“I’ll take very good care of this,” Zach said.
I hoped he would.
Chapter 102
IT WAS a gorgeous morning in May, and there was an overflow crowd at this, the first Mass in the restored JMJ church. We’d installed new double doors on the southern side that opened out to the large deck and the hay field beyond. I stood alone in the sacristy, listening to James speak to the congregation. I was wearing a simple, loose-fitting white dress with a hem to midcalf, a crucifix on a long, gold chain, and a white linen scarf that covered my head.
I heard James say, “No priest has ever been more moved to celebrate Mass than I. Brigid, please come out.”
I had a nervous stomach, and I felt light-headed, too, but I refused to faint; nothing could ruin this remarkable day.
Last night Bishop Reedy had ordained me by candlelight here in our precious church. I was a priest now, and today, I would give my first Mass.
I assured myself that I could do this, and I prayed to God, saying, “I’ll do my best, Lord. Thank You for my glorious life and for giving me this opportunity to do Your will.”
I walked out to the altar and looked around at the packed pews, the standing-room-only throng that had spilled out into the sunshine. Every pair of eyes was on me, every face was expectant.
James was sitting in the first seat in the front right-hand pew, my usual spot, with Gilly beside him. They were holding hands.
I began the liturgy, speaking to everyone inside the church and to those standing within sight, to those just outside the walls, to all who had heard the bells or thought they had.
I knew every element of the Mass, and I hardly stumbled over the Latin words. I spoke in English, too. I forgot myself and became one with the congregation. I thrilled to the dialogue between us and was uplifted by the voices of our choir, coming from the strong, new loft.
I had not committed my homily to memory. There just hadn’t been time, but I stood at the altar and told the assemblage, “I am so glad to be here. I feel so much love for all of you, and of course I’ve been worried that I might make some mistakes this morning. And then I reminded myself that there was no wrong here, with all of us together in the house and in the presence of God.”
I spoke of the Resurrection and of the rebirth of this church. I said that sometimes change brought grief and sadness, and I saw the tears in James’s eyes.
I said, “I’ve found that the greatest growth comes in times of change. And through this church, we are changing the way we think about God’s love. He’s here for all of us. All of us.”
As the choir sang “Agnus Dei,” I anticipated the Communion I was soon to receive from my dear James. I’d never felt as close to God and, at the same time, to another human being as I did then.
I offered Communion to the hundreds of people who had gathered in our church that day. Some of them were friends, and others were people who had come to Millbrook just for this celebration and to see a Catholic woman priest.
I said and repeated to each supplicant, “The body of Christ.”
“Amen.”
“The blood of Christ.”
“Amen.”
I gave the Prayer after Communion, speaking to the blessings of the Lord, and then I dismissed the congregation-who, against all reason but to my great, blushing delight, broke into applause.
I opened my mind to God, and I felt that special channel between us with an overlapping vision of the kind I had experienced before. I was both inside this old and beloved church, and I was with Him in an open field of pure light.
I thought, Thank you, God, for this beautiful, blessed day.
The light formed a sphere like the one that had enclosed me in Jerusalem. Now it surrounded me and James and Gilly and the entire congregation.
I had spoken to the congregation in a general way about changes that we might never see coming. I knew that what was happening now was profound. The blessings of this day, my first Mass, the hundreds of expectant faces, the love of God and my love for Him, the light encompassing every one of us-I knew that I had to keep these memories alive for as long as I lived.
Whatever came next.
Chapter 103
THAT NIGHT, James and I watched Cardinal Cooney on the eleven o’clock news condemning my “ordination.” After he took shots at me, James, and our dear friend Bishop Reedy, he warned “true Catholics” not to be led astray.
The cardinal got so much airtime, we could switch from station to station and see him going after the “destructive” JMJ movement on every one of them. His latest spin was to call JMJ “Aubreyism,” an affront to the Vatican.
In the weeks after my ordination, Cardinal Cooney defrocked Bishop Reedy and formed alliances with the archdioceses in other cities. He stirred up the Church’s donor base with a fund-raising campaign, and I thought that it was only a matter of time before the pope weighed in with his own condemnation.
The cardinal was clearly unnerved by what we were doing, and his reaction scared me.
He said it again and again: The Church had been very clear about the role of women. Jesus chose twelve men to be his apostles. Stand back, womankind. Don’t even think of stepping up to the altar. Don’t even think about it.
James and I were mentioned in all of the cardinal’s diatribes. Sometimes, the inflammatory image in the corner of the screen was of me, Aubrey’s wife. Aubreyism’s fake woman priest.
But as the weeks became months, it seemed that the cardinal’s smear campaign had backfired. As appealing and omnipresent as he was personally, more renegade “Catholic” churches had come into being. Existing churches were transformed into JMJ churches. New churches were opened in people’s homes, and by Gilly’s fourth birthday, the movement had spread to South America and Europe.
The press continued to be fascinated by us, and Gilly had her own fans. A sparkly redhead, Gilly Aubrey was verbal and quite funny. And she could really ham it up when a camera was pointed at her.
Which was not good.
I remember a pushy reporter in a cute sundress and heels chasing Gilly up the walkway to the church, demanding,“Gilly, come and talk to me.”
I got between my child and the reporter, and when I had the reporter’s complete attention, I signaled to the others in the media van, and the three or four paparazzi I could see across the street, and waved them into the church.
When they had all assembled, I said, “Everyone, I understand why you’re here, but Gilly is just a little girl. We need an agreement, all of you and me. I will be available right here every weekday at ten to answer your questions, but my daughter is off-limits. Seem fair?”
I gave the reporters my email address and invited them to church on Sunday. I started my weekday press meetings the next day, Monday, and they were actually good for all concerned. The reporters became normal people when we could talk one-on-one. And I got to know them: Jason Beans from the Globe, Arthur Glass from the World Press, Antonia Shoumatoff from the Millbrook Independent, and well-known reporters from cable and network news.
The aggressive attacks stopped. Susie Kennedy, the reporter who had chased Gilly up the path, was from USA Today. She started bringing brownies to the morning meetings. Often we all talked about world events having nothing to do with our church or religion at all.
Once in a while, Zach showed up. He was still with the New York Times, and he had questions, too. After the others left, we would sit together on the steps of the rectory and talk.
Sometimes I learned more about JMJ’s progress from Zach than even James and I knew.
“And you, Zach? How are you?”