Grace, I was merely answering your question.”
“What’s the world coming to when our own women are out acting like hussies? I blame television, you know. Is there to be no end to the corruption it spreads?”
“Apparently not, Your Grace.”
The Bishop stopped fuming for a moment and tried to read her face. She was an educated woman who still took courses down at the university. And she painted. She would know something of the minds behind it all.
“How is it that we’re supposed to lead such people?”
“It was Gandhi, Your Grace, that once said: ‘There go my people. I must follow them, for I am their leader.’”
“You’re not suggesting . . . ” He couldn’t even finish the thought.
“Of course not, Your Grace. I just came in to tell you that Father Reilly is here.”
“Grand. Show him in on the hour.”
The Bishop was never sure of her but knew her to be an informed and considered woman. He’d wait until his mind was calmer and broach the subject with her later. It was good to have an ear in all camps.
He had a few moments to compose himself and rearrange his thoughts. His nephew was a good lad but he had to check, just to be sure. Bart Boyle was an old friend and a good man—the likes of which would not be seen again. They had often played a bit of golf when time permitted. It gave them a chance to consult and compare their agendas over a couple of balls of the best malt whiskey in a private room in the clubhouse.
Bart was a bit of a rogue whose private commitments to the teachings of the Church were a bit slack but publically he never put a foot wrong. And he was generous whenever the Bishop asked—with his own funds as well as the public purse.
His widow kept his generous spirit alive, often delving into her own savings and still capable of reaching the ears of cabinet ministers and the like. She wasn’t complaining about his nephew—she just thought that the Bishop should know.
He put the Times aside. He would scour it later for more whispers of dissent. It was essential that he be informed. That way he could help to formulate a better way of dealing with all the change the times brought. They couldn’t rely on the old ways of censure and excommunication anymore. They had enough problems getting people to come to Mass without banning them.
Not to mention they weren’t getting as many vocations as they once were. Since Vatican II priests and nuns were starting to leave the Holy Orders. It was still just a trickle but it was unheard of in his time. Yes, the Church was facing difficult times.
It was different when he was a young man in Rome and they were guided only by the word of God. Not directly, of course. God spoke clearly through his servant, Pius XI. The Bishop had once brandished the Divini Redemptoris as proof and still had an original copy somewhere among his papers.
He also had a copy of Mit Brennender Sorge , too, but he avoided rereading it. It made him feel that they had been caught between two stools and that was heresy against their “infallibility.”
His nephew entered on the hour and took his seat on the other side of the desk. He waited like a schoolboy while Mrs. Power fussed around with her tray. He declined coffee but accepted a cup of tea. He had never been to Rome, despite the Bishop’s urgings. “All roads . . . you know? Especially for a man of the cloth,” he often coaxed, but his nephew was one of the “New Breed” that wore their hair far too long, wisping out from behind their ears and falling across their forehead.
But God had called him and the Bishop wasn’t going to question His wisdom.
“Are you well, Patrick?”
“I am indeed, Your Grace. Thanks for asking. And I hope that all is well with yourself?”
“As well as can be expected,” the Bishop laughed to ease the mood. “And don’t be calling me ‘Your Grace.’ We’re family.”
His nephew nodded and sipped his tea while the Bishop appraised him. He was nervous and fingered
“What’s the world coming to when our own women are out acting like hussies? I blame television, you know. Is there to be no end to the corruption it spreads?”
“Apparently not, Your Grace.”
The Bishop stopped fuming for a moment and tried to read her face. She was an educated woman who still took courses down at the university. And she painted. She would know something of the minds behind it all.
“How is it that we’re supposed to lead such people?”
“It was Gandhi, Your Grace, that once said: ‘There go my people. I must follow them, for I am their leader.’”
“You’re not suggesting . . . ” He couldn’t even finish the thought.
“Of course not, Your Grace. I just came in to tell you that Father Reilly is here.”
“Grand. Show him in on the hour.”
The Bishop was never sure of her but knew her to be an informed and considered woman. He’d wait until his mind was calmer and broach the subject with her later. It was good to have an ear in all camps.
He had a few moments to compose himself and rearrange his thoughts. His nephew was a good lad but he had to check, just to be sure. Bart Boyle was an old friend and a good man—the likes of which would not be seen again. They had often played a bit of golf when time permitted. It gave them a chance to consult and compare their agendas over a couple of balls of the best malt whiskey in a private room in the clubhouse.
Bart was a bit of a rogue whose private commitments to the teachings of the Church were a bit slack but publically he never put a foot wrong. And he was generous whenever the Bishop asked—with his own funds as well as the public purse.
His widow kept his generous spirit alive, often delving into her own savings and still capable of reaching the ears of cabinet ministers and the like. She wasn’t complaining about his nephew—she just thought that the Bishop should know.
He put the Times aside. He would scour it later for more whispers of dissent. It was essential that he be informed. That way he could help to formulate a better way of dealing with all the change the times brought. They couldn’t rely on the old ways of censure and excommunication anymore. They had enough problems getting people to come to Mass without banning them.
Not to mention they weren’t getting as many vocations as they once were. Since Vatican II priests and nuns were starting to leave the Holy Orders. It was still just a trickle but it was unheard of in his time. Yes, the Church was facing difficult times.
It was different when he was a young man in Rome and they were guided only by the word of God. Not directly, of course. God spoke clearly through his servant, Pius XI. The Bishop had once brandished the Divini Redemptoris as proof and still had an original copy somewhere among his papers.
He also had a copy of Mit Brennender Sorge , too, but he avoided rereading it. It made him feel that they had been caught between two stools and that was heresy against their “infallibility.”
His nephew entered on the hour and took his seat on the other side of the desk. He waited like a schoolboy while Mrs. Power fussed around with her tray. He declined coffee but accepted a cup of tea. He had never been to Rome, despite the Bishop’s urgings. “All roads . . . you know? Especially for a man of the cloth,” he often coaxed, but his nephew was one of the “New Breed” that wore their hair far too long, wisping out from behind their ears and falling across their forehead.
But God had called him and the Bishop wasn’t going to question His wisdom.
“Are you well, Patrick?”
“I am indeed, Your Grace. Thanks for asking. And I hope that all is well with yourself?”
“As well as can be expected,” the Bishop laughed to ease the mood. “And don’t be calling me ‘Your Grace.’ We’re family.”
His nephew nodded and sipped his tea while the Bishop appraised him. He was nervous and fingered
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