as furtively as he arrived, in a rush of satisfaction, the priest thrust his tightly clasped fists over his head. He took out the Vatican knife. He stepped back, raised the knife over his head and swishing it down, hit the tree, tearing the bark open and revealing the tree’s tender interior. Sap ran out everywhere. He twisted and turned the knife, mutilating the bark in six different directions until the shape of a pinwheel hung on the surface like graffiti announcing chaos.
At the church home on Ash Wednesday, Oscar sang the day in with “Morning has Broken!” followed by the thump against the door of the thrown Washington Post with a small headline reading, “Another Park Defacement.”
The television in the corner droned on with the popular TV newscaster Gordon Peterson announcing, “More park vandalism occurred last night. In Mount Vernon Place Park, three oddly-shaped pinwheels with a circular wound were slashed in the hundred-year old oak tree. Horticulturists say that the bark has been penetrated and the tree might not survive. The police chief asks for help from the DC citizens for solving these continuing acts of vandalism. This makes the second park defacement.”
This news announcer was not the only one concerned about the mutilated trees.
The female police chief picked up the phone and called the mayor.
“This is not a major crime in our city with our problem of increasing numbers of murders, but I want to let you know that another tree has been defaced in a park with an odd pinwheel symbol. My forestry people say it might kill the tree.”
The mayor listened.
“But what concerns me are our cherry blossom trees. There was a half-done slash in one cherry blossom tree in Stanton Park and that tree recently died. It looks like someone lunges like hell at these trees, gashing and slashing. Rumors are spreading everywhere that there are occult activities in the parks.”
The mayor sighed. “In the wake of the sniper murders, now a tree-killer, right before our Cherry Blossom festival and that stressful International Monetary Fund meeting. If this gets out, it might hurt our popular festival.”
The chief of police continued, “It’s spooking people. And sometimes there is unexplained blood. Rumors are spreading everywhere people are getting attacked in our parks.” She paused. “And it might escalate. We don’t know the thinking of this kook. The symbol looks like two peace symbols on top of each other but it might have more meaning. It is like Zorro, a symbol done in extravagance and style. We don’t need any stylish killers here.”
The mayor spoke firmly. “Pull out all the stops to get this solved. Stop the bad publicity right before the IMF meeting.”
The following day after his hospital visiting, Luke had a command meeting at the Vatican embassy in DC, close to St. Charles Parish and the official residence of the US Vice President. Sighing, he noted the waving yellow-and white Vatican flag with two keys criss-crossing one another, one silver key of the world and the gold key to heaven.
In front of this embassy on Massachusetts Avenue NW, the lithe, gray-haired man stood on the front sidewalk for his long days of work. Not the gardener or the sexton, this man carried his signs that read, “Pedophiles work here” and on the flipside his message read, “Corrupt leaders!” Luke skirted carefully around this odd man thinking that of course a few rotten characters had gotten into the priesthood, but some bad apples can happen anywhere. The old guy stood looking around him, occasionally returning any friendly waves from passing cars. Suddenly the man turned towards Luke with a firm opening statement.
“I don’t listen to nuns who hit my hands with rulers.”
This appealed to Luke’s humor as he too remembered a few aimed taps by his own nun teachers. He smiled, “None of us liked it. You got my sympathy there.” Then a little louder he added, “But I got a good education.”
The committed man shook his head, “I don’t need anyone to order me around.”
Luke started walking away, yet the man leaned toward him, in an insistent voice, “You don’t need this bishop telling you what to do.”
Flashing through Luke’s mind were seminary memories of some dull lectures but balanced by the vibrant faith of others. Stunned that even for second he had agreed with this oddball, Luke stopped and responded, “I wish you well.” Even as he said it, he checked to see no one had overheard him. What would Bishop Cahill think about him even talking to this man? The bishop had declared this old guy a lunatic. The church had unsuccessfully tried through every legal means to deprive him of the Constitution’s First Amendment rights and banish him from this public sidewalk.
Luke knocked on the front door. As the butler admitted Luke to the required meeting, the man went back to yelling at passing cars, “This Catholic Church hides pedophiles!”
Luke stopped to look out the window at the strange man while worrying again about these meetings at the embassy. Why he was required to come? He knew the official story. The Roman Catholic Church with its shortage of priests understood that the remaining priests needed support. Even after the wild 1960s, many priests still renounced their ordination vows. So some bishops had decided to give the priests a chance to work on their relationships and hired therapists to lead the groups. Using a convenient location, Luke’s group met at the DC Vatican headquarters in a spacious, secluded room in the back of the building. The priests sat on comfortable, golden-brown couches as they faced another hour of required conversation.
The priests discussed personal issues, yet worried, Were they being spied upon? Were they open, partially open, or blowing them out of the water with our confrontations? More and more of the priests fit into the latter category.
Coming in late, Father Luke sat next to Jerry, who spoke. “To me, the problem is competition between priests. I think this is because our church has lost some of its strong Roman spiritual foundation.”
The young, red-haired Father Bruce spoke up, “I agree! We can’t speak openly in this diocese anymore. If I say something critical, will this comment make it back to the bishop? Then soon I’ll be transferred to some rural parish with hours of driving every day. Or even sent to Alaska!” The other priests murmured in agreement.
The friendly therapist, Dr. Wagner, intervened. “I guarantee you, Bruce, I will not break your confidences and speak to the hierarchical bishops and cardinals. I only report some general ideas about what we think about problems, so the church becomes more hospitable to priests.”
Jerry spoke out, “You are not the one we fear. The bishop has one of his generals here.” Jerry had forgotten to change the language that the priests used among themselves. Flushing, he added, “I mean, of course, we have one here who has a future vocation to the episcopate.”
This distinguished priest, Father Hudson from a wealthy and aristocratic background, quickly changed the subject. “We are all praying for the right bishops and cardinals.”
This sparked some quickly-fired remarks about their lives from the red-haired Bruce again. “The bishop needs to help me with my schedule.” He added, “We are dropping like flies!”
“I agree,” Jerry concluded. “We are a needy group now. It didn’t use to be this way.”
Bruce continued pushing. “But the church seems to be struggling now, maybe even dying. There are problems inside with clergy leaving, parishioners aging, and the young disappear, even after they are confirmed. Of course we are all
