question: Do we worship Mary?”
“No,” Jon said. “We’re supposed to venerate Mary. We worship God alone.” We’d covered this fine distinction last semester. “But let’s talk reality here.”
Father Gregory pushed some papers aside, tossed the back of his scapular out of the way, and sat on the edge of his desk. “I’m all for reality.”
“Reality is that people like the Mexicans and the Polish worship Mary. They don’t just ask her to pray for them. They worship the Black Madonna and that other one, Our Lady of Guadeloupe. You can’t say people who can’t even read know the difference between venerate and worship.”
“Wrong.” Eric turned in his seat and confronted the heretic. “Poland and Mexico and Fatima...and Lourdes...and a few other places all have a special relationship with Mary. They know who God is. They know who died on the cross. They’re just giving her the honour she deserves—and people in Poland can read!”
Jon shook his head. “They worship those statues. They say some of those things cry and bleed and stuff like that. They get down and crawl on their knees along roads and up mountains to visit a picture. Sounds like worship to me.”
“I can’t believe you! What’s your problem?” Eric shook his head. “These people are only following her to her Son. You sound like a Jehovah’s Witness or something.”
Father Gregory raised his hand. “Let’s keep away from personal attacks, shall we? Stick to the issues.”
Connor had had his hand up since the battle had begun. Father Gregory pointed to him. “Who w-w-was the only one to stick by Him w-w-when He was on t-the cross? His disciples skipped out. Mary w-was the only one.”
“No, she wasn’t,” Jon, corrected. “So was Mary’s sister, plus Mary Magdalene and that other Mary, the mother of the apostles James Major and John. Besides, what does that have to do with anything?”
I forced my way in. I had no idea why Jon was so agitated, but it seemed as if he needed backup. “What about the fact that we pray the rosary every day? The full rosary is made up of a hundred and fifty Hail Marys and only fifteen Our Fathers. I’m not keeping score, but it seems like she’s ahead ten to one.”
Eric turned his back on us. “You’re sick. You know you’re supposed to be thinking about God when you say the rosary.”
Jon wouldn’t let it go. He was tainted, after all. His dad was born a Lutheran. “Why don’t we just pray straight to God? I mean, is she going to tap him on the shoulder and say, ‘Give this kid a break as a favour for your mom?’ Seems kinda weak to me.”
Father Gregory’s arms were folded across his chest. He started picking lint off the front of his black scapular. “Jon, you bring up an interesting question, but I think you’re being confrontational for effect. However, these are the kinds of issues we’ll be discussing this semester. We’re going to get to the bottom of a lot of misconceptions and find the truth.” He looked out the window and paused. “Essentially we have two pillars of our faith. Anyone?”
Jon and Eric raced to spit out, “Scripture and church teaching.”
Father Gregory continued. “Our Christian brothers outside the church have the scriptures, but they’ve turned their backs on the nearly two thousand years of tradition and dogma. We have those teachings as our inheritance.”
“But Father...” Jon threw his pencil onto his desk and folded his arms. “When you pray—I’m not talking about Mass or the rosary—when you pray by yourself, do you just pray to God, or do you cover all your bases and pray to Mary and the saints, too?”
“It’s not a game, Jon. Prayer is prayer. Have a look at those books on your reading list and then look into your heart. You’ll see the truth.”
“You cover your bases.”
Father Gregory hesitated, then stood and straightened his habit. “Yes,” he sighed, “I most certainly do.”
On the way to lunch I saw Father Albert with a tennis bag. He always looked ridiculous strolling through the seminary in his black habit, his big gut, and the bright blue tennis bag, especially since we knew what was really inside.
The monks were against television. In the entire monastery and seminary there were only two TVs. One was kept locked in a closet in the seniors’ classroom—to be turned on by a member of the faculty and only for legitimate educational purposes or for sporting events. The other was small, completely illegal, and constantly on the move from one location to the next.
One day the previous year Father Albert had discovered that a freshman named Harold Redinski was harbouring a portable TV in a tennis bag. Quietly he pulled Harold aside and struck a friendly bargain. In return for his silence Father Albert asked to borrow the bag once a week in order to watch his favourite sitcoms. At a prescribed time Harold would leave it sitting by his desk. Father Albert would walk by, pick it up with comic nonchalance, and calmly transport the contraband to the privacy of his cell. He even went out and played tennis once, just to keep up appearances.
When I saw Father Albert shuffling through the hall that day, toting the bag with the tennis racket zipped to the side, whistling the theme to All in the Family, I asked him about his game. He smiled, told me his backhand needed work, patted me on the head, and continued on his way.
FOUR COLLATERAL DAMAGE
I held the shaft in my hand and considered its girth and weight. It was long and sharp and perfectly balanced. It made me feel like a savage. I began to run, then, as if the javelin were eager to fly, it left my hand and sailed through the smoke-grey sky. It punctured the ground fifty yards away, pricking the earth like a giant silver needle.
Jon stood with his hands in his pockets, his javelin stuck in the ground before him. “Brother Ambrose said he’d cook up anything we bring back, as long as we clean it.”
“That’s because he doesn’t think we can catch anything,” I said.
I stood back to give him room. Jon plucked his weapon out of the grass, took a few skipping steps, and hurled it into the air. It skewered the field ten feet farther than mine.
Brother Ambrose had hairy fingers and dishpan hands. He was a swarthy little man who always smelled like flour and BO. He wore his cook’s white apron and paper chef’s hat more than he wore his habit. He ordered the supplies, planned the meals, directed the preparation and cooking of every meal for forty-one monks, 109 seminarians, and anywhere up to two dozen guests. He always kept a supply of cookies hidden in a box by the knives.
Out of the corner of his eye he’d catch the glint of metal doors swinging open and grab a big knife or a meat cleaver in one hand and continue punching dough or cleaning lettuce with the other. When we asked for a cookie, he’d always say we didn’t deserve it, but gave us one, anyway. Just one. If we begged for more, or made a move for the cookie box, he’d tap the knife on the counter and say, “C’mon, little man, give it your best shot. I’ll cut off your hand and feed it to you.”
The cookie was usually excellent—except for those Christmas things he made with the little squares of coloured formaldehyde fruit. Sometimes the cookies he handed over had the flavour of whatever he was working on—gravy-infused
