Deadline for a Critic

11

Father Koesler stepped to the lectern and read the Gospel story of Jesus calling Lazarus back from the dead. When he finished, all the priests present sat down. Following their example, the rest of the congregation sat.

At most weddings and funerals it was a safe bet to expect a goodly number of non-Catholics, lapsed Catholics, and infrequent Catholics, many of whom would be unfamiliar with the ritual of the Mass. Under these circumstances, it was common for a priest to tell the congregation to stand, be seated, or to kneel (or, if kneeling were perceived as a form of martyrdom, they might sit). But everyone, Catholic or not, would feel comfortable following the example of a bunch of priests. At least in the matter of protocol at Mass.

There were funerals and there were funerals. In his more than thirty years as a priest, Koesler had officiated at just about every possible variety. Basically, they fell into one of two categories. There were funerals in which there was great and sincere grief. Or funerals in which there was little if any genuine mourning.

On grief-filled occasions, it is difficult to find words of real consolation, so great is the sense of loss. When there is little mourning, it is difficult to find words that can stir feelings unaffected by the presence of death.

Except for the desolate presence of Peter Harison, Ridley C. Groendal’s funeral held no sense of mourning, loss or grief. Indeed, some in the congregation seemed to evidence relief, perhaps even elation. It was to this generally uncaring attitude that Koesler addressed himself in his approach to a homily.

Eulogizing Ridley Groendal would have been simple for Koesler. Seldom had the priest known a deceased more personally than he had known Ridley. In the end, it was the extent of Koesler’s knowledge of Groendal that argued against a eulogy. Koesler simply knew Ridley too well. If the priest had begun a biographical sketch, it would have been all but impossible to delete inappropriate facts and details. All things considered, it was wiser to go with one of the many standard homilies he had developed over the years.

So he began with a quotation from Benjamin Franklin written just a few weeks before the great statesman’s death:

“As to Jesus of Nazareth, my opinion of whom you particularly desire, I think the system of morals and religion, as he left them to us, the best the world ever saw or is likely to see; but I apprehend it has received various corrupting changes, and I have, with most of the present dissenters in England, some doubts as to his divinity, though it is a question I do not dogmatize upon, having never studied it, and think it needless to busy myself with it now, when I expect soon an opportunity of knowing the truth with less trouble. . . .”

The point of the quotation, as Koesler explained, is that it is impossible to prove empirically what happens after death. All we know, with certainty, is that we must die. After that, what? We move into the realm of heaven, hell, or purgatory. Or we are nothing. Or we return to earth in some other form. Benjamin Franklin refused to speculate on the final outcome, anticipating that—as it turned out—in a few weeks he would die. At which time, he would know the truth.

The Christian, Koesler continued, chooses to believe. In what? He returned to the first reading wherein King David expresses his willingness to die in the place of his son Absalom. Even though Absalom proved himself the most ingrate of sons, seeking his father’s overthrow and death, still his father loves him so much that even in the face of this hostility, David would die in Absalom’s place. It was easy to move from the figures of David and Absalom to God the Father and us His children.

Koesler then went on to the second reading where Paul points out that it is only barely possible to imagine laying down one’s life for a very good person, very dear to us: a husband, a wife, a parent, a child. How then can we comprehend the love of God who sends His Son to die for us while we are no better than sinners?

At that point, Koesler usually adapted a lesson once developed by John Henry Cardinal Newman on the tears of Christ at the graveside of Lazarus. The Gospel story records Jesus weeping as he stood outside the tomb. The bystanders were moved to comment, “See how much he loved Lazarus!”

The strange feature of the story is that Jesus must have known that within minutes this scene of mourning would be transformed into one of incredible and incredulous happiness. Because Jesus would command that the large stone blocking the tomb’s entrance be rolled back. Then he called to the dead man, “Lazarus, come forth!” And the corpse, entombed three days before, lived again.

The point that Newman made, and Koesler borrowed, was that Jesus must have been moved to tears simply because his friends themselves were inconsolably grief-stricken.

In all, it was a homily emphasizing the love and forgiving power of God.

As he delivered the homily, Koesler made eye-contact with various members of the congregation. Judging from their expressions, Ridley was in desperate need of a good measure of love and forgiveness from someone. And no one is in a better position to give it than God. Perhaps the only one.

As he surveyed the congregation, Koesler intermittently fixed on the five people whose lives had so mingled with Ridley’s and, to some extent, with Koesler’s.

Peter Harison, David Palmer, Carroll Mitchell, Valerie Walsh, Charles Hogan.

Each had touched—some would say collided with—and changed the others’ lives. Their influence continued even unto death.

Valerie Walsh was a beautiful woman. Her garb, considering that she was attending a funeral, was rather defiant: red overcoat and green fur hat. She appeared more to be celebrating the Christmas season than mourning a deceased person. Well, truth in advertising: More than likely, she was celebrating.

It was remarkable how very much Valerie resembled her mother. Yet Jane Condon was pretty rather than beautiful. Whereas Valerie knew far better how to help her natural good looks with just the right makeup and hairstyling.

In fact, if it had not been for what had happened between Groendal and Condon, Koesler would have been hard-pressed to remember what Jane Cordon looked like. Koesler had probably seen her many times in her role as an usherette at the Stratford. He undoubtedly had seen her often as a student at Holy Redeemer. But he’d never really noticed her. He had never paid any attention to her until those few sparks had flown between Jane and Ridley during that Christmas vacation so long ago.

What a profound change that had brought to their lives! Strange how little the time they had had together and yet what an impact those few hours had had on them.

Ridley had told Koesler about it, but not until they had returned to the seminary after Christmas vacation. He told all just as it had happened, sparing almost no detail. Koesler, uncomfortable throughout, had tried to interrupt and bail out several times. But Ridley had insisted that he be heard out. Finally, he got to the part where, after struggling into his overcoat, he had gone home to spend a sleepless remainder of the night.

“And that’s it?” Koesler asked.

“That’s it.”

“Rid, why have you told me all this?”

“I had to tell somebody.”

“Well, I can think of one place where it would have been more appropriate.”

“Where’s that?”

Koesler hesitated.

Ridley thought a moment. “Oh, you mean confession. Well, I went to confession the Saturday before we came back here.”

“Then . . . why me?”

“I told you: I had to tell somebody!”

“For the love of Pete, you told a priest!”

“I went to confession to Father Buhler.”

“Aha! Good old Father Buhler. And he, of course, didn’t hear what you said because he can’t hear anybody. So you mumbled, and he didn’t understand a word. But he did give you a penance and absolution . . . just for kicks, what kind of penance did you get?”

Ridley smiled self-consciously. “Five Our Fathers and Five Hail Marys.”

“For what you did!”

“How would he know? He didn’t hear me.”

“Okay; but whether he heard you or not, you told him. You told somebody. So, Rid, for the last time: Why me?” As it turned out, Koesler never in his life would be happy that Groendal had picked him to confide in.

“You don’t understand. I couldn’t go to confession to a priest who would understand me. For one thing, the priest might know or guess that I’m a seminarian and then all hell would break loose. But whether that happened or not, any priest who understood would yell at me.”

“And I won’t.”

Groendal nodded. “And besides, you were there at the beginning, when we sort of met. You knew I was going back to the Stratford. And you knew we weren’t invited to any seminarian’s New Year’s Eve party.”

Everything began to fall into place. Koesler could understand Ridley’s need to get it off his chest, but Koesler thought him cowardly not to have unburdened himself to a priest more honestly.

Finally, there was the New Year’s Eve party Groendal had told his parents about. If push came to shove, Ridley might want Koesler to corroborate his story about that nonexistent party. He hoped it didn’t come to that. He was unwilling to lie for Groendal. Listen to his pseudoconfession—all right; lie for him—no.

But no need telling Ridley about that decision. It would only prompt pleas, possibly even some threats. All unnecessary unless Ridley’s parents should ask, and there was little chance of that at this late date.

However, something still disturbed Koesler. “How is Jane taking all this?”

“What do you mean?”

“This must have been a bombshell for her, too.”

“I don’t know.”

Koesler stopped. The two had been walking around and around the grounds at the rear of the seminary.

“Come on, come on!” Groendal urged. “If we stop walking, they’ll wonder what we’re talking about.”

Koesler resumed walking. “What do you mean, you don’t know! You don’t know how Jane is taking all this?”

“What difference does it make? It probably wasn’t her first time.”

“Wasn’t her first time! What are you talking about?”

“It was her idea.”

“Huh?”

“Look, the New Year’s Eve ‘party’ was her idea from the start. She’s the one who invited me over to her house even though she knew her parents wouldn’t be home. And if anyone needed more proof, there’s the liquor. Again her idea.”

“I don’t know, Rid. From the way you told the story, it sounded as if she was as surprised at the way it turned out as you were. Maybe it was just a mistake for both of you. And when it comes to blame, Rid, you weren’t exactly following Monsignor Cronyn’s advice.”

“Come on! You can’t believe that stuff: ‘Just presume you’d like girls if you tried them, boys. Then, don’t try them.’ That’s hogwash, Bobby!”

“Maybe . . . but I believe you believed it until, for whatever reason—for God-knows-what reason—you ‘tried’ it.”

Quite by common, if unspoken, agreement, they turned to one of the walkways that led back into the building. Recreation period was nearly over; study was about to begin.

“So,” Koesler tried to sum up, “feel better?”

Groendal contemplated for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I do. I just wish you hadn’t brought up Jane.”

“What?”

“How she felt about all this. To be perfectly honest, I hadn’t thought about that at all. If I had to consider it, I suppose she would feel about the way I do. Maybe a bit more guilty,” he hurried on so Koesler couldn’t interrupt, “since it was her idea. But no matter whose idea it was, it ended so badly that I guess we were both ashamed and embarrassed.

“I don’t really know how we’re going to face each other . . . I mean eventually. We’ll have to see each other again sometime, I guess.”

“Yeah, that may be rough. At least you’ll be tucked away in here until Easter vacation. So you’re safe till then. It’s poor Jane I’m thinking of.”

Groendal shook his head. “No need to be terribly concerned about her. She’ll be plenty busy. Working at the Stratford—or any other part-time job she can get. And going to school at U. D.”

“That’s right, I remember; you did mention school.”

They entered the building and stamped the snow from their boots.

“One thing,” Koesler added. “Now you can probably sympathize a bit more with Mitch.”

“Who?”

“Mitch . . . Carroll Mitchell. He didn’t pay any attention to Monsignor Cronyn either. He tried girls and found he liked them . . . boy, did he like them!”

Groendal thought for a moment. “No, not really. I haven’t made up my mind on that. For one thing, I seldom think of him. And as far as girls are concerned, why, hell, I’ve only known one and that encounter was a disaster. Maybe it’s just too soon.

“Right now, I think it will be a long time before I ‘try’ a girl again. If ever.”