“You’re not going to deactivate the alarm system?” Carleson asked as he followed Koesler down the hall to St. Joe’s rectory kitchen.
“No. Mostly because we don’t have any.”
“You don’t have an alarm system?’
“No. Does Ste. Anne’s?”
“You betcha. State of the art.”
“I suppose we ought to get one. Just never got around to it.”
“Until you do, it might be a smart idea to leave some lights on when you’re out … to scare off the B-and-E’rs.”
“That is a good idea.” Koesler switched on the kitchen lights. Then, as an afterthought, in keeping with what had just been said, he went to turn on more lights in nearby rooms.
He returned to the kitchen. “How about a cup of coffee?”
“Sure.”
Koesler went to the stove and turned the heat on under a pot containing a dark liquid. “I’ll just heat this up.”
“Okay.”
Koesler was mildly surprised. Usually, visitors complained when he served coffee that had been made much earlier.
In quick order, the pot was steaming. Koesler poured two cups and set one before his guest. Carleson blew over the hot brew, tasted it, then smiled. So did Koesler. This was the first time in his memory that anyone had given even the appearance of actually liking his coffee, even when it was made from scratch.
Carleson had hung his hat on a peg near the door. But he hadn’t removed his coat.
“May I take your coat?” Koesler asked.
“Thanks, no. I’m comfortable. Actually, it’s kind of cold in here.”
Koesler immediately felt apologetic. “I turned up the thermostat. It should warm up soon. I usually let it go down to about sixty when I’m out. Otherwise, I keep it at about sixty-eight.”
Carleson hunched his shoulders. “It’s probably just me. I can’t seem to stay warm.”
“Actually, this is a fairly mild January. It can get bone-chillingly cold these next couple of months, especially for us. Both my parish and yours are very near the river. That and the windchill can keep one in the cabin.”
“It may be mild weather to you and everybody else who’s used to it, but it wasn’t all that long ago that I was sweating it out in Honduras. I’ve been back only a couple of months.”
“That’s right. I read where you were there-what? — about five years.”
“Uh-huh.” Carleson smiled at the memory. “I was part of an experiment at Maryknoll.”
“How’s that?”
“Usually a missioner is pretty well grounded in the local language before he’s sent anywhere. I was supposed to pick it up on the scene. On the whole, I think it worked out fairly well … except for when I arrived in a little village where I had to take a bus to an even smaller village where my parish was.
“See, I had everything I was bringing with me in a humongous duffel bag. By the time I got to the bus the luggage compartment was filled. The bus itself was packed with people, right up to the door. And there was I trying to squeeze myself on board with this huge bag.
“Everybody seemed to be yelling at me and pointing to the opposite side of the bus, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I only had a few Spanish words and phrases.
“Finally, in all this pandemonium, I noticed a man sitting halfway back in the bus. He was motioning to me to pass my bag back to him. Well, he was like a port in a storm. I sent the bag back, and it was enthusiastically passed from hand to hand until it reached him.
“When he got it, he threw it out the window. I thought-my God! — he just threw away everything I own! But what all these people were trying to tell me was that there was another luggage compartment on the other side of the bus.”
They laughed.
During the story, Koesler had been studying his guest. Carleson was of average height, perhaps five-feet-eight or — nine. A bit on the heavyset side, which would help keep him warm during the winter once he got used to it. His eyes were attractive and trusting in an open face. His full head of hair was white-perhaps a bit prematurely. Koesler guessed Carleson to be about ten or fifteen years younger than his own sixty-six years. “You liked it there?”
“I loved it.”
“Then why …?”
“Why did I leave the missions? Why am I becoming a diocesan priest?”
Koesler opened his hands on the table palms up, inviting a response. “If it’s not too personal. Earlier you said something about the bishops …”
“The bishops …” Carleson’s expression hardened. “Yes, the bishops. See, the Church in the Third World is not all that different from the Church anywhere else-here. Bishops, by their very position, tend toward being somewhat aristocratic. The highest rank a bishop can reach, short of the papacy, is the Cardinalate. And Cardinals are referred to commonly as ‘Princes of the Church.’ The Polish word for priest is ksiadz- which is almost exactly the word for ‘prince.’ And that’s only a priest.
“Bishops-Catholic bishops-are treated pretty much like royalty, if not by everyone at least by Catholics. And that’s as true in this country as it is almost everywhere else.”
“I can’t disagree,” Koesler said. “Anytime a bishop presides at the altar, all of the liturgy revolves around him. It’s as if he were a king. He even sits on a throne.
“But, as you said, it’s a situation common everywhere-in this country as well as Honduras. So, why …? I mean as long as you’re functioning as a priest, you’re going to have to deal with bishops. And you’re still functioning as a priest.…”
“It’s a good point … by the way, could I have a bit more coffee?”
Koesler could have kissed him. Never in his life had anyone come back for seconds of Koesler’s brew. Most people never finished the first cup. Gladly did he refill both their cups. And, mercifully, that did it for the leftover coffee.
“Let me try to clarify my point.” Carleson blew across the surface of his cup. “Since bishops are treated like royalty, I suppose it’s only natural that most of them seem to identify with the movers and shakers of society, with the Establishment, with those in power.
“But, see, in the Third World there are only two classes: those who have everything and those who have nothing. Nothing connects the classes. Nothing exists between them. You must be for one side or the other. No matter with which side the local bishop relates, his priests have to choose. If the bishop joins the aristocracy, the priest does also. Or else the priest finds himself in opposition not only to the rich but also to his bishop.”
Carleson smiled grimly. “The priests get together periodically, much like the meeting we attended this evening. And down there we divided ourselves about the way you do.
“This evening, I paid very close attention to what was being said by whom. Everybody kept the conversation confined to noncontroversial subjects like the services the city doesn’t provide or the mayor or the council. I watched the departure of the guys who pretty much sided with the Church bureaucracies. I could tell because as they left, the conversation drifted to subjects not so safe.
“And then they wanted to find out which side I was on. But their investigation was short-circuited by-who was it … Ernie Bell? — and his problems with Bishop Diego.
“The priests’ meetings in Honduras-and the other countries where I’ve served-are about the same. Except that the stakes are higher. Probably because there are no neutral areas. It’s either poor or rich … the haves or the have-nots.
“Do you get the picture, Bob? Who the bishop happens to be and what his social ethic is are of tremendous importance. And, in the final analysis, the diocesan priests down there have a bit more mobility than the priests who come in as missionaries. They can move to a different jurisdiction, especially before they’re ordained. And while that’s not an awful lot of consolation, it’s better than the missionary who’s sent to a particular locale by his superior. There isn’t much of anything he can do about it.”