortion in this country would be a bad memory. Not only is your man Jewish, but he’s a doctor. That he performed abortions is a given.”

“This is crazy, Dan. You’re talking nonsense. You called the doctor a heathen. A heathen doesn’t believe in the God of the Bible. The whole Bible. And one and the same God is in both Testaments, Old and New. And placing responsibility for abortion on Jews is the same sort of thinking that caused the Holocaust.”

“It doesn’t surprise me that you believe in the Holocaust.”

Koesler couldn’t believe his ears. “Until this moment, I didn’t realize that you are actually dangerous,” he said wonderingly.

“I’m dangerous?! You’re the one who’s inviting a crowd of Jews into a consecrated church. And I don’t suppose you consulted the Code of Canon Law before agreeing to this blasphemy?”

“I did. And I found nothing that would prohibit what we’re doing this evening.”

“But you did find, didn’t you”-Reichert’s voice took on a tone of triumph-“provisions in case of doubt. In doubt we are directed to consult with the ordinary. Can you tell me, in all honesty and candor, that there isn’t at least a small but substantial doubt over what you’re planning?”

In all honesty and candor, of course there was some doubt. He’d gone through that while he was considering Mrs. Green’s request. “Yes,” Koesler admitted, “there was some doubt. But the code adds the proviso that there be time. The Cardinal’s out of the country. And Dr. Green is to be buried tomorrow morning.”

“Surely you are aware of land-to-plane phones. He’s flying back from Rome right now. You could have called. You could have consulted him. You could have followed the law.”

“You have one opinion on the law. I have another.”

“Is that so! Just ‘opinions,’ is it? Well, I intend to be in St. Joseph’s tonight and see for myself what unholy hell you’re going to commit in your consecrated church. I intend to make sure this is brought to the attention of His Eminence. And you had better just pray that nothing happens that will force this out of the confines of St. Joe’s. I almost wish the news media would inform everyone of what you are doing! Watch for me. I’ll be there!”

With that, Reichert did not exactly place the receiver in its cradle. He slam-dunked it.

Koesler hesitated no longer. He rang the answering service and asked that they take all calls. He did not inform the service of this evening’s wake. Thus, the service would be unable to answer any pertinent questions. This had gone far enough.

No. It had gone way too far.

In his lifetime, Father Koesler had been the cause of things hitting the fan more than once. But never had anything escalated as rapidly as this simple wake that he had agreed to host.

Reichert was some six years older than Koesler. They were, at best, acquainted. Definitely not fast friends. He knew, mostly by reputation, of Reichert’s sharply conservative leanings. But some of the things Reichert had just said, the charges he’d made, were beyond any rational extreme. There was no question that Reichert meant what he said. With that, there was no question the man was dangerous.

The thought that such a man still officiated at a parish Mass sent chills through Koesler.

There was no doubt that the Catholic Church was running short of priests. The crisis was worldwide. Nor was there any doubt that many parishes were in critical need of priests. Some priests were suffering burnout. Like everything else in this vocation crisis, the phenomenon was comparatively recent. Parishes that had been served by three or four priests now generally had one, only rarely two.

The overriding tendency was to accept any offer of help. And the pool of available help was deepest among the retirees.

It was in this atmosphere that a priest so flawed in personal theology and philosophy, not to mention Christian charity, was welcomed in a parish. A body temperature in the neighborhood of 98.6 degrees was sufficient qualification. Even if he would have made an effective Nazi.

When Koesler had decided not to phone Cardinal Boyle in transit, he had given little thought to the possibility that the matter would be brought to the Cardinal’s attention. Or that, if he did hear about it, that much would be made of it.

Now Koesler was certain that neither the Cardinal nor he himself would be allowed to sweep the matter under any rug. Father Dan Reichert would see to that in spades.

It was time to push the start button under the casserole Mary O’Connor had left for him. He wasn’t sure he had any appetite. One ought to more eagerly anticipate one’s last meal.

Since Reichert’s call, the phone had not ceased ringing. The answering service, from the questions asked, must be wondering what was going on at St. Joe’s this evening. Just as well they didn’t know. This communications gap might possibly hold down the crowd.

Father Koesler entered the church through the sacristy. Over his plain black cassock and a clerical collar he wore a black topcoat. He wanted it to be unmistakably clear that he wore no liturgical vestment, not even a surplice. No service. A wake.

Standing in the sanctuary, elevated as it was several steps above the nave, he had a good view of the gathering. It was difficult to estimate the number in attendance, as few were seated in pews. Mostly they were standing in small or large groups, some moving from one group to another.