his unruly fringe as he waited for his uncle to continue.
“I thought it was time that we had a little chat.” The Bishop was casual, hoping to put the young man at ease. “I like to hear from the men who do the real work, you know? I’ve been spending too much time up at the Diocese.”
“It must be very taxing on you.”
The Bishop couldn’t help but think the comment was loaded but continued regardless. “I envy men like you. Young and fresh from the seminary, and out among the flock.”
“It is a blessing.”
Again the Bishop wasn’t sure. He never really understood his nephew. He was a decent enough curate, but he played guitar and often wore a turtleneck instead of the crisp white collar. Father Brennan had complained when he started pushing for “Folk Masses” and the like.
**
“What’s wrong with the ordinary Mass that you and I were born and bred on?” he complained when he phoned. “Is it not enough that it’s in English now? What will they want from us next—get rid of the choir and replace them with a ceilidh band, or worse, a mop of rock and rollers?”
It took all of the Bishop’s persistence to calm him down. “You and I are from the old days but we have to change with the times, too.”
“So are you saying that we should allow it?”
“I’m not going to start telling you how to run your own parish, Dan. You’ve been doing well without my interference but I would ask you to remember what it was like when we were young and the Church was run by men we thought were so old. We couldn’t wait to be rid of the lot of them. Don’t you remember, Dan?”
“I suppose, but these young bucks are going to be the ruin of us.”
“My nephew will do fine. Let him do these things now and he’ll grow tired of them. He’ll get older and wiser, just like the rest of us.”
“I hope you’re right on this.”
“Time will tell, my old friend, time will tell. Do you know what I was going to ask you?” he wanted to shake hands on their agreement. “Would you have time to get in a bit of fishing next week? We haven’t had the rods out in years. There’s a house I can get the use of, up near Lough Sheelin . . .”
Father Brennan ceded, and for a while his church was full of bearded young men, and women in short skirts, singing about Jesus like he was a pop star. But he didn’t mind anymore. They filled his plates like good Catholics had done for years, even during the bad times.
**
“And how is Father Brennan?” the Bishop asked.
“He’s grand, Uncle. Can I tell him you were asking after him?”
The Bishop nodded as he relit his pipe. He didn’t smoke very often—only when he wanted to be very careful. Young priests were like foals and were easy to scare. “And yourself? How are things with you?”
“I am well, Uncle.” His nephew sipped his tea again, looking like he might make a dart for the door.
“You’re probably wondering why I asked to see you.”
“I hope it’s not because of something I’ve done wrong?”
“Wrong? Not at all. What would go and put that in your head? I’m just doing my job, you know? As your uncle, as well as your bishop.”
He leaned forward to span the formality between them.
“These are difficult times to be a priest, what with Vatican II and all that’s going on in the world. What with students protesting and women burning their underthings in public—not to mention the pill? Mark my words. We’ll look back at it as the Silent Holocaust, you know?
“And then there are the Troubles. At times like this it’s very hard to hear the voice of God and some are getting lost.” His face clouded over as he thought of his next appointment—the priest that had to be moved on. The Bishop couldn’t allow it to spread. That poor man was lost to them but there was still time for those like his nephew. He had to reach out now, while he still could. He had to be there to offer a helping hand when they wavered on the path, where any misstep
“I thought it was time that we had a little chat.” The Bishop was casual, hoping to put the young man at ease. “I like to hear from the men who do the real work, you know? I’ve been spending too much time up at the Diocese.”
“It must be very taxing on you.”
The Bishop couldn’t help but think the comment was loaded but continued regardless. “I envy men like you. Young and fresh from the seminary, and out among the flock.”
“It is a blessing.”
Again the Bishop wasn’t sure. He never really understood his nephew. He was a decent enough curate, but he played guitar and often wore a turtleneck instead of the crisp white collar. Father Brennan had complained when he started pushing for “Folk Masses” and the like.
**
“What’s wrong with the ordinary Mass that you and I were born and bred on?” he complained when he phoned. “Is it not enough that it’s in English now? What will they want from us next—get rid of the choir and replace them with a ceilidh band, or worse, a mop of rock and rollers?”
It took all of the Bishop’s persistence to calm him down. “You and I are from the old days but we have to change with the times, too.”
“So are you saying that we should allow it?”
“I’m not going to start telling you how to run your own parish, Dan. You’ve been doing well without my interference but I would ask you to remember what it was like when we were young and the Church was run by men we thought were so old. We couldn’t wait to be rid of the lot of them. Don’t you remember, Dan?”
“I suppose, but these young bucks are going to be the ruin of us.”
“My nephew will do fine. Let him do these things now and he’ll grow tired of them. He’ll get older and wiser, just like the rest of us.”
“I hope you’re right on this.”
“Time will tell, my old friend, time will tell. Do you know what I was going to ask you?” he wanted to shake hands on their agreement. “Would you have time to get in a bit of fishing next week? We haven’t had the rods out in years. There’s a house I can get the use of, up near Lough Sheelin . . .”
Father Brennan ceded, and for a while his church was full of bearded young men, and women in short skirts, singing about Jesus like he was a pop star. But he didn’t mind anymore. They filled his plates like good Catholics had done for years, even during the bad times.
**
“And how is Father Brennan?” the Bishop asked.
“He’s grand, Uncle. Can I tell him you were asking after him?”
The Bishop nodded as he relit his pipe. He didn’t smoke very often—only when he wanted to be very careful. Young priests were like foals and were easy to scare. “And yourself? How are things with you?”
“I am well, Uncle.” His nephew sipped his tea again, looking like he might make a dart for the door.
“You’re probably wondering why I asked to see you.”
“I hope it’s not because of something I’ve done wrong?”
“Wrong? Not at all. What would go and put that in your head? I’m just doing my job, you know? As your uncle, as well as your bishop.”
He leaned forward to span the formality between them.
“These are difficult times to be a priest, what with Vatican II and all that’s going on in the world. What with students protesting and women burning their underthings in public—not to mention the pill? Mark my words. We’ll look back at it as the Silent Holocaust, you know?
“And then there are the Troubles. At times like this it’s very hard to hear the voice of God and some are getting lost.” His face clouded over as he thought of his next appointment—the priest that had to be moved on. The Bishop couldn’t allow it to spread. That poor man was lost to them but there was still time for those like his nephew. He had to reach out now, while he still could. He had to be there to offer a helping hand when they wavered on the path, where any misstep
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