William Kienzle - Chameleon

Today, it was Father Cletus Bash’s turn to chair the meeting, albeit with deference to Cardinal Boyle, who never left any doubt who was in charge.

Boyle’s position as archbishop-sweetened by the title of Cardinal-gave him overwhelming power in the local Church. All the property in the archdiocese was held in his name. Church law gave him authority in the archdiocese second only to the Pope. In addition, Detroit was the metropolitan see in the state of Michigan, which gave Boyle some degree of clout over the other six dioceses in the state. Someone said it: Bishops in Rome were a dime a dozen; a bishop in his own diocese was a power to be reckoned with.

Father Bash called on the various departments one by one. Each director had previously submitted a one-page report for the month. Each director was expected to read all the others’ reports prior to the meeting. Typically, few had done their homework. For those few, now, as Bash paged through one sheet after another, this was their opportunity to ask questions or comment concerning the reports. Instead, most everyone was blearily one or more pages behind Bash in trying to digest all the proffered information. There were few questions.

Bash was brusque and slightly caustic, as always. “I see everyone has pored over the reports as usual and, as usual, conditions among all departments are so good there aren’t many questions.”

A precious few were slightly entertained, the rest merely grumbled in muted tones.

“We now turn to the main topic for today’s meeting,” Bash proceeded unmindfully. “Our schools and our school system. For this part of the meeting you need only state your opinion-no advance work needs to have been done. So we can count on the meeting livening up.”

More grousing.

“For greater clarity,” Bash added, “we will not be discussing any of our colleges or universities, and we’ll reserve comment on the central highs. Let’s begin with our parochial grade and high schools. Anyone?”

Monsignor Del Young took the floor and hung on tight. A throwback to a former time, he’d been superintendent of Catholic schools in Detroit for twenty years. Ordinarily, he would have moved out of that specialized job long ago. But he was so comfortable as superintendent on the one hand, and fearful of becoming a pastor on the other, that he fought the notion of a transfer each time the issue was raised.

It was not all that unusual for a priest in special work to want to remain there. Over the years, attending conventions, regional and national meetings, it was natural to become acquainted with almost everyone in the field. The continuing phone contact and correspondence tied them all together in a tidy subculture. It got to be cozy. The routine was reassuring.

Even so, a diocesan or secular priest such as Del Young had attended a diocesan seminary in order to become a parish priest. That’s what diocesan seminaries produced. Thus, even if parting from a superintendent’s position could be sweet sorrow, it shouldn’t have been that hard. That parting with a preferred job could be painful is easily understood. Still, he would be moving into the position he had ostensibly started out to hold in the beginning-the office of a parish priest.

The final phenomenon contributing to Monsignor Young’s durable dalliance with the superintendent’s job was that the priesthood had become a buyer’s market. This state of affairs had been generated by the priest shortage. Bishops needed-in growing desperation-warm priestly bodies.

At one time, Detroit priests were moved about the diocese when they received a letter from the Chancery which invariably began, “For the care of souls, I have it in mind to send you to …” Where followed the name of the parish the priest would move to and serve in.

No longer. Parishes advertised in the priests’ newsletter, and priests applied for the position-or did not. There were exceptions, but considerable choice on the priest’s part was the rule, not the exception.

So Monsignor Del Young wanted, and was able, to hang in there. Because he’d had the job for as long as many could remember, he feared getting into a parish where his authority would be unaccustomedly diminished, and particularly at age sixty-five, ten years from mandatory retirement, he was not about to be receiving a “For the care of souls …” letter.

Del Young could see only one possible fly in the ointment: What if they closed the schools? He would be superintendent of nothing.

As the first speaker in this morning’s staff meeting, Monsignor Young spoke long, ardently, and with some eloquence on behalf of everything from self-sustaining schools to those whose income was minuscule.

Everyone in the room knew whence Del Young was coming and took all he said with huge doses of salt. Because, after he finished, there was still the matter of what to do about parochial schools. About one thing there was no doubt: parochial schools were in trouble. In some cases, lots and lots of trouble.

Sister Joan Donovan was next to raise her hand. She was recognized by Father Bash.

“I’m afraid we’re slowly creating an elitist school system,” Joan said. “For the past twenty years schools have been closing. First there was a trickle, then a torrent closed; now we’re back to that trickle.”

“We still have the fifth or sixth largest school system in the country!” Monsignor Young interjected.

“We know that, Monsignor,” Joan replied. “My point is that it has come down to the issue of affordability alone. Costs are skyrocketing, and as we keep pulling our belts tighter it’s going to be more and more obvious the Catholic schools are going to be found exclusively in the suburbs for little white boys and girls.”

Young’s face was reddening as if he were slowly choking on his clerical collar. “The reason the costs are skyrocketing-to use your word, Sister; I don’t agree with such a blanket statement-the reason for the costs is the disappearance of the teaching nun. I should think the delegate for religious would not only know that, but be in a position to do something about it.”

Joan smiled as she might have at a slow pupil. “Monsignor, that was a different day.”

“A different day,” Archbishop Foley mused. “Ah, remember when it was a mortal sin not to send your kids to the Catholic school?”

No one responded. Regarded as redundant and without clout, Foley was present at this meeting for the same reason he was residing in Detroit: Cardinal Boyle had invited him. Few others paid him much mind.

“It’s not just a different day,” Young snapped. “It’s all your nuns abandoning their vows, their orders, their schools.”

“Monsignor,” Joan replied, “even if we had back all the Sisters who have left, we still wouldn’t be able to staff the school system we once had. By now, too many would be retired, too many would have died. It’s not just the Sisters who have left. And before you bring it up,” she added, “it’s not the ones who have gone into other apostolic work, nor even the girls who are no longer entering religious life. And, finally, it’s not the teaching orders of men who, as good teachers as they are, never constituted the staple of Catholic primary education.

“It’s a new day for women in the world. Not all that long ago, Catholic women found complete fulfillment as wives and mothers, keeping the house and kids orderly and clean; cooking, washing, repairing, doctoring, being understanding and supportive. Or they found completeness in a convent and in the community of other nuns, teaching in a parochial school-for nothing really, since their entire tiny salary went directly to their religious orders.

“Look about you, Monsignor. Women are prime ministers, rulers, doctors, successful authors; leaders in science, banking, law. Granted, women are still victims of injustice and discrimination. They still do not have complete parity with men by any means. But they are worlds ahead of where they were.”