Chameleon fk-13 Page 9
He was an attractive man, talented, handsome, well read, with an infectious sense of humor-and off-limits. On neither’s part was it love at first sight. She taught in the parochial school attached to the parish of which he was pastor. As a nun, she had taught for many years before leaving the convent. She was a gifted teacher.
Father Stapleton took an active interest in his school and, naturally, in its teachers. Of all the teachers, religious and lay, he managed to find more time for Pam Baldwin than for any of the others. She was such a good teacher, and attractive and fun-and off-limits.
Their relationship grew, as most authentic love does, gradually. By the time they realized they were, after all, an ordinary couple who wanted to spend the rest of their lives together, it was too late to turn back. If Pam had made the slightest suggestion that he leave the priesthood so they could marry, he would have started the process immediately. On the contrary, however, her resolve that he remain an active priest was far stronger than his.
So when the decision was finally made, it was his entirely.
In terms of staying in good standing with the Church, they were fortunate. Fred left at a time when the Pope happened to be lenient in granting laicization.
Pope Paul VI had inherited the legacy of his predecessor, John XXIII. The inheritance included the Second Vatican Council. There are those who believe Paul didn’t know what to do with it. Laicization, a modern phenomenon, at least in its frequency, was a case in point. Pope Paul vacillated from year to year in granting the request.
Laicization is the tortuous, complicated, and lengthy process by which a priest is “reduced” to the status of a lay person. And then some. Catholicism teaches that, “Once a priest, always a priest.” But in order to function-say Mass, absolve, marry, bury, etc.-the priest needs “faculties”-permission of his bishop, in the case of a diocesan priest, or of his religious superior, for a religious order priest.
The bishop giveth as well as taketh away.
Permission to function is withdrawn if, for any reason, a priest’s superior punishes him with a penalty called “suspension.” Should a priest “attempt” marriage without having been granted laicization, he is automatically excommunicated, in addition to being forbidden to function sacramentally.
There were times when Pope Paul’s policy would grant laicization for good cause; times when he tightened the restrictions by granting it, say, only to homosexuals; and times when he would not grant it at all.
In Fred Stapleton’s case there was good and bad news. The good news was that at the time he applied, permission was being granted quite liberally. The bad news was that, outside of emergencies, such as when someone was in danger of death, Fred would never again be able to function as a priest.
They were married in the Church by a priest who was a mutual friend.
Fred continued teaching while he earned the degrees necessary for a psychology practice. Irma was not planned but she was made very welcome.
Fred became a very competent and popular psychologist-counselor. His clientele included many celebrities of the Detroit metropolitan area. Often he was quoted in the media, and his photo would appear in the paper or on TV. The Stapletons lived comfortably, though not lavishly. By Pam’s standards, all was well-with the notable exception of Fred’s attitude toward his enforced laicization. And that attitude had blossomed and hardened through the years.
In the beginning, laicization had been an O. Henry sort of gift. Fred thought Pam wanted everything to be kosher. Pam thought Fred would be distressed were he excommunicated. Neither assumption, as it turned out, was true. But each hesitated to talk about it. So Pam endured the months of delay and uncertainty and Fred endured the endless questions of the MMPI test.
Because he was put in the posture of a beggar, that which he sought-permission of the Church for him to function as a layman without the obligation of reciting the breviary daily, and a dispensation from his promise of celibacy-took on heightened desirability.
It was only after the permission had been granted and they were married that Fred could calmly and in clearer focus assess the “favor” the Church had bestowed. In the light of reexamination, it didn’t appear all that beneficent.
As a result of his research into the history and rationale of clerical celibacy, Fred grew increasingly certain that he and others like him had been robbed. He could and should have it all. So, when CORPUS was founded and established in Minneapolis, Fred became a charter member.
Pam was far less enchanted with the organization’s purpose.
Due to their status, Fred and Pam became familiar, and in many cases friendly, with other inactive priests and their spouses. By and large, thought Pam, these were excellent men. And, because it was so often true, she came to expect priests’ wives to be strong, intelligent, capable women.
In Pam’s eyes, CORPUS took a suppliant stance. Dear Church: Have you looked lately? You’re running out of priests. Have you noticed the current median age of your priests? Dear bishops and Pope: Unless you are theologically and historically naive, you know there is no legitimately compelling reason for mandatory celibacy in your clergy. And here we are, thousands of well-trained priests, waiting on the sidelines to go in there and win one for Mother Church.
What galled Pam most about CORPUS was that there was seldom any sort of demand on the part of its members to return to a fully functioning ministry. Rather, she felt the group was willing, almost eager, to settle for some-any-small crumb of their once full ministry.
In short, she felt that good men were demeaning themselves by pleading for something each of them believed was due them by right.
But she sensed Fred’s dedication to the organization and the cause. So she kept her feelings to herself, pondering them in her heart.
So lost in these thoughts was Pam that she was unaware that Irma had concluded “Liebestraum” and had added the unsolicited encore of Schumann’s “Traumerei.”
Irma had turned on the piano bench and was looking at her mother. Pam had no clue as to how long this had been going on. But now, conscious of Irma’s gaze, she said, “Thank you, dear; that was marvelous. Just what the doctor ordered.”
“You didn’t hear a note I played.”
“Oh, but I did. I found it so soothing I got lost in my own reverie. It helped, dear; honest it did.”
Irma wore a concerned expression. “Mama, would you do something special for me?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
“Would you make sure Daddy doesn’t do anything foolish?”
Pam was startled. “What?”
“He scared me tonight when he was talking about doing something he never thought he would do. It wasn’t so much his words as his tone of voice. I was almost afraid of him. I’ve never felt like that before.”
“You’ve got to have more confidence in your father, dear. Of course he wouldn’t do anything foolish. Just put that out of your mind.”
Pam would not mention it to her daughter, but Irma had put into words the exact fear that increasingly plagued Pam. She could not nor would she worry her daughter. But Fred had changed in subtle ways. Pam was concerned. She would do her best to make sure Fred did nothing foolish. She shivered as she prayed that even now it was not too late.
10
Cardinal Mark Boyle offered sister Joan condolences on the death of her sister.
The Cardinal’s speech pattern, on almost all formal occasions, brought to mind a technically and carefully worded textbook. And so it was now. In her mind’s eye, Joan saw the Cardinal’s words framed in hearts and flowers mounted on an antique greeting card.
The others at today’s meeting murmured their agreement with Cardinal Boyle’s expressions, which he had tendered immediately after opening the meeting with a prayer.
That is, at least most of them concurred.
That business completed, there came the shuffling of papers and scraping of chairs. This was a regularly scheduled meeting of “the staff,” which inclu
ded the heads, leaders, directors of almost every bureau or department in the archdiocese. It was an unwieldy group of some thirty people. Three were women: Sister Joan; the director of continuing education, Joan Blackford Hayes; and Irene Casey, present editor of the Detroit Catholic, Of the men present, almost half the number were lay.
It had not been that way in the beginning.
Father Koesler, as editor of the Detroit Catholic when these staff meetings first began, could testify that in the beginning there had been present only about a dozen people, all of whom were clergymen. In time, the number grew as departments were either added or recognized. And, reflecting the profound vocation shortage, more and more departments were headed by laypeople.
The staff meeting had two basic functions. Each department head reported in writing what his or her agency had accomplished in the past month. And each department head detailed future plans.
The chief topic of today’s meeting was to be Catholic schools of the archdiocese, with emphasis on the ever-shrinking number of parochial grade and high schools.
There had been a time, up to the early 1970s, when almost every parish had its own parochial school. That was an era when teaching sisters were plentiful and some public school services were made available.
Then, in the wake of Vatican II and a judgment of the U.S. Supreme Court, both these staples of parochial education were made unavailable.
The Sisters vanished. Many left the convent for lay careers and/or marriage. Some remained in the religious life but opted for Church positions other than teaching.
And simultaneously, few, very few, were entering religious life.
In 1971 the Supreme Court ruled that any use whatsoever of public funds for private education was unconstitutional.
The virtual disappearance of these two essential resources might imply that the parochial school system would collapse. It hadn’t, but it was leaning more steeply than that tower in Pisa. That it was still even limping along was a tribute to Catholics dedicated and sacrificing to keep it going somehow. In the meantime, it was draining the budgets of those parishes still subsidizing schools.
Today, it was Father Cletus Bash’s turn to chair the meeting, albeit with deference to Cardinal Boyle, who never left any doubt who was in charge.
Boyle’s position as archbishop-sweetened by the title of Cardinal-gave him overwhelming power in the local Church. All the property in the archdiocese was held in his name. Church law gave him authority in the archdiocese second only to the Pope. In addition, Detroit was the metropolitan see in the state of Michigan, which gave Boyle some degree of clout over the other six dioceses in the state. Someone said it: Bishops in Rome were a dime a dozen; a bishop in his own diocese was a power to be reckoned with.
Father Bash called on the various departments one by one. Each director had previously submitted a one-page report for the month. Each director was expected to read all the others’ reports prior to the meeting. Typically, few had done their homework. For those few, now, as Bash paged through one sheet after another, this was their opportunity to ask questions or comment concerning the reports. Instead, most everyone was blearily one or more pages behind Bash in trying to digest all the proffered information. There were few questions.
Bash was brusque and slightly caustic, as always. “I see everyone has pored over the reports as usual and, as usual, conditions among all departments are so good there aren’t many questions.”
A precious few were slightly entertained, the rest merely grumbled in muted tones.
“We now turn to the main topic for today’s meeting,” Bash proceeded unmindfully. “Our schools and our school system. For this part of the meeting you need only state your opinion-no advance work needs to have been done. So we can count on the meeting livening up.”
More grousing.
“For greater clarity,” Bash added, “we will not be discussing any of our colleges or universities, and we’ll reserve comment on the central highs. Let’s begin with our parochial grade and high schools. Anyone?”
Monsignor Del Young took the floor and hung on tight. A throwback to a former time, he’d been superintendent of Catholic schools in Detroit for twenty years. Ordinarily, he would have moved out of that specialized job long ago. But he was so comfortable as superintendent on the one hand, and fearful of becoming a pastor on the other, that he fought the notion of a transfer each time the issue was raised.
It was not all that unusual for a priest in special work to want to remain there. Over the years, attending conventions, regional and national meetings, it was natural to become acquainted with almost everyone in the field. The continuing phone contact and correspondence tied them all together in a tidy subculture. It got to be cozy. The routine was reassuring.
Even so, a diocesan or secular priest such as Del Young had attended a diocesan seminary in order to become a parish priest. That’s what diocesan seminaries produced. Thus, even if parting from a superintendent’s position could be sweet sorrow, it shouldn’t have been that hard. That parting with a preferred job could be painful is easily understood. Still, he would be moving into the position he had ostensibly started out to hold in the beginning-the office of a parish priest.
The final phenomenon contributing to Monsignor Young’s durable dalliance with the superintendent’s job was that the priesthood had become a buyer’s market. This state of affairs had been generated by the priest shortage. Bishops needed-in growing desperation-warm priestly bodies.
At one time, Detroit priests were moved about the diocese when they received a letter from the Chancery which invariably began, “For the care of souls, I have it in mind to send you to …” Where followed the name of the parish the priest would move to and serve in.
No longer. Parishes advertised in the priests’ newsletter, and priests applied for the position-or did not. There were exceptions, but considerable choice on the priest’s part was the rule, not the exception.
So Monsignor Del Young wanted, and was able, to hang in there. Because he’d had the job for as long as many could remember, he feared getting into a parish where his authority would be unaccustomedly diminished, and particularly at age sixty-five, ten years from mandatory retirement, he was not about to be receiving a “For the care of souls …” letter.
Del Young could see only one possible fly in the ointment: What if they closed the schools? He would be superintendent of nothing.
As the first speaker in this morning’s staff meeting, Monsignor Young spoke long, ardently, and with some eloquence on behalf of everything from self-sustaining schools to those whose income was minuscule.
Everyone in the room knew whence Del Young was coming and took all he said with huge doses of salt. Because, after he finished, there was still the matter of what to do about parochial schools. About one thing there was no doubt: parochial schools were in trouble. In some cases, lots and lots of trouble.
Sister Joan Donovan was next to raise her hand. She was recognized by Father Bash.
“I’m afraid we’re slowly creating an elitist school system,” Joan said. “For the past twenty years schools have been closing. First there was a trickle, then a torrent closed; now we’re back to that trickle.”
“We still have the fifth or sixth largest school system in the country!” Monsignor Young interjected.
“We know that, Monsignor,” Joan replied. “My point is that it has come down to the issue of affordability alone. Costs are skyrocketing, and as we keep pulling our belts tighter it’s going to be more and more obvious the Catholic schools are going to be found exclusively in the suburbs for little white boys and girls.”
Young’s face was reddening as if he were slowly choking on his clerical collar. “The reason the costs are skyrocketing-to use your word, Sister; I don’t agree with such a blanket statement-the reason for the costs is the disappearance of the teaching nun. I should think the delegate for religious would not only know that, but be in a position to do something about it.”
“A different day,” Archbishop Foley mused. “Ah, remember when it was a mortal sin not to send your kids to the Catholic school?”
No one responded. Regarded as redundant and without clout, Foley was present at this meeting for the same reason he was residing in Detroit: Cardinal Boyle had invited him. Few others paid him much mind.
“It’s not just a different day,” Young snapped. “It’s all your nuns abandoning their vows, their orders, their schools.”
“Monsignor,” Joan replied, “even if we had back all the Sisters who have left, we still wouldn’t be able to staff the school system we once had. By now, too many would be retired, too many would have died. It’s not just the Sisters who have left. And before you bring it up,” she added, “it’s not the ones who have gone into other apostolic work, nor even the girls who are no longer entering religious life. And, finally, it’s not the teaching orders of men who, as good teachers as they are, never constituted the staple of Catholic primary education.
“It’s a new day for women in the world. Not all that long ago, Catholic women found complete fulfillment as wives and mothers, keeping the house and kids orderly and clean; cooking, washing, repairing, doctoring, being understanding and supportive. Or they found completeness in a convent and in the community of other nuns, teaching in a parochial school-for nothing really, since their entire tiny salary went directly to their religious orders.
“Look about you, Monsignor. Women are prime ministers, rulers, doctors, successful authors; leaders in science, banking, law. Granted, women are still victims of injustice and discrimination. They still do not have complete parity with men by any means. But they are worlds ahead of where they were.”
“All this from a lady whose sister was a hooker,”
Bash spoke so quietly that only a few heard him. His murmured comment elicited a few feigned chuckles, but nothing wholehearted.