J. Powers - Wheat That Springeth Green

His vices, his eating and drinking, did tend to silence the prophet in him, but so did common sense. He would persevere in his difficult situation, however, and if asked to explain himself would do so (as he already had to a couple of parishioners such as he’d had in mind when complaining to his old confessor) in very general terms. “The Church tells us to pray for things that lead to salvation, for grace and so on, but for temporal things only insofar as they conduce to that end.”

His situation had worsened, though, now that he’d been singled out and tied to the stake in Brad’s column — only anonymously, yes, but how long only anonymously? Already he could feel the heat. This, in a small way, could soon be one of those times, all too frequent in the history of the Church, when one had to be wise as a serpent, simple as a dove — as when Our Lord had called for a coin and asked whose image it bore and when told, “Caesar’s,” had said in reply, “Render therefore to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and to God the things that are God’s.” That reply, which had made war and misrule easier for tyrants down through the ages and the Church a sitting duck, had heretofore struck Joe as uncharacteristic, even unworthy, of Our Lord. But then Joe hadn’t heretofore been in Our Lord’s position vis-à-vis Caesar.

In the following days, Joe, though he was used to being noticed in public — he dressed as a priest — did get the impression he was being watched . “There he is,” he imagined people saying when he appeared on the Mall or, for that matter, at the altar, “the one who won’t pray for the success of HR 369.” All right. Those scandalized by him might be fewer than he imagined, but they weren’t all in his mind.

Perhaps a dozen people had approached him, or phoned (one anonymously), to complain, and Nan Gurrier had assured him of her support in the hearing of a few of her, by now, many ill-wishers. On the other hand, several people had commended him, and he hadn’t come under attack from Brad again, except for one glancing blow: “Our weather ball on a per capita basis… represents a greater community investment… and provides a greater public service… than the Eiffel Tower… or the Statue of Liberty.”

Then, one evening, Joe had a visit from Brad and saw him in the study in order to keep an eye on the Twins.

“Bad news,” said Brad, who, though pushing fifty, went around like a college kid with the sleeves of his cardigan shoved up to his elbows. “HR 369’s in trouble — in danger of being returned to committee.”

“That so?”

“Look, Padre. You had prayers for the crops last year and every year you have ’em for Hiroshima.” (Brad gave Joe a dirty look, reminding him of their argument, some years back, which had gone on and on until Brad said, “But for Hiroshima and Nagasaki, I might not be here talking to you today,” and Joe fell silent.) “O.K., Padre. I admit we have prayers for all kinds of stuff at our church too.” (Brad was Episcopalian; his wife, Barb, and their sons, Scott and Greg, Catholic.) “Still, it does seem to me…”

“Brad, I still think these things are best left to the lobbyists.”

“I guess I don’t have your faith in lobbyists.”

“Well, I don’t have your faith in prayer.”

“Hold it, Padre.” Obviously Brad was scandalized, and delighted to be, but concerned that what he’d just heard might not be true. “ You don’t have faith in prayer ?”

“I don’t have your faith in prayer.”

“But shouldn’t you?”

Joe gravely replied: “The Church tells us to pray for things that lead to salvation, for grace and so on, but for temporal things only insofar as they conduce to that end.” Much as Brad deserved it, Joe was sorry to have to hit him in the face with a custard pie of theology.

But Brad took it surprisingly well and, after wiping his eyes, said, “I see. May I quote you?”

“No.”

“Look, Padre. What if I gave you a chance to put your case to the community in your own words? As you know, I sometimes open the column to guests when I’m off on an assignment.”

Joe was afraid there was going to be more about the weather ball from far-off places. “No, thanks, Brad.”

“Let me know if you change your mind. In the meantime”—from his shirt pocket Brad removed a folded sheet of yellow paper—“here’s something for your church bulletin, a release I worked up from Scott’s last letter from Nam. I’d run it myself, only it might sound self-serving, and maybe I owe you something.”

“For giving me the business?”

Brad looked hurt but guilty. “If you’re talking about the column, I kept it pretty vague, you know.”

“Thanks.”

“Anyhoo”—Brad, having smoothed out the release, handed it to Joe—“it’s for your ‘In the Service’ department in the bulletin. Use it as you see fit, but as is might be best.”

Joe was reading between the dots: “… elder son of the popular Universe columnist… is now executive officer at one of our bases in Viet Nam… with the grim duty of meeting and escorting VIPs… Sec’y of State Rusk, Generals Taylor, Westmoreland, et al…. Scott awaits the arrival of his brother Greg…‘to help us end this mess in a hurry.’”

“We don’t have such a department in our bulletin,” Joe said, wondering that Brad hadn’t seen copies of it around the house.

“About time you had one then, don’t you think?”

“No.”

Brad sighed. “Seems like all you ever say to me is no, Padre.”

“Yes.”

Brad smiled. “O.K. So I was wrong. Look, Padre. If you said yes to this it’d mean a lot to Scott, to Barb, to Greg, to me, to plenty of people. I don’t have to tell you it’d help your image in the community.”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No, you don’t have to tell me, and no, I’m not saying yes.” Joe returned the release to Brad — at the risk, he supposed, of soon reading that “In the Service” departments appear in the bulletins of all local churches… except one.

Brad had got up and was leaving in a huff. “O.K., Padre. Go back to your game. I can find my way out. Ciao .”

“Same to you.”

Early the next morning there was a phone call from the pastor of the local Lutheran church. “Father, is it true you’re not having public prayers for HR 369?”

Not liking the sound of this, Joe stiffened. “It’s true, Pastor. I’m not.”

“Neither am I, Father.”

In the spirited conversation that followed, Brad wasn’t mentioned, but his column was, the Pastor referring to the little item that he, like Joe, had thought aimed at him alone. “A case of trying to kill two birds with one stone, Father,” to which Joe (recalling Brad’s “I kept it pretty vague, you know”) replied, “You can say that again, Pastor.” Joe and the Pastor promised to keep more in touch. Joe, hanging up, had never felt so ecumenical.

Later that morning there was a phone call from the Rector of the local Episcopal church. “I just got back from my vacation, Father, and I’ve discovered some of what’s happened in my absence. When the cat’s away, the mice will play, Father. I’m talking about public prayers for HR — or is it BS? — 369.” The Rector said he’d chewed out the substitute priest — a good person, really, but deficient in churchmanship — and had also dealt with Brad, but over the phone, and would do more of a job on him if they ever met again, to say nothing of what he had in mind for the vestry when next he and they convened. “None of which I’d be telling you, Father, if I hadn’t spoken to the Pastor, who told me what you two have been through in my absence. My heart goes out to you both, Father.” “Thanks, Rector.” Joe and the Rector promised to keep more in touch. Joe, hanging up, had never felt so ecumenical.