thought of being anything
but
a priest. His parents were devout, and they fostered in him a devotion to the Church. However, he had not become a priest to please them. Simply, as trite as it might sound to others in this age of agnosticism, he had been
called
to the priesthood at a very young age. Now, though faith was gone, his holy office continued to be the essential part of his self-image; yet he knew he could not go on saying Mass and praying and comforting the afflicted when it was nothing but a charade to him.
Brendan Cronin placed the stole around his neck. As he pulled on the chasuble, the courtyard door to the sacristy was flung open, and a young boy burst into the room, switching on the electric lights that the priest had preferred to do without.
“Morning, Father!”
“Good morning, Kerry. How’re you this fine morning?”
Except that his hair was much redder than Father Cronin’s, Kerry McDevit might have been the priest’s blood relative. He was slightly plump, freckled, with green eyes full of mischief. “I’m fine, Father. But it’s sure cold out there this morning. Cold as a witch’s—”
“Oh, yes? Cold as a witch’s what?”
“Refrigerator,” the boy said, embarrassed. “Cold as a witch’s refrigerator, Father. And that’s
cold.
”
If his mood had not been so bleak, Brendan would have been amused by the boy’s narrow avoidance of an innocent obscenity, but in his current state of mind he could not summon even a shadow of a smile. Undoubtedly, his silence was interpreted as stern disapproval, for Kerry averted his eyes and went quickly to the closet, where he stowed his coat, scarf, and gloves, and took his cassock and surplice from a hanger.
Even as Brendan lifted the maniple, kissed the cross in its center, and placed it on his left forearm, he felt nothing. There was just that cold, throbbing, hollow ache where belief and joy had once existed. As his hands were occupied with that task, his mind drifted back to a melancholy recollection of the exuberance with which he had once approached every priestly duty.
Until last August, he never doubted the wisdom of his commitment to the Church. He had been such a bright and hard-working student of both mundane subjects and religion that he had been chosen to complete his Catholic education at the North American College in Rome. He loved the Holy City—the architecture, the history, and the friendly people. Upon ordination and acceptance into the Society of Jesus, he had spent two years at the Vatican, as an assistant to Monsignor Giuseppe Orbella, chief speechwriter and doctrinal adviser to His Holiness, the Pope. That honor could have been followed by a prized assignment to the staff of the Cardinal of the Chicago Archdiocese, but Father Cronin had requested, instead, a curacy at a small or medium-sized parish, like any young priest. Thus, after a visit to Bishop Santefiore in San Francisco (an old friend of Monsignor Orbella’s), and after a vacation during which he drove from San Francisco to Chicago, he had come to St. Bernadette’s, where he’d taken great pleasure in even the most ordinary day-to-day chores of a curate’s life. And with never a regret or doubt.
Now, as he watched his altar boy slip into a surplice, Father Croninlonged for the simple faith that had for so long comforted and sustained him. Was it gone only temporarily, or had he lost it forever?
When Kerry was dressed, he led the way through the inner sacristy door, into the sanctuary of the church. Several steps beyond the door, he evidently sensed that Father Cronin was not coming after him, for he glanced back, a puzzled look upon his face.
Brendan Cronin hesitated. Through the door he had a side-view of the towering crucifix on the back wall and the altar platform straight ahead. This holiest part of the church was dismayingly strange, as if he were seeing it objectively for the first time. And he could not imagine why he had ever thought of it as sacred
but
a priest. His parents were devout, and they fostered in him a devotion to the Church. However, he had not become a priest to please them. Simply, as trite as it might sound to others in this age of agnosticism, he had been
called
to the priesthood at a very young age. Now, though faith was gone, his holy office continued to be the essential part of his self-image; yet he knew he could not go on saying Mass and praying and comforting the afflicted when it was nothing but a charade to him.
Brendan Cronin placed the stole around his neck. As he pulled on the chasuble, the courtyard door to the sacristy was flung open, and a young boy burst into the room, switching on the electric lights that the priest had preferred to do without.
“Morning, Father!”
“Good morning, Kerry. How’re you this fine morning?”
Except that his hair was much redder than Father Cronin’s, Kerry McDevit might have been the priest’s blood relative. He was slightly plump, freckled, with green eyes full of mischief. “I’m fine, Father. But it’s sure cold out there this morning. Cold as a witch’s—”
“Oh, yes? Cold as a witch’s what?”
“Refrigerator,” the boy said, embarrassed. “Cold as a witch’s refrigerator, Father. And that’s
cold.
”
If his mood had not been so bleak, Brendan would have been amused by the boy’s narrow avoidance of an innocent obscenity, but in his current state of mind he could not summon even a shadow of a smile. Undoubtedly, his silence was interpreted as stern disapproval, for Kerry averted his eyes and went quickly to the closet, where he stowed his coat, scarf, and gloves, and took his cassock and surplice from a hanger.
Even as Brendan lifted the maniple, kissed the cross in its center, and placed it on his left forearm, he felt nothing. There was just that cold, throbbing, hollow ache where belief and joy had once existed. As his hands were occupied with that task, his mind drifted back to a melancholy recollection of the exuberance with which he had once approached every priestly duty.
Until last August, he never doubted the wisdom of his commitment to the Church. He had been such a bright and hard-working student of both mundane subjects and religion that he had been chosen to complete his Catholic education at the North American College in Rome. He loved the Holy City—the architecture, the history, and the friendly people. Upon ordination and acceptance into the Society of Jesus, he had spent two years at the Vatican, as an assistant to Monsignor Giuseppe Orbella, chief speechwriter and doctrinal adviser to His Holiness, the Pope. That honor could have been followed by a prized assignment to the staff of the Cardinal of the Chicago Archdiocese, but Father Cronin had requested, instead, a curacy at a small or medium-sized parish, like any young priest. Thus, after a visit to Bishop Santefiore in San Francisco (an old friend of Monsignor Orbella’s), and after a vacation during which he drove from San Francisco to Chicago, he had come to St. Bernadette’s, where he’d taken great pleasure in even the most ordinary day-to-day chores of a curate’s life. And with never a regret or doubt.
Now, as he watched his altar boy slip into a surplice, Father Croninlonged for the simple faith that had for so long comforted and sustained him. Was it gone only temporarily, or had he lost it forever?
When Kerry was dressed, he led the way through the inner sacristy door, into the sanctuary of the church. Several steps beyond the door, he evidently sensed that Father Cronin was not coming after him, for he glanced back, a puzzled look upon his face.
Brendan Cronin hesitated. Through the door he had a side-view of the towering crucifix on the back wall and the altar platform straight ahead. This holiest part of the church was dismayingly strange, as if he were seeing it objectively for the first time. And he could not imagine why he had ever thought of it as sacred
Similar Books
