The Sacrifice (6 page)

After the week or two everyone seemed satisfied that the spiritual life of the parish as a whole had been ratcheted up several notches. All felt better for the experience. Except, of course, those who did not attend. They might feel a pang or two of guilt for favoring television with feet up on the ottoman instead of Joe's scary exhortations and an unforgiving kneeler.

But those parishioners who faithfully attended felt they had sacrificed and profited spiritually.

The only one who did not attend, yet felt great, was the pastor, who, with an additional missionary priest present, took the opportunity for a well-deserved vacation.

Joe Farmer had begun his specialized vocation many years ago by laboring very hard to work up about a dozen spiritual talks designed first to frighten, then to offer hope, and finally, to conclude with the promise of salvation.

The story was told of one parishioner who, in the best missionary spirit, talked his non-Catholic neighbor into attending the parish mission with him. True to form, the five sermons delivered Monday through Friday concerned death, judgment, hell, purgatory, and, finally, heaven.

After the first few talks, the Protestant gentleman confided in his thoughtful neighbor, “I have never felt so depressed in all my life!”

To which the neighbor replied, “Not to worry. It's all downhill from here on.”

Koesler smiled as he recalled Father Farmer and his missions. The point of it all was confession. That's what all the scary stuff was about.

In the early days of Koesler's and Farmer's ministry, confession—or the Sacrament of Penance—for most Catholics became routine. Frequency was routine. Catholics confessed twice a year: Christmas and Easter. Or once a year: Christmas or Easter. Or once a month. Or once a week. Or for the dyed-in-the-wool scrupulous, as often as possible.

In any case—with exceptions—there was little insight into the state of the penitent's soul. Anger at home with the spouse but particularly with the children. Gossip. Petty theft. Bad language. The standby for children: disobedience. The standby for nuns: failure in promptitude.

Things have changed, thought Koesler. The name now: Sacrament of Reconciliation. The format: no kneeling on a board and no anonymity-providing door and curtain. Those who had once used the sacrament frequently now used it rarely.

There was some movement toward linking confession to a drastic change in life and/or lifestyle. And yet there still existed a push toward confessing at Christmas and Easter; the vast majority of penitents confessed because it was the appropriate time, not for good reason.

Koesler was so lost in thought that he was startled when someone touched his arm. “I hate to disturb you,” said a smiling Father Tully, “but even by my watch, it's pretty late.”

Koesler glanced at his watch. It was as if he had overslept and was late in starting Mass. Embarrassed, he blushed. Onlookers were amazed.

“Oh, I am so sorry. I don't know what I could have been thinking of.” He looked toward the church entrance. There were the altar ministers, patiently standing as stiff and attentive as little soldiers.

For once he was grateful that something was starting late. This delay might enable him and Zachary to vest and get in line for the procession. At least they stood a good chance of not having to hurry to catch up.

Fathers Koesler and Tully turned to go. They had taken only a few steps when it happened.

Later, when he had time and leisure to piece it all together, the sequence of events became clear. At the time, everyone was so confused that no one knew what had taken place.

First there was a powerful whoosh. That was followed by a sharp, explosive crash. For an instant Koesler thought—hoped—that these sounds had come from the musicians in the choir loft … possibly turning on the old pipe organ and then giving out a crescendo of the timpani.

But even as he tried to find an innocuous explanation for this untoward thunder, he knew something far more serious had to be the cause.

For one thing, the orchestra did not continue what it had not begun.

For another, the interior of the Gothic church was clogged with dust. Dust that hitherto coated remote places had been dislodged, lifted, and wafted about. Koesler and many others covered their noses and mouths with handkerchiefs.

Screams and shouts rose from throughout the congregation. Something terrible had happened; as yet no one knew what.

Koesler was tall enough—and he was standing on a raised platform—to see over the heads of the crowd. People were running from the sanctuary. It all fell into an inescapable conclusion: A bomb had gone off. It had exploded somewhere in the front of the church.

Everyone, bent on escaping, was fleeing from the site of the blast. No one seemed to be assisting anyone else. Koesler could not imagine everyone escaping without trying to help others in need. Surely, if anyone was seriously injured, someone—or some few—would risk his or her own safety to rescue someone in need.

As the dust began to settle, Koesler could see pretty well throughout the church. Thank God! he whispered. No one hurt. With the racket that had occurred, it was a miracle.

Then he remembered. Joe Farmer.

Farmer had been investigating something in the sanctuary. Something in the vicinity of the altar.

The crowd was spilling out of the church. Almost all of them were coughing and blowing their noses.

But in the crush of survivors who had brushed by him on their way to fresh air Koesler did not spot Joe Farmer. He pulled his cassock above his knees and ran full tilt toward the sanctuary.

Somebody was running with him. A sidelong glance identified Lieutenant Tully headed in the same direction and pulling ahead of him.

Koesler briefly thought of the original Easter when, having heard of the Lord's resurrection, the Apostles John and Peter ran to the tomb. John, by far the younger man, won the race, but waited for Peter to be the first to enter and find it empty.

Tully clearly was going to be first. But Koesler was fearful that they would not find an empty sanctuary.

F
OUR

The scene in the sanctuary was surreal.

Several statues were tipped over. Some had toppled to the floor. Their eyes, which had never been alive, were freshly dead. Cracks like drunken spiders' webs crazed the stained glass windows.

But structural damage was not the prime interest of Father Koesler and Lieutenant Tully. While Father Tully was ministering to those panicky people who had been in his general vicinity, his brother and Father Koesler were looking for victims, fervently hoping there were none. Lieutenant Tully wanted to find anybody who might have seen and survived. Koesler was concerned about one particular person who, he feared, had been in the epicenter of this explosion.

As it turned out, Zoo Tully was the first to locate Father Joe Farmer.

The officer had seen death in all of its various guises: murder, suicide, natural causes, gunshot, strangulation, execution, drowning, asphyxiation—and explosion. He knew what he was looking for. And he found it.

Koesler hurried to the lieutenant's side as Tully halted before a pile of clothing. It looked as if someone had dumped a bundle of soiled laundry that waited inertly to be picked up. If Koesler had not been looking for Farmer specifically, he doubted that he would have recognized this pitiful heap as being human.

Zoo knelt alongside Farmer, bending over the priest's body. The officer's mouth was no more than an inch from Farmer's ear. Then he turned his head to put his ear to Farmer's lips.

Koesler could not tell what was being said. Tully was not whispering, but there was so much hubbub that even at this proximity verbal communication was problematic, if not impossible.

Evidently whatever information Tully was trying to get from Farmer wasn't forthcoming. Tully kept shaking his head in obvious frustration.

The lieutenant finally straightened up and, seemingly for the first time, became aware that Father Koesler was kneeling beside him. As Tully began to raise himself from the unforgiving marble floor, he said, “He wants to go to confession.”

Wordlessly, Koesler inched nearer. The closer he crept the more obvious was the extent of Farmer's injuries. The very capable emergency staff at Receiving Hospital just minutes from St. Joe's church would do their best to patch Humpty Dumpty. Koesler hoped only that they would be able to relieve the priest's pain.

As Koesler gingerly bent low over Joe Farmer, Lieutenant Tully traced a path of blood that stretched from the altar to where Farmer's broken body now lay.

The poor bastard, Tully silently commiserated. He must've been right on top of the damn thing when it detonated. Tully moved away from the victim. As he did so, he said to Koesler, “Ask him if he saw who did it. Ask him if he knows who did it.” Questions that Tully had pumped at Farmer. Questions that had met only with a plea for a priest to hear his confession.

“I'm here, Joe,” Koesler said into Farmer's ear. He would hear Farmer's confession first; only then would he treat with Tully's concerns for information. “You wanted to go to confession, Joe. This is Bob Koesler. You ready? Go ahead when you're ready.”

“This is it, isn't it, Bobby?” Farmer mumbled. “I'm dying … I'm dying …”

Probably, Koesler thought, that would be the best thing that could happen to you now, you poor guy. You're too old—as am I—to go through all this just to exist immobilized and in agony … or at least trying to cling to life while undergoing attempts to deal with constant pain. “It's too soon to know whether this is it, Joe. Now, is there anything on your mind? Anything you want to set straight?”

Slowly, agonizingly, Farmer shook his head. “Just that from here my life seems such a waste,” he murmured. “I didn't do anything with my priesthood. Just those same old sermons, over and over. Things changed … I didn't. Maybe I should have.”

Koesler was acutely conscious that valuable time was slipping by. If this was going to be the end, he wanted Farmer to leave comforted in and by his priesthood. He deserved to be thus comforted. If only he would let it happen. “Joe”—Koesler's lips were almost pressed against Farmer's ear—“put yourself in the welcoming arms of Jesus. In a few moments you may be judged by Love. God is full of mercy and compassion. Lose yourself in Him.”

Koesler raised his head slightly. He saw one lonely tear finding its way down Farmer's face. In its wake it carried blood and black powder. The track of that tear was the only white spot on Farmer's exposed flesh.

It was almost as if Father Farmer was there one minute and in the next he was gone. In that brief span, a team of well-trained paramedics lifted him as gently as possible onto a gurney and began to roll the package toward the door. As with a thought placed out of due time, Koesler realized that he had not absolved the priest. He did so now. He finished the rite just as the gurney reached the outer door, turned to the left, and passed out of sight.

The thought crossed his mind that he should accompany his colleague to the hospital. But immediately he realized that he would only be in the way. He had heard Farmer's confession; he had given him absolution. All was now in the hands of God—and the emergency room staff. Koesler turned back to Lieutenant Tully.

“Did he have anything to say about who did this?” Zoo Tully asked.

Koesler realized that he hadn't quizzed Farmer on what he'd seen. There was a slight guilt, washed away quickly by the reality that there had been neither time nor opportunity to do so. He shook his head.

“Damn!” Tully said.

Koesler stood and looked about him. Where had all these cops come from? Before the blast he had been peripherally aware of a considerable number of uniformed officers outside the church. But they had been busy mostly with traffic control. Now they were very definitely on graver duty.

They were, in police parlance, securing the area. And, along with that, interviewing the members of the congregation, in hopes of finding someone, anyone, who had seen something, anything.

But these witnesses had seen everything and nothing. Unfortunately, none related anything even remotely helpful.

Most had paid no attention to what was going on at the altar; they had been busy renewing old as well as recent friendships. Others had been occupied in securing a prized vantage for the ceremony. This was not the usual group of church attendees who filled the back pews first and only reluctantly allowed themselves to be herded toward the front. Today the pews starting at the sanctuary had filled first.

Thus the police hoped to find somebody who might have noticed some sort of activity adjacent to the altar. But their frustration mounted as it became increasingly clear that most of those present had seen no one in the sanctuary—neither near the altar nor anyplace in the immediate vicinity. At best, they might have noticed a florist making last-minute arrangements of floral pieces. A few recalled some young men who were adjusting the sound system.

Those who'd been aware of any activity whatsoever gave their names, addresses, and phone numbers to the police. They would be contacted later and interviewed in greater detail.

All this Koesler noted and took in. There was a lot going on. From the selfsameness of the questions, it was obvious that a similar routine was going on throughout the church.

Personally, he was just beginning to recover from the numbing shock of it all. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware someone was beckoning. Lieutenant Tully. Koesler moved mechanically to where Tully was standing with another man, whom he introduced as Officer Lloyd.

Koesler's first impression was that Lloyd—“Call me Gil”—was heavily padded and hung down with equipment—the walking equivalent of an armored vehicle. It was a safe guess that Gil Lloyd was with the Bomb Squad.

“Stick close to me, Father,” Tully said. “In a little while I'm going to be questioning some priests and even a bishop. You may come in handy.” With those few words Tully made clear what Koesler's role would be. Koesler didn't mind; it was something like being a translator at the United Nations.