afternoon the first scattered flakes would begin to fall, and by early evening the city’s grimy face and soiled skirts would be temporarily concealed beneath the white pancake makeup and pristine cloak of snow. This night, from the Gold Coast to the slum tenements, everywhere in the city, the number-one topic of conversation would be the storm. Everywhere, that is, but in the Roman Catholic homes throughout the parish of St. Bernadette’s, where they would still be talking about the shocking thing Father Brendan Cronin had done during the early Mass that morning.
Father Cronin rose at five-thirty A.M. , said prayers, showered, shaved, dressed in cassock and biretta, picked up his breviary, and left the parish house without bothering to put on a coat. He stood for a moment on the rear porch, breathing deeply of the crisp December air.
He was thirty years old, but with his direct green eyes and unruly auburn hair and freckled face, he looked younger than he was. He was fifty or sixty pounds overweight, though not particularly thick in the middle. On him, fat distributed evenly, filling him out equally in face, arms, torso, and legs. From childhood through college, until his second year at the seminary, his nickname had been “Pudge.”
Regardless of his emotional state, Father Cronin nearly always looked happy. His face had a natural cherubic aspect, and the round lines of it were not designed for the clear and easy expression of anger, melancholy, or grief. This morning he looked mildly pleased with himself and with the world, though he was deeply troubled.
He followed a flagstone path across the yard, past denuded flowerbeds where the bare earth lay in frozen clumps. He unlocked the door of the sacristy and let himself in. Myrrh and spikenard blended with the scent of the lemon-oil furniture polish with which the old church’s oak paneling, pews, and other wooden objects were anointed.
Without switching on the lights, with only the flickering ruby glow of the sacristy lamp to guide him, Father Cronin knelt at the
prie-dieu
and bowed his head. In silence, he petitioned the Divine Father to make him a worthy priest. In the past, this private devotion, before the arrival of the sexton and the altar boy, had sent his spirits soaring and had filled him with exultation at the prospect of celebrating Mass. But now, as on most other mornings during the last four months, joy eluded him. He felt only a leaden bleakness, an emptiness that made his heart ache dully and that induced a cold, sick trembling in his belly.
Clenching his jaws, gritting his teeth, as if he could
will
himself into a state of spiritual ecstasy, he repeated his petition, elaborated upon his initial prayers, but still he felt unmoved, hollow.
After washing his hands and murmuring, “
Da Domine,”
Father Cronin laid his biretta on the
prie-dieu
and went to the vesting bench to attire himself for the sacred celebration ahead. He was a sensitive man with an artist’s soul, and in the great beauty of the ceremony he perceived a pleasing pattern of divine order, a subtle echo of God’s grace. Usually, when placing the linen amice over his shoulders, when arranging the white alb so that it fell evenly to his ankles, a shiver of awe passed through him, awe that
he,
Brendan Cronin, should have achieved this sacred office.
Usually. But not today. And not for weeks of days before this.
Father Cronin put on his amice, passed the strings around his back, then tied them against his breast. He pulled on the alb with no more emotion than a welder getting dressed for work in a factory.
Four months ago, in early August, Father Brendan Cronin had begun to lose his faith. A small but relentless fire of doubt burned within him, unquenchable, gradually consuming all of his long-held beliefs.
For any priest, the loss of faith is a devastating process. But it was worse for Brendan Cronin than it would have been for most others. He had never even briefly entertained the
Father Cronin rose at five-thirty A.M. , said prayers, showered, shaved, dressed in cassock and biretta, picked up his breviary, and left the parish house without bothering to put on a coat. He stood for a moment on the rear porch, breathing deeply of the crisp December air.
He was thirty years old, but with his direct green eyes and unruly auburn hair and freckled face, he looked younger than he was. He was fifty or sixty pounds overweight, though not particularly thick in the middle. On him, fat distributed evenly, filling him out equally in face, arms, torso, and legs. From childhood through college, until his second year at the seminary, his nickname had been “Pudge.”
Regardless of his emotional state, Father Cronin nearly always looked happy. His face had a natural cherubic aspect, and the round lines of it were not designed for the clear and easy expression of anger, melancholy, or grief. This morning he looked mildly pleased with himself and with the world, though he was deeply troubled.
He followed a flagstone path across the yard, past denuded flowerbeds where the bare earth lay in frozen clumps. He unlocked the door of the sacristy and let himself in. Myrrh and spikenard blended with the scent of the lemon-oil furniture polish with which the old church’s oak paneling, pews, and other wooden objects were anointed.
Without switching on the lights, with only the flickering ruby glow of the sacristy lamp to guide him, Father Cronin knelt at the
prie-dieu
and bowed his head. In silence, he petitioned the Divine Father to make him a worthy priest. In the past, this private devotion, before the arrival of the sexton and the altar boy, had sent his spirits soaring and had filled him with exultation at the prospect of celebrating Mass. But now, as on most other mornings during the last four months, joy eluded him. He felt only a leaden bleakness, an emptiness that made his heart ache dully and that induced a cold, sick trembling in his belly.
Clenching his jaws, gritting his teeth, as if he could
will
himself into a state of spiritual ecstasy, he repeated his petition, elaborated upon his initial prayers, but still he felt unmoved, hollow.
After washing his hands and murmuring, “
Da Domine,”
Father Cronin laid his biretta on the
prie-dieu
and went to the vesting bench to attire himself for the sacred celebration ahead. He was a sensitive man with an artist’s soul, and in the great beauty of the ceremony he perceived a pleasing pattern of divine order, a subtle echo of God’s grace. Usually, when placing the linen amice over his shoulders, when arranging the white alb so that it fell evenly to his ankles, a shiver of awe passed through him, awe that
he,
Brendan Cronin, should have achieved this sacred office.
Usually. But not today. And not for weeks of days before this.
Father Cronin put on his amice, passed the strings around his back, then tied them against his breast. He pulled on the alb with no more emotion than a welder getting dressed for work in a factory.
Four months ago, in early August, Father Brendan Cronin had begun to lose his faith. A small but relentless fire of doubt burned within him, unquenchable, gradually consuming all of his long-held beliefs.
For any priest, the loss of faith is a devastating process. But it was worse for Brendan Cronin than it would have been for most others. He had never even briefly entertained the
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