Acts of Faith (48 page)

“Well then, how would you feel if we went back for good?”

“What about your job?” he protested—a little too quickly.

“Well, basically I’m a teacher. A rabbi doesn’t necessarily have to put on a robe and give sermons. Bible Studies are part of the general curriculum, and I could teach them in the Regional Kibbutz High School.”

The boy was silent for a moment, and then asked quietly, “Who says they’d give you a job?”

She smiled. “Grandpa Boaz says. I spoke to him on the phone last night.”

For a moment there was total silence. Deborah was moved as she watched her son try to suppress his growing elation.

“Really?” he asked.

“Really,” she answered.

Eli looked at his mother wide-eyed and then suddenly, as if propelled by an engine, ran into her arms.

F
ew realized that despite his vast popularity, Timothy was not yet an official member of the Boston archdiocese. A priest moving from one bishopric to another is required to spend two or three years of “incardination.”

When Tim’s pro forma trial period was concluded, Cardinal Mulroney held a small dinner in his honor at which he bestowed upon him the title “Monsignor.”

This only swelled the number and variety of invitations he received, ranging from orphanages to formal fund-raising dinners.

Understandably, Tim felt more at home at school picnics and Knights of Columbus barbecues than at black-tie banquets at the Ritz Carlton, where sedately elegant Catholic matrons felt secure enough to ask him to dance without fear of arousing their husbands’ jealousy.

After endless months of “socializing for God”—as Mulroney lightheartedly referred to it—Tim had started to put on weight, and he forced himself to jog around the Boston College reservoir instead of eating lunch.

One blustery afternoon, he was astonished to see his secretary, the normally phlegmatic Sister Marguerita, scurrying toward him without a coat, waving an envelope as if to flag him down.

“Monsignor,” she called out with a thrill in her voice, “you’ve got an invitation from Washington!”

“That’s still no excuse for you to go out without a coat, Meg,” Tim joked as he reached her, struggling to regain his breath in the cold air. “President Reagan?”

“Almost as lofty,” she puffed. “It’s from the Vatican Embassy.”

Though he affected surprise for her sake, Tim strongly suspected what the letter contained.

Less than a year earlier, in January 1984, Ronald Reagan had reestablished the formal diplomatic ties with the Vatican which had been suspended for more than one hundred years. From now on, the apostolic delegate from Rome would be addressed in Washington as “His Excellency the Ambassador.”

The invitation in Tim’s hand requested the pleasure of his company at a Gala Reception to welcome the new Vatican Envoy to America, none other than the principessa’s beloved brother, Archbishop Giovanni Orsino.

“Isn’t that splendid, Monsignor?” Sister Marguerita gushed.

Affecting a stern gaze, Tim cautioned her, “Meg, this is confidential—I don’t want to hear any of it buzzing about the third floor of the Residence.” His secretary nodded, blushing slightly. No doubt they already know, Tim mused to himself.

The lights of the Vatican Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue shone bright enough to be seen by air traffic in the sky as an endless cavalcade of limousines drove up and disgorged the aristocracy of Washington.

Tim was already inside when he heard the trumpets blaring “Hail to the Chief.” He watched with awe as President and Mrs. Reagan appeared at the head of the staircase, both smiling broadly and waving. They went straight to their host, Archbishop Orsino, who greeted them warmly and introduced them to various members of the American Catholic elite.

Cardinal though he was, Mulroney nonetheless felt awkward in the company of high-ranking diplomats and government officials. As a result, he spent most of his time talking shop with his fellow Eminences from New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Detroit, and Philadelphia.

Tim could enjoy no such fraternity and hence drifted shyly to the periphery, gazing at the glittering armada of guests, which included, among the many luminaries from Capitol Hill, Senator O’Dwyer from Massachusetts, who had visited him so long ago at St. Athanasius.’ He stood immobile for several moments until suddenly hailed by a familiar voice.

“Hey, Hogan,” came an incongruously raucous salutation. Tim turned to see George Cavanagh, dangling a half-filled glass of champagne in his hand.

“I thought you were still in the wilds of South America,” Tim remarked as the fellow seminarians shook hands. “I never expected to see you at an affair like this.”

“Well, this is just another kind of jungle, isn’t it?” George responded with undisguised irony.

“How’ve you been?” Tim asked, while trying to assess the genuineness of his old acquaintance’s cordiality.

“Tired, Father—I should say
Monsignor
—Hogan. I can’t tell you what it’s like to try to shepherd the flocks south of the border. I only survived because
their
faith sustained me.” He took a swig of champagne and sighed. “But I’m all played out, Tim. I can’t take any more of this guerrilla warfare.”

“You’re not leaving the Church, are you, George?”

A light immediately rekindled in Cavanagh’s weary eyes.

“No, I’m not giving up
that
fight. But I’ve become a ‘company man.’ Next month I’m being consecrated Auxiliary Bishop of Chicago. You’ll get your invitation.”

“Oh,” Tim responded, surprised at first. Then, with genuine warmth he added, “Congratulations are in order, Your Excellency.”

“Not really,” George replied disconsolately. “It was a simple
quid pro quo
.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My newspaper, Monsignor. That’s all I had to give up.
La Voz del Pueblo
is now silenced.”

Before Tim could respond, George quickly added, “Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m totally compromising my principles. But at least I’ll have a chance to express them from a pulpit instead of a tree stump in a tropical forest.

“To be honest, I’m looking forward to it. Not just having running water and a good bed. But to be nearer a source of spiritual comfort for those awful nights—you know, when your soul can’t sleep.”

Tim nodded. “I have had my share of those.”

George downed the rest of his drink and continued. “Just between the two of us, Timmo, sometimes I wish our prayers could be sent by registered mail—just so’s we’d be certain
once
that they’d reached their destination.” Weaving slightly on his feet, he slurred, “Hey, I’m getting a bit seditious, aren’t I?”

“No,” Tim answered quickly. “Just a little drunk. I think you ought to go home and go to bed.”

“Home?” George countered. “Where is ‘home’ to a Catholic priest? At the moment there are four of us in a suite at the Watergate. Can you imagine, Timmo? The
campesinos
are starving in Nicaragua, and we’re enjoying twenty-four-hour room service.”

Tim began to nudge his friend toward the door. Once outside, he helped him find his driver, and when George was seated in the car said reassuringly, “Hey, Cavanagh, if it means anything, I admire you. I really do.”

George looked up and asked woozily, “Are you serious, Hogan?”

“I wish I had your heart,” Tim said affectionately.

“I don’t believe you. But I wish I had your
head.
Good night, Monsignor.”

With that Cavanagh pressed the electric window closed and waved to the chauffeur to drive off.

When Timothy returned to the festivities, the host himself came up to him.

“Caro Timoteo,”
said Ambassador Orsino, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I’m happy to see you again. How is your sister?”

“Blossoming as ever. She sends her most fond regards,” Orsino replied. “But I want to talk to you more privately. Are you free for breakfast tomorrow?”

“Yes, any time you’d like.”

“Good. My car will pick you up at 7:45.
Buona notte.
”

The Washington morning was unseasonably bright and warm. An elegant table was set on the terrace of the Ambassador’s residence, and a white-gloved butler was standing at a respectful distance. Apart from him, there were just the two of them—Tim and the principessa’s brother.

“Please, Tim, call me Gianni,” the diplomat insisted. “I have been hearing some wonderful things about your various accomplishments in Boston. Apparently you are skilled alike in Latin books and ledger books.”

Tim could not suppress a smile. “Actually, it has been very rewarding. The response from the people—”

“And the rank? Do you not also enjoy being called ‘Monsignor’?” When Tim hesitated, Orsino urged him to go on. “A touch of vanity is not so sinful. I freely confess to you that for all the titles I already own, I am always delighted when I receive a new one.”

Tim smiled at this childlike candor.

“And you have more than earned your honors, I can assure you. In fact, sitting on my desk I have Cardinal Mulroney’s request to elevate you to …” His voice trailed off, then continued in a theatrically dismissive tone. “But no. You are too valuable to languish in Boston even as an Auxiliary Bishop, my boy. You are needed in Rome.”

The mere mention of his beloved city stirred Tim’s longings.

“What exactly would I be doing?” he asked, trying to hide his excitement.

“Well,” said the Ambassador, “I’m afraid it won’t be as easy as translating Latin epistles. I have persuaded the Holy Father that you have asbestos enough in you to commute between the frying pan and the fire.” He grinned. “That was very elegant English, no?”

“Yes, uh—Gianni,” Tim said, all the while dazed by the notion that his name had been pronounced, in any context, by the Pope himself.

Orsino took a sip of coffee, wiped his mouth, then leaned on the table looking at Tim.

“The frying pan is South America, Timoteo,” he uttered in confidential tones. “No one can testify better than I how badly we need help there. The ‘fire,’ I’m afraid, is Franz Cardinal von Jakob, formally Archbishop of Hamburg. You of course know the post he holds now?”

“Yes,” Tim responded. “He’s Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.”

“Have you ever met him?” asked Orsino.

“I’m afraid I don’t move in such exalted circles,” Tim replied.

“Actually, you do.” The Ambassador smiled. “I saw him at your thesis Defense, although true to character he didn’t attend my sister’s party. Between the two of us, he’s an impossible man. But then he has an impossible task. Only a Prussian, I think, would undertake to reeducate the dioceses in Africa where the Mass is chanted to jungle drums and the only concession to celibacy is that local priests do not lodge with their wives and children.

“I don’t have to tell you,” Orsino added, “von Jakob rules with an iron fist.”

“It stands to reason,” Tim remarked wryly. “The ‘Sacred Congregation’ has a long history. Especially under its former name—the Inquisition.”

“But believe me, Timoteo, Africa compared to South America is child’s play. And
I
can testify to that. The Jesuits are putting unacceptable ideas into the heads of our faithful. This business about ‘inculturation’ is madness.
The next thing we know they’ll be singing hymns to tango music. Unless we can get these revolutionaries under control, the Holy Father will have to abolish the Society of Jesus, as Clement XIV did. It’s war, my boy.”

“But I don’t see where I fit in.” Tim was genuinely puzzled.

“Ah,” said Orsino, rising to his feet so he could pace the terrace and gesticulate more widely. “That’s precisely the point. You’re a learned churchman. A charismatic speaker. And most of all a man with unshakable faith in Rome.

“Upon my strong recommendation, it has become the wish of both Cardinal von Jakob and the Holy Father himself that you take the post of Special Envoy from the Curia to the Dioceses of Latin America.”

“All of them?”

“Only the ones where the Jesuits are making trouble,” Orsino replied, and then grinned. “So I guess that does mean all of them. There must be no more incidents like the Sandinistas’ humiliation of His Holiness during his tour of Nicaragua. Our South American priests must be convinced to ignore the inflammatory Jesuitical press—”

“Like
La Voz del Pueblo
?”

“Precisely,” the diplomat agreed. And then deftly changing the subject, he asked, “Now can you be in Rome by the end of the month?”

“I think so. Of course I owe Cardinal Mulroney the courtesy of—”

“Oh, there is no problem with that,” Orsino commented, a twinkle in his eye. “He is very proud of you, indeed. And since time is of the essence, I’m sure you don’t mind if we have the ceremony in Rome.”

“What ceremony?” Tim inquired.

“I thought you would take it for granted.” The Ambassador smiled ingenuously. “We would not entrust such great responsibilities to a nuncio below the rank of archbishop. Congratulations, Your Grace.”

As his air-conditioned limousine floated through the hot and humid streets of Washington, Tim was torn with ambivalence.