Call No Man Father Read online

  10

  He had been asked to pray for the pope not once but four times.

  He’d been asked to pray that the pope would have a safe and fruitful trip to Detroit. At the 5:00 P.M. Mass yesterday and again at the 8:00, 10:00, and noon Masses this morning, a lector had read, “Let us pray for our Holy Father, that he may travel safely and that, while here, he may continue to lead us, directed by the Holy Spirit. Let us pray to the Lord.” And presumably everyone responded, “Lord, hear our prayer.”

  Everyone, that is, except Dave Wallace.

  But no one paid any attention to the movement or nonmovement of his lips. Besides, he was virtually hidden behind the organ console.

  In his conscience, he could not make this petition his prayer. If he had prayed for anything, it would have been that the pope’s plane would go down in flames on the way here. However, should that not be the pope’s fate, David Wallace had another contingency in mind.

  Dave Wallace was organist and choirmaster of St. Waldo’s of the Hills in an extremely wealthy suburb of Detroit. He liked to refer to himself as Kappelmeister. His choir humored him with the title.

  Wallace, in his early fifties, was tall and lean, with an ability to grow heavy facial hair almost on command. At the moment, he was clean shaven. His full head of dark black hair was barely flecked with gray.

  He was unmarried, and thereby hung a tale.

  It was 1960 when David Wallace and Abigail Quinn, both from strict Catholic families, were married.

  Wallace, of Holy Redeemer parish, had spent four years in a Redemptorist seminary in Kirkwood, Missouri. It took him those four years to fully grasp what life would be like without a wife and family. So, having spent his high school years preparing for the vocation of priesthood in a religious community founded by St. Alphonsus Liguori, he continued his college career at the University of Detroit.

  Dave inherited from his mother a keen musical ability. Quite naturally that talent expressed itself in his interest in Church music. Along the way to a Ph.D. in music, he joined Palestrina, an institute that trained Church organists and choir directors.

  It was as a rather poor but dedicated organist that he met Abigail Quinn, a very pretty but delicate young lady whose fair complexion bespoke her Irish heritage.

  Abigail had been frail from birth. An only child, she was carefully and lovingly nurtured by two devoted parents.

  At age six she fell deathly ill with rheumatic fever. She was diagnosed as having endocarditis, a respiratory infection involving the heart muscle.

  After a prolonged recuperation, she was discharged from the hospital. The doctor advised regular checkups for her heart murmur. Otherwise, she seemed quite healthy. However, in the strongest terms, the doctor warned Abby and her parents against any heavy physical activity for her. Her heart, to mix a metaphor, was her Achilles’ heel.

  Even being most careful, at age sixteen she had a heart failure incident. She was hospitalized again, with an overwhelming bacterial infection and pneumonia. She recovered but this time even more slowly. It was no longer a suggestion: She was required to see her doctor periodically.

  Her parents did everything they could to protect her, short of enclosing her in a protective glass bubble.

  Abigail learned to live with her physical limitations. And, as she grew into young adulthood, she was vivacious, intelligent, accomplished—and beautiful.

  Their chemistry was copacetic from the first moment Dave and Abby met.

  She mentioned only in a peripheral way her heart problem. He understood that there were limitations as to physical activity. And he made allowances.

  Finances forced them to postpone what to them was an inevitable and long-desired marriage. Then Dave got two jobs: one teaching at his alma mater, and another as music director at one of the larger city parishes. As Church law would put it, omnia parata —all was ready for the marriage.

  But before marriage, Abby made an appointment to see her doctor. This was not her regular interval, but in her condition, it seemed to everyone a good idea. When asked, “How are you?” by anyone anytime, she had a difficult time replying. Her “fine” was another person’s “poorly.” But lately, despite the fact that she had been following her doctor’s instructions scrupulously, she had begun to feel worse instead of better.

  The examination revealed little physical change. Her heart remained the problem: It was functioning, but it was weak.

  At the conclusion of the examination, her doctor, knowing that she was soon to be married, cautioned, “By the way, I know this will be no great surprise to you, but don’t even consider pregnancy.”

  Despite his supposition, Abby was indeed surprised by this radical advice. She told him so.

  He explained that during pregnancy the heart has to work at a different rate because of vast hormonal changes. In any normal pregnancy, there is significant physiological stress. In her case, with her condition, this could precipitate potential heart failure.

  With great apprehension, she shared this prognosis with Dave. They had, of course, discussed children, and planned to have a large family. The shock was deep and mutual.

  Birth control, until now, had not been a consideration. Gladly would they have accepted “all the children sent to them by God.” Now, this was a new ball game.

  To make certain they had access to every possible method of family planning, they read everything the public library carried on the subject. They talked to Abby’s doctor. They went to see her parish priest who would plan with them and witness their marriage.

  And so they learned about the variety and dependability of condoms and diaphragms. They read about the success ratio as well as the dangers of the IUD. They were instructed in the rhythm method, then virtually in its infancy. A friend suggested withdrawal before ejaculation. The friend also warned that withdrawal was by no means foolproof. Somewhere they read about “amplexus reservatus,” which demanded the rather Herculean effort on the part of the male in intercourse to stop and suppress orgasm at the last possible moment.

  About this time the pill made itself both known and popular. The success rate was, perhaps, the highest of all the methods. Not completely known, and troubling because of this, were any possible side effects.

  Armed with this vast array of information and suggestion, they went to consult again with their parish priest.

  He was an older priest who tried to keep up to date. At least he knew the names of all the devices and procedures that this young couple had researched. He also knew the mind of Mother Church and what ecclesial law permitted and forbade—mostly forbade. He sympathized with the couple and he was agreeably impressed that they had come to him to get the final and definitive word. “Church law is most clear on this matter, my dear young people.”

  All these years later, Dave Wallace could recall this interview verbatim.

  “All these methods of contraception you’ve mentioned,” he continued, “all of them are intrinsically immoral. They are in se mala, which just means that these actions in themselves are sinful to their roots. Mortal sins. And no good intention can rescue them. The end does not justify the means, you know.”

  He told them nothing they hadn’t known. They had hoped something in Church thinking had changed. They were not surprised that it hadn’t.

  As they had studied, there was one glimmer of hope. That was the pill. In the journals and sources they had used, there seemed to be no official Church stand on the pill. This, they rightly surmised, was due mostly to its relatively recent discovery.

  “Father,” Dave asked, “does what you say apply to the birth control pill?”

  There was a little song and dance going on behind the priest’s eyes. His reading had been so up-to-date it even included the pill. “To some extent, the jury’s still out on the pill. Couples have a right to feel uncomfortable about the possible medical consequences—side effects—of using that pill. But morally—morally —I’ve got to tell you that I haven’t found a single recog
nized theologian who thinks the use of the pill is justified. Not a one!”

  Abigail had been twisting a handkerchief in and out of her fingers. “What are we going to do, Father? We’ve talked it over and we’re going to get married. That’s all there is to that—”

  “Well,” the priest broke in, “there’s the rhythm method!”

  The priest, for some disconnected reason, felt rather proud of the rhythm method … almost as if he personally had discovered it. He had been on board when there was no alternative to Catholic family planning but abstinence. How he had hated to hand down that restrictive ruling! He had experienced that gigantic collective sigh of relief when rhythm had been discovered by medical science and Pope Pius XII had blessed its use!

  Even then, it had not solved everyone’s problem. But it was a life-saver for many who had reason to more carefully structure their families yet desired to stay in the good graces of Mother Church.

  “Now,” the priest continued, “you said you talked to your doctor about rhythm?”

  They nodded.

  “So you know how it works—medically, that is.” The next bit of business was to check on whether they were morally qualified. He knew his mnemonic: “Are you both willing to practice the rhythm method?”

  Dave and Abby looked at each other. They knew the three conditional qualifications as well as did the priest. But the way the priest was presenting them, he made it seem like some sort of final exam.

  “Yes, Father,” Abby said. Dave could no more than nod. Making love to Abby by a calendar was only a slight improvement to not having her at all.

  “And,” the priest said, “the use of rhythm isn’t going to lead you into other sin, is it?”

  “No, Father,” Abby responded.

  “Like what?” Dave asked.

  The priest was immediately uncomfortable. He had not wanted to go into this matter in any detail. Dave suspected that would be the case; he wanted the priest to squirm a bit. It was feeble revenge, but it was all that was available. Dave felt the Church had painted him into a corner.

  “Well, like adultery, masturbation, impure thoughts … you know.” The priest thought that small list pretty well covered the matter. “So”—he looked at Dave sternly—“do you think that abstaining from intercourse for a few days each month will cause you to fall into other sins?” This was a bit more authoritarian a challenge than necessary, but he wanted to maintain his role as teacher.

  “No,” Dave answered simply.

  “Then,” the priest said, “I don’t think we’ll have to go into your reason for regulating your family … not since the doctor has told you you could risk your health—”

  “Life,” Dave corrected. “We’re talking about Abby risking her life by getting pregnant.”

  “Yes, you’re right, of course. It is a risk to life, if that’s what the doctor said.”

  “There is one more problem,” Abby said almost apologetically. “My periods are not all that regular.” She felt awkward and embarrassed bringing up “female” problems to this celibate and otherworldly gentleman.

  “Meaning,” the priest said, “that you probably will have to allow for a little leeway—a small margin for error. I understand. I have dealt with many couples who have that problem. Which brings up something I wanted to mention but haven’t had the opportunity until now.” Pause. “Faith!”

  “Faith?” Dave and Abby said simultaneously.

  “Yes, indeed. Faith!” the priest proclaimed. “Faith that moves mountains. First you must include the success of your enterprise in your prayers. And then you must have faith.” He leaned back in his chair with an expression that would be matched only when he would, in the next life, behold the beatific vision. “I don’t mind telling you that many others who have sat in the chairs you’re in now have put their fate in the hands of God with great confidence. I wish I could tell you the miracles—yes, the miracles—that faith has wrought! Just take my word for it.

  “Read your Bible. See how Jesus castigated His chosen Apostles when they faltered. ‘Oh, ye of little faith!’ he would say.”

  He looked at them intently. “I don’t want to give you the impression that what we’ve been talking about is just a lot of rules and regulations. Of course moral judgments must be made. But what we’re really about here is so much more than mere laws. God knows it will not be easy for you, especially as you begin your married life with the use of rhythm. But you must have faith. That will see you through. Mark my words: You will come through the stronger for having done God’s holy will.”

  That was about it.

  They spent a few minutes more filling out papers, answering the fundamental questions addressed to all who would marry in the Catholic Church. They confirmed the date of their marriage. Dave and Abby had been careful to pick a date that would coincide with her infertile period. At least they would begin their marriage in a celebratory mood.

  Things went well during their first year. Dave was awarded a raise in pay for each of his jobs. It was unnecessary for Abby to work outside the home. Her health was stable, neither noticeably improving nor degenerating.

  They began the process of adoption through the Catholic Charities organization. They were at the end of a long line of couples seeking a child.

  Then it happened. She missed three periods. During those three months, she had not felt well. But that was not particularly unusual.

  With great trepidation she went to her doctor. He confirmed it: She was pregnant.

  Her doctor was not the sort to berate them or even consider that there was any “blame” to place. He knew they had used rhythm from the outset. And of course, he was aware of her menstrual irregularity. At that time, these two conditions existing in the same marital relationship constituted a miscalculation waiting to happen.

  The important thing now was to help Abby through to a successful delivery. Little thought was given to the possibility of an eventual cesarean. At that time, with Abby’s condition, the C-section was not a sound option.

  Rest was the first, second, and third prescription.

  Dave did everything in his power to insure that the most exercise Abby got was walking slowly from bed to couch or chair. He managed to get a leave of absence from both his jobs, an allowance that was extremely rare in those days.

  Even with this tender, loving, and constant care, Abby was not trouble-free. She was tired and short of breath nearly all the time. She gained considerable weight and her feet and ankles swelled.

  With Dave’s loving care and attention, home was the better choice for Abby. The hospital could do little beyond what Dave was providing. So Abby stayed home until her weakened condition caused fear for the life of her child.

  Dave moved into the hospital with her. He was holding her hand when, with quiet dignity, she seemed to struggle for one last breath. Then, almost biblically, she breathed forth her spirit.

  At that point the scene of quiet dignity gave way to frenzied activity.

  Abby’s body was rushed to the operating room. There, as medical personnel tried routinely to resuscitate her, the C-section was performed and a seven-pound, one-month-premature baby was delivered.

  This baby had been in trouble since it was a zygote.

  Dave, with the hospital chaplain, was waiting outside the OR when the doctor confirmed Abby’s death and the critical condition of the baby.

  After consulting with Dave, the chaplain baptized Antoinette Wallace. By the following morning, little Toni had joined her mother: congenital and congestive heart failure.

  The final crutch of hope taken from him, Dave spent the next few days just existing. He could not console his father-and mother-in-law, nor they him.

  Fortunately, he was sufficiently stoic to schedule the funeral service in the parish where he was employed. Abby’s parents had wanted the Mass in the parish where Dave and Abby had been married, with the same priest who had witnessed their wedding presiding at her funeral.

  Dave could not h
ave survived that. He might have punched the priest if he had mentioned “faith.”

  The Church had been in control of a “Catch-22” situation: If you have sufficient faith, all that you wish will come to be. If you don’t get what you pray for, obviously you didn’t have enough faith.

  They had tried. They had prayed. They had believed.

  Had they enough faith?

  Who could say?

  Not a priest.

  Not theologians.

  Not a pope.

  But that is exactly who had said so.

  Because these men who spoke for God could see no exceptions to their uncompromising man-made laws, a priceless young woman was dead.

  If these men had the floor, they would blame Dave and Abby. Evidently, the young couple had insufficient faith. Or, knowing that they would be unable to drum up enough faith, they should have lived as brother and sister.

  How considerate of them, Dave thought, sharing their lives of celibate chastity with newlyweds!

  Granted, none of the methods of birth control was foolproof, particularly when one considered possible side effects. Nonetheless, rhythm used by a woman with irregular cycles and for whom pregnancy threatened death was preposterous.

  The point was, the Church had given them no-win alternatives.

  If anyone were to blame for Abby’s death, it was the Church—at least in David’s mind. And by the Church he meant the pope.

  It was the pope who blessed rhythm as—and opened the door to—an alternative to abstinence … at least for those whose metabolism lent itself to the system. Or those for whom another child would not spell either catastrophe or death.

  This concept of papal responsibility was powerfully strengthened later when another pope appointed a representative commission to study whether, in the light of the knowledge explosion, Church teaching should be modified. After the majority of this commission stated that, yes, the teaching should be updated and changed, this same pope who appointed the commission dismissed its findings … and then wrote the definitive encyclical cementing the flawed doctrine.