Never mind, he thought. It’ll come. It always does.
Chapter Nineteen
St. Joseph’s Church was crowded to the point of standing room only. At least the crowd had not spilled out onto the sidewalk, so his entry to the rectory was unimpeded.
Mary O’Connor informed him that the present congregation was just that-present. People had been coming and going all morning. Undoubtedly, the afternoon would see an additional exchange of people.
He wasn’t surprised at the size of the crowd; after all, this was the only parish in the archdiocese that was having “miracles.” But he was pleased at the reverential silence that marked this group. There would be no problem offering Mass this time anyway. He hadn’t thought of it in these terms, but today especially he was grateful to be able to offer Mass facing the people, one of the changes authorized by Vatican II. He knew all the prayers of the Mass by heart, so he was free to study the congregation as he proceeded with the liturgy.
The size of the congregation made him think of Easter and Christmas, when it was so easy to distinguish twice-a-year Catholics from regulars. Just so, now the faithful few who frequented daily Mass were present. A small number of the Sunday congregants were added. All the rest hoped either to witness a miracle or experience one.
It was easy to disregard the strangers. Easy until one looked more closely.
The elderly woman in the front pew fingering rosary beads, for instance. Not exactly the recommended manner of assisting at Mass, but her heart was in the right place. A closer look showed tears flowing freely. Was she crying out of pity for herself, or for someone else?
Since she was elderly, he projected her prayer of petition as beseeching God to remove some of her physical burdens. Late in life she couldn’t throw off illnesses and injuries with the certainty and facility that had once been hers. Also she seemed to be the type of supplicant that could pray-and mean-“not mine, but Thy will be done.”
When it was time to stand for the Gospel reading, she had obvious difficulty getting to her feet.
The brief homily Koesler based on the earlier, first reading. That was from the second book of Kings, the reading that tells the story of King David and his perhaps exhibitionist neighbor, Bathsheba.
It was a familiar if infamous tale.
David was on the roof of his palace enjoying the late evening sunset, when whom should he see bathing on the roof of a nearby building? One look was enough for David to send for Bathsheba. Although she was married, an affair with David began. Meanwhile, her husband, Uriah, was fighting a war for David.
Complications set in when Bathsheba became pregnant.
Immediately, David sent for Uriah, ostensibly for some R and R. The king tried his best to get Uriah to go home and be with his voluptuous wife. But Uriah felt that as long as his comrades were suffering deprivation on the field of battle, he should not indulge in the ease and comfort, of his home and conjugal relations.
David had a serious problem. Uriah could count. So when his wife had her child, he would know it was much longer than nine months since they had been together.
So far, David’s sin of adultery was, at least, an act of weakness. But now he plotted a deliberate and heinous crime. He instructed Uriah’s commanding officer to put him in the front lines where the battle was most intense-and there to abandon him.
Uriah was killed. Bathsheba moved in with David. And the king seemed not to realize that he had done anything wrong. It took the prophet Nathan to make David see the abomination he had committed.
At last, David’s sorrow is genuine, and his self-imposed penance is impressive.
Then comes reconciliation.
Koesler’s homily was directed at reconciliation. The word means the restoration of friendship or harmony. Two things are needed to effect this rebirth of union: One party has to be sorry. The other has to accept this sorrow, and forgive.
David was deeply and thoroughly sorry. God accepted his grief, and forgave him. David and God were reconciled.
Koesler dwelt for a time on how difficult this reconciliation is to achieve in many instances.
But as he spoke, his thoughts wondered to Dr. Moses Green. He had offended many people-five whom Koesler could name without hesitation. When these people had unburdened themselves to him, none of them had seemed inclined to forgive or offer any hope of reconciliation.
But of course Green himself gave no sign whatever of being sorry for what he’d done as well as what he had threatened to do.
Not much chance of a reconciliation there-on either side.
When he’d first heard the bill of particulars against Green, reconciliation was not the first word that popped into Koesler’s mind. Vengeance was what the aggrieved parties wanted.
Things now seemed to be status quo ante. Everything was as it was before the incident in St. Joseph’s Church. Green was alive, and five wronged people still had strong reasons to wish him dead.
Come to think of it-Koesler was experiencing one of his more lingering distractions-there was a change in circumstances. Green had inadvertently bought himself some time. Before his death-or apparent death-he was a shadowy figure known personally to relatively few people. But access to him was not all that difficult. If one had wanted to do him harm, it would have been comparatively easy to find him alone, approachable, vulnerable.
But now that he was being hailed as “Saint Moses,” he had become highly visible. Even though he had made no appearance outside his apartment, his life was under constant scrutiny. What with one thing and another, he had become a highly visible, albeit remote, self-made prisoner.
What was Green going to do with this newfound life?
Koesler’s guess was that it would be business as usual. Unless Green had experienced a change of heart due to his extremely close brush with death, what would be sufficient to cause this man to reform his life?
Indeed, from his present position as one whom God had specially touched, Green would be better able to wheel and deal.
But Green could not operate indefinitely from the comfortable and remote confines of his apartment. He must emerge sometime. And when he did, it would be an exciting event. There would be a series of unpredictable twists and turns-events that no one could dependably foresee.
Koesler could hardly wait for the near future to unfold.
The progression of the Mass had reached Communion time before Koesler shook away the cobweb of distractions. He was ashamed that he had paid so little attention to a liturgy that he prized and loved. But, in his defense, he had to acknowledge his deep involvement in this continually surprising drama.
Communion this day in this St. Joseph’s Church was a throwback to the past. Only a small number in this oversize congregation stepped up to receive the host.
Koesler remembered how it had been when he was ordained in 1954. A combination of two elements held down the number of communicants. There was the Communion “fast.” In Koesler’s early years in parochial school and the seminary, those intending to receive communion were obliged to have nothing to eat or drink from the midnight before. Later, that rule was relaxed, allowing water anytime before Communion. Finally, and to this date, communicants could eat or drink anything but alcohol up to an hour before receiving.
The other problem was “sin.” Somehow-the heresy of Jansenism probably was the culprit-Communion had became intertwined with confession. And the belief and practice grew that Communion could be received only after confession. Thus, many people who confessed once a month received Communion once a month.
The combination of these two practices, neither of which could find a home in authentic theology, led to packed churches late Sunday morning-say eleven o’clock or noon-with yet only a handful of communicants.