A Galway Epiphany

Father Malachy, in waiting to assume the title bishop of Galway, was summoned to the archdiocese.

He got there to find all ranks of clergy from the county assembled.

The good, the bad, and the disgruntled.

There was only one item on the agenda.

The Miracle.

The archbishop, a frail eighty-year-old, called for silence as the milieu had availed its gathering of the decanters of port.

Back in the day, every spirit with a good label had been provided but frugality was now to be seen, if not actually practiced.

Indeed, one parish priest from a tiny parish remarked,

“Even the Holy Spirit is in short supply.”

Malachy looked at him, considered him a small fish so didn’t bother answering him. Malachy needed to be with the power brokers as questions had been raised recently as to his suitability for bishop.

Malachy had snarled to his wingman Pat

“Suitability? As if there was ever a suitable bishop.”

Pat, young, ambitious, nervous, nodded noncommittally.

If Malachy was on the skids, he would need a new patron.

The archbishop spoke.

“Rome is concerned about this recent event” — nobody was mentioning the actual “m” word — “and with that foremost in mind, they have very kindly sent us their top investigator.”

He moved aside to allow a priest to join him, said,

“This is Monsignor Rael.”

A slight ripple ran through the crowd. Tales of this guy were legion and none, none of them augured well.

Heads rolled when Rael arrived.

He was tall, thin, with sallow skin, pockmarked, which for some odd reason summoned up visions of the Mafia.

His eyes were the coldest gray you’d see outside of Galway granite.

He stared at the assembled clergy, said,

“The malignancy of miracles.”

The chill of the term hovered over the crowd.

Pat had thought a miracle was a good thing.

Wasn’t it?

He added,

“David Hume.”

Paused.

Then with a supercilious tone continued,

“No doubt you are all familiar with his work. He said,

I’ll believe anything if

  You show me the evidence.”

Rael leaned forward, shouted,

“But

  The difficulty with miracles is

   Deciding between the likelihood

   That they have occurred

   And the veracity

   Of the report of them.”

He scanned the room, settled on the nervous shuffling Pat, commanded,

“You, yes you, what do I mean by that final part.”

Pat looked around for help but all eyes were averted. Rael pushed,

“Speak up, man.”

Pat, in utter candor, blurted,

“I haven’t a frigging clue.”

The crowd loved it.

Rael?

Not so much.

He said,

“And that is the future of the Church, God help us all.”

Dismissing Pat with a withering look, he said,

“The children, it dies or flies with them.”

He let the ominous tone of that linger, then said,

“If this were genuine” — his face suggesting the utter implausibility of such — “the Church could gain a massive boost. We might even have another...

Lourdes.

Fatima.

Or even

Medjugorje.”

He paused on the third one, the gold mine it had provided in terms of faith, converts, and, best of all, merchandise, like a rock concert that kept on giving, a spiritual Woodstock.

But

They knew the alternative.

“If it’s a stunt, we need to stop it now.”

Many wondered how you stopped a YouTube sensation.

As if reading their very thoughts, Rael added,

“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Malachy felt that was as solid a threat as he’d ever heard.

If he’d had another drink in him, he might have voiced,

“Suffer the children.”

Because one thing was certain: suffer those little bastards would, one way or another.

Rael dispersed them with various instructions as to finding the children, stifling the media, exploring any advantage available, and reporting back to him. He would be in residence at a house on the bishop’s grounds.

Malachy groaned. This meant the blackguard would be literally on his case.

Pat watched as the various clergy went their separate subdued ways. He was keen to learn all the ecclesial terminology, asked Malachy,

“Was that like a synod?”

Malachy, back smoking since the miracle, snapped,

“No, that’s what we call a clusterfuck.”