instant rows of symmetrical wrinkles.
“Each little flower that opens?” he warbled, questioning, pointing to the aphids on the rose bushes.
Peter looked. “My mom taught me a way to stop those.” Using his elbow, he wiped the sweat off his face. “Hey, let’s go eat.”
In the rectory kitchen, Peter placed a huge bowl of tapioca pudding in front of Oscar who immediately sang, “Rejoice, rejoice, believers!”
Peter sat down to read the Washington Post while Oscar enjoyed his treat.
A headline read, “Night Vandalism in Stanton Park.” Peter casually scanned the page. The short article read, “An unusual circular symbol was carved in an old cherry blossom tree, and in the children’s area park, a puddle of blood was found near the playground equipment. Anyone with information about this is asked to contact the DC Metropolitan Police.” Luke walked in and instantly Oscar warbled back, “Let us break bread together!”
Three priests from different backgrounds shared quarters in this Victorian mansion. Monsignor Peter ruled the roost. In his mid-forties, his attractive dark-blonde hair and blue eyes helped his entertaining sermons. A similar age to Peter, the brown-haired, short Father Luke Murphy was the perpetual assistant. His mystical love of God brought him this luxurious position, though his lack of connections ended chances of promotion into the hierarchy.
The younger and darker Father Jerry Golino, descended from a long line of Italian priests, added a touch of the noble heritage of Rome.
This tribe of priests slept in their individual rooms located on different floors. The singing Oscar slept as a security guard with Luke next to him in a spacious room. The privileged Jerry resided in the front second-floor and Peter reigned from a master bedroom suite at the back.
Father Jerry, a chef trained in Italy, nurtured others with his culinary creations. “Come on over!” Jerry would say, and the parishioners happily responded. The parish enjoyed new tastes: ripe radichio and unusual pasta creations reveling alongside nut-encrusted fish. And soon he would walk in bearing some flaming dessert, fire dancing with excitement.
After pasta and expresso, Jerry would begin the conversation. “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.” He explained that the sacrifices of the faithful brought renewed life to the Body of Christ and at times, a remnant caused rebirth. “Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross helped save the church in the 1500s.” Hearing his words, the faithful gained rich passion in their late-night conversations.
And who would want to miss the spiritual feast Jerry made? He regaled them with rich tales of Rome, the city nurtured by Romulus and Remus, the children nurtured by the great she-wolf. Jerry had insisted on putting an imitation of the Capitoline wolf outside their home and everyone who walked by reacted with an instinctive respect to the great historical masterpiece. In the courtyard stood a giant she-wolf, forehead frowning, ears moving forward, standing head ready to swing any direction, with hanging breasts and nipples dripping sweet milk. Underneath played the baby sons, reaching, ready to nurse, smiling. They trusted in their caring world. The folklore of Rome said that these two twins, Remus and Romulus, founded Rome and the magnificent Roman Empire that later birthed the young Christian faith.
This February evening, St. Charles Parish celebrated Mardi Gras before the beginning of Lent. At the red doors, Peter stood welcoming them.
“More chocolate cake, Annette?” he said to the middle-aged woman, plate in hand. “You’ve outdone yourself—as always! I can’t hold myself back from this.”
Annette flushed. “I make it only for you, Father.” She placed it on the crowded table.
A teenaged boy walked by with two small boys following him. “You’re not a pied piper, are you?” Annette called out. “Hey—we need to get ready for when you play the Easter Bunny!”
The kids danced in a circle chanting, “More candy! More candy!”
The boy smiled and then quietly added. “Later. I promise.” Then, “Hey, Father Peter, the bishop’s here.”
And true to the boy’s word, processing through the gardens, came the purple-clad bishop surrounded by a group of handsome, laughing priests. The gregarious Bishop Daniel Cahill liked so many parts of God’s good creation: shrimp and lobster, Nationals baseball games, Redskins football, elaborate worship services, the political concerns of the Catholic Church, talking to those at the White House and Congress. Everybody loved this affable and fun bishop–such a charming face for the traditional Christian faith.
Today he chatted. “Good fathers, it is all about a healthy dependence on God, the Church as the body of Christ, with our beloved Pope Francis as its head. And you, my brother priests, are so important to Christ’s body.”
Walking in, Bishop Cahill threw his arm about Peter. “Great job here! This parish is popping with new life and fun in our special church. And our Lord will bless you for your work and so will I. In fact, I am placing my special envoy here, Father Leo, to connect your programs with our influential colleagues in Rome. You know I have great plans for you.” The bishop faced Peter directly with a small wink that only Peter could see. The bishop continued softly, “Recently Leo came from his home at the Vatican and he is here to pump up our programs some. Let’s talk later.”
Peter nodded affirmatively and then his voice floated over the crowd to greet an incoming parishioner. “General Knight, how good of you to come! Have you been to Afghanistan lately?”
With a curt yes, and a firm handshake, the military leader swept into the room with his wife following closely.
Then a DC official walked in and Peter was ready. “Mayor, what a great DC renaissance you are leading! What you are doing for our city is wonderful!” Then softly he added, “And how is the security for the International Monetary Fund meeting coming? I know this has to be a headache for you.”
The mayor nodded yes and added jovially, “All in good time!” Parishioners swarmed around him, asking questions about the growing prosperity of their city.
Playing a more moderate role than the affable Peter, Father Luke walked around greeting and talking. Some clergy called this working the crowds, yet Luke understood that his pastoral presence grounded this frivolous reception. He heard from concerned people about a bad medical test or a relationship problem or perhaps even about God.
Luke loved these momentary but spiritual conversations: is it possible to relate to the living Holiness we call God? But if truth were told, Luke enjoyed coming out of his introverted life to this active group of people. These parishioners achieved much in society but never ventured much into the spiritual realm. But in his studies in Rome, Luke had focused on the great mystic Saint Ignatius of Loyola, who founded the Jesuit order and influenced Luke’s Society of the Cross. Luke frequently quoted a line from Ignatius.
May Our Lady intercede between us poor sinners and her Son and Lord; may she obtain for us the grace that, with the cooperation of our own toil and effort, our weak and sorry spirits may be made strong and joyful in his praise.1
This church work is a good balance, he had said to himself on more than one occasion. Some of his professors, though, believed that Luke had put his light under a bushel because he should be teaching or living as a mystic monk in interior seclusion. But no, Father Luke supported the gregarious Peter in his work, while enjoying this front-line engagement with highly successful people.
Luke
