STRANDED
There had always been a shortage of virtue in the world, and evil and ignorance were still facts of life, but where was the old intelligence? He had begun to wonder, as he never had before, about the doctrine of free will. People, he feared, might not be able to exercise free will anymore, owing to the decline in human intelligence. How else explain the state of the country, and the world, today? “We don’t, maybe we can’t, make the right moves — like those poor whales you read about. We’re stranded.”
HUMAN NATURE
The Church was irrelevant today, not concerned enough with the everyday problems of war, poverty, segregation, and so on, people said, but such talk was itself irrelevant, was really a criticism of human nature. Sell what you have and follow me, Our Lord had told the rich young man — who had then gone away sad. That was human nature for you, and it hadn’t changed. Let him take it who can, Our Lord had said of celibacy — and few could take it, then or now. “And that applies to heroic sacrifice of all kinds. Let’s face it.”
BRUEGHEL THE ELDER
People, most people, lay and clerical, just weren’t up to much. Liturgists, of course, were trying to capitalize on that fact, introducing new forms of worship, reviving old ones, and so on, but an easy way would never be found to make gold out of lead. Otherwise the saints and martyrs would have lived as they had, and died, in vain. Zero multiplied a million times is still zero. All this talk of community, communicating, and so on — it was just whistling in the dark. “Life’s not a cookout by Brueghel the Elder and people know it.”
TOO FAR?
Sure it was a time of crisis, upheaval, and so on, but a man could still do his job. The greatest job in the world, divinely instituted and so on, was that of the priest, and yet it was still a job — a marrying, burying, sacrificing job, plus whatever good could be done on the side. It was not a crusade. Turn it into one, as some guys were trying to do, and you asked too much of it, of yourself, and of ordinary people, invited nervous breakdowns all around. Trying to do too much was something the Church had always avoided, at least until recently. At the Council, the so-called conservatives — a persecuted minority group if ever there was one — had only been afraid of going too far too soon, of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. “And rightly so.”
FLYING SAUCERS
The Church couldn’t respond to all the demands of the moment or she’d go the way of those numerous sects that owed their brief existence to such demands. People had to realize that what they wanted might not be what they needed, and if they couldn’t — well, they couldn’t. Religion was a weak force today, owing to the decline in human intelligence. It was now easy to see how the Church, though she’d endure to the end, as promised by Our Lord, would become a mere remnant of herself. In the meantime, though, the priest had to get on with his job, such as it was. As for feeling thwarted and useless, he knew that feeling, but he also knew what it meant. It meant that he was in touch with reality, and that was something these days. Frequently reported, of course, like flying saucers, were parishes where priests and people were doing great things together. “But I’ve never seen one myself, if it’s any consolation to you guys,” Joe said, and paused.
Did the impressive silence mean that they were now seeing themselves and their situations in a new light, in the clear north light of reality? Bill, finally? Potter? Even Conklin? Joe hoped so, in all cases. On the whole, he was satisfied with the response. The bathwater bit hadn’t gone down very well (groans from Potter, “Oh, no!” from Conklin), and there had been other interruptions, but Joe had kept going, had boxed on, opening cuts, closing eyes, and everybody, including Conklin, looked better to him now.
He wanted Hennessy and Potter to come out again, and not just to discuss their problems with him (Joe), though that would be all right. He wanted them to come out whenever they felt like it, whenever they needed a lift, a little priestly fellowship. Actually, there might be more for them with him, and more for him with them, than with Bill — who, to tell the truth, wasn’t much fun. It could happen, first Hennessy and Potter coming, then coming with others, and these in turn with others. There would be nights, perhaps when Bill wouldn’t leave his room. “Where’s Bill?” “Oh, he’s listening to FM.” Joe’s rectory could become a hangout for the younger clergy, a place where they’d always be sure of a drink, a cigar, and if he put a table in the living room, never used now, a cue. Pastors at first critical (“Stay the hell away from there!”) would sing his praises (“He sure straightened out that kid of mine!”). Time marching on, Hennessy seldom seen, a bishop somewhere, first, and last, of the old crowd to make it, but the others still around, pastors now with curates of their own — tired, wiser men, the age gap narrowing between them and their old mentor, not so old, really, and in excellent health, eating and drinking less. A few missing, yes, the others, though, still coming out to Joe’s — in a crazy world, an asylum of sanity — for priestly fellowship, among them, perhaps, Father Conklin, old Conk, a pretty lonely guy for a while there, until he started coming out, shaved off his cruel mustache, found his lost faith, the road back, second spring, and so on.
“So what’s the answer?” said Potter. “Watch the Twins?”
“Those bores,” said Conklin.
Hennessy reproved them with a look, and spoke with his future authority. “What’s the answer, Father?”
Eyeing Father Felix’s glass on the coffee table, Joe said, “A few monks saved civilization once. Could be the answer again. Principle’s sound. You’d have to work out the details. Wouldn’t have to be monks. Could happen right here.” Joe reached for Father Felix’s glass, the last of the wine, and swirled it clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise, denying himself before downing it. “Wanna see how Father is,” he said. “Be right back.” At the door, as he was about to leave them, he turned and said, “How can we make sanctity as attractive as sex? Answer I got was ‘Just have to keep trying.’ Not much of an answer. Nobody remembers it — just the question. Guess it’s the answer to all these questions. Be right back.”
The monk’s eyes opened when Joe approached the bed. “Get you anything, Father?”
“All right.”
“Drink of water?”
“All right.”
Joe administered water to Father Felix, flipped his pillow, eased him down. “Want your shoes off?”
“Is the party over, Joe?”
“No, not yet.”
“Then,” said the monk, his eyes closing, “why is everybody leaving?”
“Not yet,” Joe said patiently.
But when he returned to the study he saw that he was wrong.
Hennessy — he was the only one left — said, “How is he?”
“All right.”
Led by voices to a window on the street side, Joe looked down and saw Bill, Potter, and Conklin talking to a young woman — older than they were, though — in a convertible.
“Conklin had to leave,” Hennessy said.
Joe came away from the window.
“Want to thank you, Father,” Hennessy said.
“It was Bill’s party.”
“All the same.” Hennessy seemed to know what it was like to be a pastor. “Oh, and I should thank the housekeeper.”
“Good idea.” Joe saw Hennessy, who’d go far, off to the kitchen, and came back to the window. The young woman moved over on the seat and the cruel mustache took the wheel. Potter and Bill then fell all over themselves saying good- bye, making it look hard to do. The convertible drove away. Then, to Joe’s surprise — he had meant to say something about coming again, soon — Hennessy appeared below, having, it seemed, left the rectory by the back door. Without a word or sign to Potter and Bill, who stood together talking, Hennessy got into the driver’s seat of the black sedan at the curb. Potter and Bill then parted, rather solemnly, Joe thought, and Potter got into the backseat of the black sedan. It drove away. A few moments later Bill entered the study, and Joe said: