Pierced by a Sword (33 page)

The black man with the roses will help you.

He responded aloud, feeling somewhat foolish: "Okay, the black man with the roses will help me. Got it."

He sat in silence, listening to words he could not hear. Then his mind drifted from Jesus to the reasons why, after his experience of hell, he had been so certain that Catholicism was the one, true, holy, and apostolic faith. And he wondered if he was one in a million, the most unique Catholic convert in the history of Mormonism.

Part of his job promoting the LDS was to research other religions,
and wherever possible, to adapt their best methods to LDS methods. Lanning had always been professionally fascinated by Catholicism. Until the late 1960s, Mormon missionaries had tremendous difficulty attracting Catholics. As far back as 1958, he had made it his job to know details about the teachings of the Catholic Church in order to solve this problem.

Mormons were taught from childhood that
the Catholic Church was the most evil of all Christian churches. It was the "Whore of Babylon," and the Protestant churches were the "prostitute daughters of the Whore." During secret rituals in the Mormon Temple, a Mormon dressed like a Catholic priest was instructed by a temple worker posing as Lucifer to teach "falsehoods" such as the doctrine of the Holy Trinity! The pope was despised. As a
young missionary, he had taken special pleasure in converting Catholic Brazilians to the LDS–believing that he was saving them from the worst religion on earth.

Before his visit to hell, he had gradually and imperceptibly found himself admiring the Catholic Church from a professional point of view. Of course he had completely rejected the Catholic Church
theologically.
It
just had to be
what the
Mormons taught him it was–the archenemy, a tool of Lucifer. But he couldn't help but appreciate its elegantly simple hierarchical structure. He marveled at its effective pope-to-pew communication network, which was adaptable to any age or technology. He especially liked its missionary zeal in earlier centuries.

Catholicism was, after all, the largest Christian denomination in the world. It was
one of the few institutions in the world nearly two thousand years old, and the only institution that old of any size or influence. It was hardy, he often told his subordinates–sometimes down, but never out. Worthy of clever imitation, it had outlasted persecutions, corruption, revolutions, political upheavals, disasters–and even material prosperity, which John wisely recognized could destroy an
institution. He knew the Catholic Church was an excellent business model. It was a source of ideas. If Catholicism was the IBM of churches, then the LDS was Apple Computer.

He was also aware that the Catholic Church was the only church which clearly and unequivocally taught two "realities," among others. The Catholic Church teaches that hell exists. It also teaches that contraception is a grave
moral evil. John had always reserved a scruple about using artificial contraceptives. But he used them–Elena had insisted.

So after he "returned" from hell, it took him less than twenty minutes to compare his "new reality" to the teachings of all the major faiths. He had always prided himself on being a realist. Catholicism was the only faith that fit the reality.

Before his recent doubts, Lanning
had been a man of prayer and good works. However, the Catholic God was much more appealing now that he believed in a new reality. The Mormon god was a piker by comparison.

Before leaving the hospital, he had been somewhat amused to find himself deciding to become a Catholic as easily as he decided which car to buy for the family. His decision to assent to Catholic beliefs had been made with little
struggle. The difficult part would come, he knew,
after
his conversion.

4

Friday Morning
13 October
Verona, New Jersey

Chet found it hard to keep his imagination from projecting images of Nathan in a hospital bed, his body covered with bandages. He blinked and shook his head before speaking to Bishop Brookings.

"What can I do for you, Your Excellency?" he asked politely.

Brookings looked at Whelan,
who was smiling pleasantly. "We had such high hopes for you, Chet, when you were in the seminary," Brookings began, "but even back then, despite your high grades and hard work, your superiors constantly complained that you were too rigid, too stuck in the old ways."

Oh no,
Chet thought,
here comes my first official spanking from the brass. Slap on the wrist for not towing the line.
Chet was not
surprised.
What can they do? Cardinal O'Donnell's in my corner.

Thomas Cardinal O'Donnell was the head of the Newark Archdiocese. He had liked Chet from the start. O'Donnell had encouraged him to remain steadfast during Chet's difficult years negotiating the liberal classes at Seton Hall. O'Donnell was a good-hearted man, and a good Catholic, but the diocesan bureaucracy had tied the hands of
the somewhat weak cardinal. He had just departed for Rome as part of the conclave responsible for electing a new pontiff.

"As acting leader of the Newark faith community, it saddens me to inform you that your services as priest are no longer needed." The bishop's tone of voice reflected no taint of sadness. Whelan chuckled cheerily.

"What do you mean? 'Services no longer needed?' What does that
mean?" Chet was confused. "Am I suspended? And if so, for what?"

"You're not suspended. I can't do that. Only O'Donnell can do that. After much prayer and serious consultation with Monsignor Whelan, we feel it's in the best interests of the faith community of Notre Dame du Lac that we detach you from your duties here. You may no longer live here. We will not pay your salary. You may not publicly
hear confessions or say public Mass, or preach in any capacity within the borders of this diocese. You may still say Mass privately, of course."

Chet was reeling. "But why? What have I done?" he croaked, close to tears.

"You crossed a line," the bishop said. "Plain and simple. Don't expect O'Donnell to bail you out this time. Let's just say that he's not going to be a factor now that Pope Patrick
is...gone–"

"–O'Donnell's close to retirement," Monsignor Whelan quickly added.

The words flowed over Chet like shock waves.
O'Donnell's not a factor? What does that mean? Brookings is so smug. He's enjoying this.

"You want specifics?" the bishop asked. Chet nodded weakly.

"First of all, you've embarrassed the faith community with your political activism in the newspapers. Second, you've constantly
disobeyed the Monsignor's requests to tone down your homilies. You've been rigid and uncooperative with Sister Margaret in the religious education program. You've disrupted the peaceful atmosphere of Notre Dame du Lac with your insistence on hearing confessions daily–"

"Those charges are not going to hold water with Cardinal O'Donnell, you know. They're trumped up. I've never disobeyed in any
real way and you know it! As soon as the cardinal gets back from Rome–"

Brookings waved his hand at Chet. "You're not listening to me. You don't get it. We don't need any charges. We're ordering you under obedience to stop associating yourself with this diocese. If I could suspend you, I would, but I can't. At least not yet. I fully expect to be the next archbishop of this diocese. If you make
waves with your friends in the press, I will suspend you then. The matter is closed."

"But–" Chet started. Bishop Brookings waved again, cutting him off. Father Chet was going to ask Brookings how anyone could possibly know who would be appointed to ecclesiastical office ahead of time.
Cardinal O'Donnell is still holding office! What's going on here? Is this the start of the Great Schism? Or am
I just the wrong priest in the wrong parish at the wrong time?

"No buts, Chet. The matter is closed. You've got two days to move out of here. No Mass tomorrow." Brookings turned to Whelan, "Do you have anything to add for Father Sullivan, Monsignor?"

Whelan looked at Chet with disdain. He took a step closer and leaned forward. "You still think my kind of religion is dead?" Chet half-expected Whelan
to spit on the floor.

Chet didn't answer. He turned and left the room.

Monsignor Whelan laughed again, louder. Chet made a conscious decision not to have a drink as he climbed up the steps to his room. He had to think. He was already recovering.

No time for self pity. I've heard of stories like this from old-timers in other dioceses. I was playing with fire. The liberals who run the big house
in Newark must know something about the new pope and O'Donnell that I don't. Usually they send troublemakers like me to obscure parishes in the boonies. Before O'Donnell came here, I heard that three priests were unofficially "shut down" without suspension. One had to find a job as a lawyer to keep a roof over his head. I'm out. I need advice. I need help.

Official suspension would have meant
that Father Chet couldn't say Mass, hear confessions, or otherwise administer sacraments–a suspension of his priestly faculties. He could still administer the sacraments publicly just as long as he did so outside of the archdiocese.

I'll call Dad. He'll have good advice. Where am I going to live? Can't move in with Mom and Dad, though Greg and Mindy Wheat have an apartment above their garage.
Maybe I could move in with them 'til I figure out where to go next.
Joanie Wheat's brother Greg was an old friend of Chet's from their Notre Dame days. Greg was a successful lawyer who lived a few miles away in North Caldwell. Mindy often came to Father Chet for confession. Chet's parents lived in a one-bedroom condominium. They had sold the family home after their last son moved out.

Is this
a sign that I should be Joe's black robe? I better start praying, too.

5

Saturday Morning
14 October
South Bend, Indiana

Nathan opened his eyes and saw Joanie. She was sitting next to him reading a book titled
The Screwtape Letters.
She sensed his gaze, and looked at him.

"Welcome back, Mister," she said softly, her eyes watering.

It took him a few seconds to find his voice. "It's good to be back,
Joanie," he croaked, his voice barely audible. Nathan's heart filled with an emotion that was foreign to him.

"Joanie. I'm so..." his eyes also began to fill with tears, and he couldn't finish his sentence. The emotion choking him was
gratitude.

"Joanie..." he began again.

She rose from the chair next to his bed and gently put an arm around his neck, so as not to put the slightest pressure on
his broken ribs. She put her cheek on his cheek that wasn't covered with a bandage. "Don't say anything, my love. We'll have time to talk later."

But Nathan did speak, "I need to see a priest–and I need you to pray with me. You won't believe what happened to me. Will you pray with me?"

She nodded slowly. "Sure, Nathan. Should I go find the chaplain first?"

Nathan nodded, wincing from the pain.

"Okay, Nathan, I'll be right back." Joanie released her gentle embrace and left the room to find a priest.

6

Saturday Afternoon
14 October
Salt Lake City, Utah

Slinger didn't like going to what he privately thought of as Town Father Events, even if he was the head honcho father at the event scheduled to begin in less than an hour. He was in the den of his home. He was a neat-desk person, so he
carefully policed his large desk of any papers or items before departing. He was just about to leave for the opening of the new SLG Communications Institute when the phone rang.

"I need to speak to Sergeant Slinger, now." Karl immediately recognized the voice on the other end.

"Chip!" Slinger cried out in his booming voice. "Aren't you dead yet, Lieutenant Williams!"

"What, and let you outlive
me? No way, Sarge," William "Chip" Williams, Commandant of the United States Marine Corps, replied heartily.

"You calling about that CD I sent you, Chip? No, wait. Don't tell me. I'll tell you. You're out of your mind, Slinger! Is that about right?"

There was a pause on the other end before Williams spoke, "Not exactly, Sarge. I just finished listening to it for the fifth time. I don't buy it
all, but it's really getting under my skin. I'm not going Christer or anything, like you have. Do you know this Wheat fella?"

"I just spent two days with him last week. He's a regular guy, Chip, a Marine too, in Korea," Karl replied.
A regular guy
was one of his highest compliments. "And he drinks Maker's."

That got a laugh from Chip. "Is that so? Wheat sounded pretty normal on the talk. Very
fact-oriented. Too smart to be a jarhead, though–guess I was wrong. Tell me, Karl, do you really buy this Marian stuff?"

"I do, Chip. I do. I'm throwing every resource of SLG Industries plus all my personal wealth into getting that information into as many heads as possible over the next year."

Karl expected Chip to laugh again.
Here it comes,
he thought,
the "you're crazy" part. Chip's just calling
to be polite and say hello to an old Marine Corps buddy.

But Chip didn't laugh. "So you're serious. Well, if what Wheat says is true, then I don't blame you. It wouldn't be like Sergeant Slinger to sit on his butt."

Karl was surprised. Based on recent experience with over two dozen movers and shakers, he hadn't expected Chip to take Wheat's talk seriously. Slinger had almost decided not to send
the CD when Chip's name popped up on Karl's computerized list of friends and acquaintances. He sent almost everyone on the list the "Marian Apparitions" audio talk and the two most popular books on the same subject–
The Final Hour
and
The Thunder of Justice
–overnight delivery. He remembered pausing over Chip's name when previewing the list. Then he remembered the young lieutenant attending a field
Mass in Quantico where Karl had served briefly as a consultant at the height of the Vietnam Conflict.

Karl was an expert in radio communications over rough terrain. He had consulted with the Marine Corps on ways to improve communication systems. Before his involvement, American radiomen on the infamous "search and destroy" missions had to strap their radios to their backs. The radios had long
antennas which stuck up several feet above the heads of the radiomen. The Vietcong had the nasty habit of picking off radio operators by identifying the soldiers with the large antennas. Karl's ranches had been linked by sophisticated radios decades earlier. Back in the fifties, SLG Industries had even purchased a short wave radio manufacturer and a small radio engineering company to help develop
custom comsystems for the ranches. Karl had spent several days in the field with Lieutenant Williams; the bright young officer had taken well to the old combat veteran.