The Blameless Bystander

By Autumn Writer

Chapter 6 – Dancing Without Music

When the congregation started singing “Old Time Religion” Ethan descended from the pulpit and strode to the front and center of the sanctuary and sang with them. As the song ended and the organ silenced he raised his hand as he always did following a service.

“God Bless you all,” he bade the congregation. “See you next week.” His usual practice was to make his way to the front door by way of one of the side aisles so that he could greet the faithful as they exited the church. He started to do exactly that, but was detained by Jarrod Morris. They spoke privately as the congregation filed out.

“That was close, Ethan. I don’t know how you pulled it off—but it was close.”

“I was never worried,” Ethan answered. “I’ve been doing this for a lot of years.”

“We should just keep quiet about it, let the cards play themselves,” Jarrod insisted.

“I don’t play cards, Jarrod. You know that,” the Reverend replied, jutting out his jaw.

“Don’t play word games with me, Ethan,” Jarrod retorted. “A false move will give us a lot of problems. We’re already on thin ice. I’ve got this figured out. We can have our cake and eat it, too.”

“How so?” Ethan asked, furling his brow, suddenly interested.

Jarrod drew closer to Ethan and answered. “News of your sermon is sure to get around. The School Board will be forced to react to it. Just stand fast and be cool. They’ll give up the name for us. You won’t have to do it. Once they do, the burden of proof will be on them, not you. It’ll be a field day.”

The Reverend listened intently and nodded. Although he always gave the impression of independence, he was grateful that Jarrod was there to help him with things like this.

“Render to Caesar…” he recited, with a faraway look, before Jarrod interrupted.

“What are you talking about, Ethan?” he asked, confused.

“…and to God the things that are God’s,” he finished his proclamation with a note of pomp and drama.

Jarrod shook him to reality. “You ought to go out and greet the people. They’ll wonder why you’re not there.” The Reverend nodded and started toward the door. “Just remember, not one false word,” he reminded him. “Then come back in and help me count the collection.”

***********

Most of the attendees were on their way home, but a few people waited for the Reverend outside the church. They were abuzz over Ethan’s veiled accusation. They gathered in small groups on the church steps and on the sidewalk in front.

“What do you think Ethan meant?” one man asked to the group he was in.

“I sounded pretty clear to me,” one of the group answered back.

“Then, why didn’t he give out names and specifics?” the man argued.

The question silenced the group momentarily. “He probably has to watch out for lawyers!” an anonymous voice interjected.

“He’s just getting started,” answered another. “There’ll be a lot more to come.”

“You’re right, Brother!” Ethan’s voice boomed from behind. The interjection startled them. The small groups broke up and came as one around the Reverend.

“Ethan, is it true?” several asked at once.

“I don’t take such things lightly,” he answered in uncommitted forthrighteousness.

The crowd started buzzing. “What should we do?” the question could be heard above the chatter.

“Be vigilant; pray for guidance; above all, be true to your faith. I’ll lead prayers for guidance at next Sunday’s service. By then, more information might come out,” Ethan advised.

As the crowd filtered away sadly shaking their heads, back to their hearths and homes, Jarrod Morris stood on the top step of the church entrance watching them. A wry smile was on his face.

“That was perfect, Ethan!” he called out after the last of the crowd was out of earshot.

**********

Bob Jackson was Superintendent of the Bates School District. He ran the District like a business. His customers were the parents and taxpayers; his product was students educated in the manner desired by his customers. He had many assets with which to churn out his product: every building, school bus, desk and chair was expected to contribute in some way to the production cycle. Not least of his assets were the teachers. They were the machine tools of production. They would take raw material and turn it on a lathe, drill it, and hone it until diploma-ready. All this was done to satisfy his customers, and he did so in order to receive a fresh supply of money and raw materials to repeat the process year after year. It was true—he was not much different from the President of General Motors.

On that Monday at mid-morning he was dealing with a public relations problem of the first magnitude. It was a reporter on the phone from the Valley Sentinel following up on a story. It was a weekly paper and the reporter was working against a deadline.

Jackson: Sorry, Miss Hardaway, our confidentiality policy does not allow us to discuss personnel file information without the employee’s consent.

Hardaway: I’m just trying to give you a chance to make a statement for the record.

Jackson: All our employees are thoroughly screened by an independent investigation agency before hire, Miss Hardaway.

Hardaway: You’re just giving me boilerplate! What is the name of the screening agency?

Jackson: No comment on that.

Hardaway: It’s in your interest to talk to me. Sooner or later you’ll have to respond to the accusation.

Jackson: I have no first-hand knowledge of any accusation. My only information is what you’ve told me. I don’t know what more I can say to help you.

Hardaway: I’ve already spoken to Rev. Chandler. I have a tape of his sermon.

Jackson: Send it over, then, and perhaps we’ll be able to comment.

Hardaway: Sorry, Mr. Jackson; nothing for nothing!

Jackson was used to fending off reporters looking for a scoop, but this time he was worried. He buzzed his secretary on the intercom.

“Get Nathan Smithling into my office on the double!”

The phone call from the reporter had not surprised him, except, perhaps, in the speed at which it arrived. Homer Briggs sat across his desk as he fielded the call.

“Geez, I’m sorry, Bob,” Homer apologized. “Ethan took me by surprise. I knew that I made a mistake as soon as I said it, but I never thought that it would come to this.”

“How could he go with something like this without anything to back it up? I just don’t understand it,” Jackson thought out loud.

“If you heard his sermon on Sunday, you’d know that he really believes it—a lot of the congregation does, too,” added Briggs.

“We’ve got to stonewall the press until we get our arms around it. I’ll call the rest of the Board and let them know. I know the editor of the Sentinel. I’ll try to get them to spike the story.”

At that time Nathan arrived at Jackson’s office. “I’ll get out of your hair,” Homer said. “Let me know if I can do anything.”

“Come in Nathan, and close the door,” Jackson glumly greeted his subordinate. “We’ve got a problem on our hands.”

************

James was called to Nathan’s office right after lunch. He had a section at that hour, so he asked Abby to reschedule the meeting. “No,” Abby said. “Nathan said ‘right away’.” James assigned some problems from the new chapter and Abby found someone to watch the class.

James arrived promptly at Nathan’s office. He found Nathan and Ed Cassidy already there.

“Close the door, James,” Nathan said soberly.

James did and sat down. Nathan took a deep breath before laying out the facts.

“I’ve already told Ed the basics,” Nathan began. “We’ve got a situation here—it’s about you—and we’ve got to handle it.”

“Oh, no!” James said to himself. “He’s found about Vicki and me. I’ll just tell him that I was ‘discreet' like he said. I did just what Nathan said.”

“It’s really not your fault, James,” Nathan brought James back to the present. James breathed a sigh of relief and waited for the rest.

“Someone let it slip to one of the local ministers that you used to be a priest and he proclaimed that we have a pedophile teaching in our school. He didn’t name you, but we know that he does have your name. It’s just a matter of time.”

James was surprised, but not stunned. He was more relieved that his secret liaisons with Vicki were still a secret, than he was angry. “It’s not true—not even partly true,” James protested. “I’ve never done anything like that, or even been accused of it.”

“Why do you think that he believes it?” Nathan asked. James related the story of the ‘smitten secretary’ at the parish where he helped out. “It’s the only thing on my record,” he assured them, “and that was cleared up. It was all just rumors.”

Nathan and Ed looked at one another and shook their heads, chuckling. “That’s not enough for him to hang his hat on—could even work against the pedophile angle. Do you think that Chandler is making it up?” Ed proposed. “He never gave any names.”

“We’re not even sure exactly what he said in his sermon,” Nathan added.

“Chandler!” James exclaimed. “Is that Becky Chandler’s father? She’s in one of my sections. She’s one of my tutoring clients!”

“He didn’t pull her out?” Nathan queried. “Something strange is going on here, Ed,” Nathan said in a suspicious voice.

Nathan turned back to James. “You’re going to read about this in The Sentinel when it comes out on Thursday. Bob Jackson is trying to get the story quashed, but he doesn’t think that he’ll be able to.”

“I could take a lie detector test!” James offered.

“No! Not right now, at least,” Nathan countered. “Bob wants us to play it cool. Don’t even let on that we know about it until he says so. It may blow over after a week. Let’s see how it goes.”

“It won’t blow over,” Ed disagreed. “Something like this will get people really inflamed.”

“We just have to pretend we don’t know what they’re talking about, for now,” Nathan repeated.

Ed nodded in assent. “There’s something else that we haven’t discussed.”

“What do you mean?” Nathan asked.

“James has that ‘off-the-record’ Math student in his apartment for his tutoring sessions.”

Nathan slapped himself on the forehead. “Raymond Jacobs! I forgot all about that! We’ve got to get that changed!”

“I don’t want to give up tutoring Raymond!” James protested.

“We’ve just got to change the place—but it can’t be on school grounds,” Ed declared. “I’m getting all kinds of heat from Doris as it is.”

“Doris’ mother already saw Raymond at my rooming house,” James informed them.

“If we move him now it will look like we’re covering something up,” Nathan said. “Just carry on like you have been, to show that there is nothing wrong going on.” Ed took a deep breath when Nathan said it, showing his doubts. “Try to find a different spot, anyway, just in case,” Nathan added.

Ed wasn’t convinced. “Does Bob Jackson know about the arrangement?” Nathan shook his head. “You better tell him,” Ed advised.

“He’ll order us to cut it off. He’ll cut his losses,” replied Nathan. “It would be bad for the student, but even worse for us. I want James to send him out of here with flying colors to prove that we need to change our Math Department and that James is the one to do it.”

“You can’t keep this from Jackson,” Ed insisted.

“I know, I know,” Nathan replied.

***********

James spent the next three days dreading the publication of The Sentinel, hoping that the story wouldn’t appear, but resigned to the fact that it would. He started doubting Nathan’s advice to keep his past to himself. If he had just come out with it, he reasoned, people would dismiss the ‘pedophile thing’ as gossip because they would know him better. People were always fair if they have all the facts before them. He doubted the product of his reasoning, as well. Nothing was making sense. His mind shifted to and fro like a clumsy youth learning to dance, with neither rhythm nor rhyme, but continuing the steps.

It had all seemed so grand a few short days ago. He had everything he wanted: an appreciative boss who planned to promote him and who gave him special assignments; refreshment of his youthful missionary days; a female friend who seemed to want to go to bed with him at every opportunity. It was fulfillment, at least of certain parts of him. He began to see it all as a castle built on sand. The wrong move would end it all.

James didn’t run on Tuesday or Wednesday morning. He knew that he should have, but he was just too depressed. He didn’t even think about trying to arrange any extra-curriculars with Vicki. She had warned him off, after all, when he poured out his feelings to her once before. What would change that now? He skipped meals, nourishing himself with Scotch and then drifting off to sleep each night. He stayed in bed until the last minute the next morning. Finally, on Thursday morning he decided to renew his running regimen.

He was hung over when he emerged into the brisk morning air. He figured that it was the price to be paid for his self-pity. He didn’t feel great, but hoped that the heightened pumping of blood through his veins would cure all that. As he set out he felt the rust that had accumulated in his body. He welcomed the discomfort, a fitting penance for over-indulgence and self-pity. It appeared to be the only element of fairness left in his shrinking world.

Of course, he was well-acquainted with the crisis over priests involved in pedophilia. He reviled it as much as anyone—no, more than anyone—because he understood how a priest could abuse the trust of a vulnerable youth. He had never done it, nor knew of any priest who had, but couldn’t deny that some had sullied the name of the many.

Perhaps, he thought, as he pounded out the pace, that it was up to him to suffer for the sins of those wayward brethren. He vehemently rejected the thought as soon as it formed; no, that was Jesus’ deed. He refused to put himself in His place, the ultimate blasphemy.

“Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for justice, for they shall be satisfied.” He quoted from the Sermon on the Mount to himself and he thought that he heard words of truth coming from his inner voice. Hungry, he was to be sure; and there was little doubt about what was ‘justice’ in this case. Perhaps, all would be well in the end.

But wait! What about the precept recorded a little further down the page in the same passage? “Blessed are the persecuted for justice’ sake; theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Which would it be? ‘Being satisfied implied meant an earthly reward right now, or at least soon. Would it be, instead, a heavenly hope? Why should he wait when the promise of heaven had become, to him, a tolling of a distant bell? Conflicting promises in the same passage; questions begot by questions leading to even more questions; answers denied. It was so unfair to go to the Source for answers and receive more doubt as reward for the effort.

The whole interlude reminded him to be depressed. He had ventured so close to the gates of Uplifting Knowledge, only to find them locked against him. A few nights before he had ventured close to the gates of hell. As he pondered the paradox, he was fortunate to find cause to change his line of thinking. He was approaching the tee in the road wherein was located the house where lived his ideal voluptuous blonde. In the early light he saw a car parked in the driveway and a man emerging from the door. The woman stood behind him wearing a bathrobe. They kissed and the woman closed the door behind him.

“That must be her husband,” James said to himself as he drew closer. He saw that it was a large man, about the same age as he was, maybe a little older. James wondered at the difference in ages between man and woman and allowed that it could have been her lover, instead. The stranger appeared quite comfortable to be there. He came out of the house and made his way to the parked car, not bothering to look about to see if he was observed. As the car drove away, James noticed that it was a Lexus, a luxury car. At least, that was one solved mystery. He knew that she would never have to sleep alone.

As he ended his run, James felt a little sense of accomplishment. His hangover was purged. He found no truth in his inner reasoning, but felt that he had approached it. It made him feel better.

************

“Jarrod, tell me again how you’re managing to pull this off,” the beautiful blonde quizzed her male guest.

“I explained all that, Tracey,” Jarrod answered. “I’m going to a Mayor’s Conference tomorrow in Albany. My wife thinks that I’m driving there right now so that I can be on time for the first session. I’ll go tomorrow and be a little late. I told them that I would be skipping the first session. If I leave here at seven, I’ll be there by noon. Simple as that!”

“Mmmm!” she cooed. “Good thinking! What do you have in that bag?”

“Champagne for right now,” he answered, pulling the magnum from a paper bag. “Something for later,” he added. Tracey put on an improvised frown. “And something for you to put on right now.” He handed her a gift box tied together with a bow. Tracey opened it and pulled out a black baby-doll style nightie. “Real silk!” he said, to make sure that she understood the value.

“I love it!” Tracey purred, holding it up by the shoulders and inspecting it. “I’ll go put it on right away. First, give me a hint about what’s for later,” she prodded.

“Don’t spoil the surprise,” Jarrod chided. “—well, just a little hint—you’re going to like it!” he teased.

“Ohhh! You’re so cruel to me!” she teased back and chuckled with a sensuous laugh deep in her throat. “I’ll be right back after I freshen up.” She slipped into the bathroom, negligee in hand, and closed the door.

Jarrod went to the kitchen to open the champagne. In a few minutes he was in the bedroom, ice bucket and two flutes in hand. There, he stripped off his clothes. He reached into a familiar spot in the closet and pulled out his own silk robe that he kept there for such occasions. He pulled down the covers of the bed and climbed in, waiting for his voluptuous temptress to emerge from her lair.

He was half-finished with his first glass of champagne when Tracey appeared at the bedroom door. The short, black negligee was a simple design. There were panties that completed the ensemble, but she had left them behind. She needed nothing fancy to show off her classic lines. She reminded a man of a centerfold model, except that she was present in the flesh. All of her working out had paid off. She knew it and carried herself accordingly.

“How do you think I look in it?” she cooed from the doorway. The light from the hallway highlighted her form as he lay in the darkened bedroom.

“You know the answer!” he said back.

“Yes—but I love to hear you say it,” she pouted.

“You look fabulous, like always,” he complied. Her lips turned up slightly in a seductive smile, to let him know that he had answered well. The familiar formula was being followed to perfection. She touched the fingers of one hand to her cleavage where the black silk came to a deep vee. She stroked the skin lightly and watched Jarrod watching her. She lifted the stopper from a perfume bottle on the dresser next to her and stroked the same place again. She dipped the glass knob into the perfume again and touched it to the inside of each sculpted thigh.

“You should have put on some music,” she chided. She turned on the small dresser light and then closed the bedroom door behind her. The CD player rested on a table across the room. Her cat-like movements made the short nightie show off her body even better as she moved. The hem lifted with each step, not quite enough to expose the tight globes of her buttocks, but there was no doubt as to their tightness. That was alright, because as her long legs flexed with each step, a man could trace the outline of each tendon and muscle under the smooth, bronze skin, imagining them wrapped around him, emanating the scent of the perfume. The silk fabric shimmered as her breasts moved inside it. She bent down to engage the player and before long a soft background of smooth jazz was filling the space.

Jarrod handed her a flute of champagne as she alit on the bed alongside him. She took a swallow and then opened his robe.

“I know how to make you tell me your secrets,” she whispered, her fingers lightly played with the hair on his chest.

“Not a chance!” he answered, egging her on. Tracey took another swallow of the bubbling wine and then set it down on the nightstand.

“Are you sure?” she reached her hand to his crotch and lightly stroked the tender skin on the bottom side of his sack. Jarrod shook his head and cast to her a knowing, evil smile.

“Not even now?” she pleaded, as she formed the letter ‘O’ with her middle and index fingers. She encircled his shaft at the base, which had become hard and rigid, and slowly and gently traced her way to the top and over the crown.

“Are you sure that you won’t tell me?” she whispered in his ear as her fingers delicately repeated the journey.

“Tracey,” he gasped as pleasure took his breath, “I couldn’t tell you now if I wanted to.”

“Such tension!” she feigned sympathy. “You need relief!” She slid down the bed and lowered her head and captured his engorged knob in her lips. He yelped at the sudden sensation. As he started getting used to the encirclement, she lowered her head all the way down, impaling her face on him. Soon Tracey was swallowing all that he had to give.

Jarrod was panting, catching his breath. Tracey propped herself on her elbow alongside him. She waited until his breathing was normal. “Do you think that you can tell me now?” she giggled.

“I surrender. It’s in the little box in my suit coat pocket.” It was pointless to hold out further. He needed time to recover.

She bounced off the bed to the closet where Jarrod had hung his clothes. Nimble fingers tore away the ribbon.

“Jarrod, I love it!” she squealed. She always loved the presents that he brought for her. It was always jewelry. “Help me put it on!”

It was a bracelet, this time. It was gold with pearls and little diamonds in the settings. It was always nice, but never too much. He wanted her keep trying harder.

“You know that your presents always make feel all warm, and…you know…” she purred.

“…cuddly?” he completed the sentence, stifling a smirk.

“No…,” she purred. “You know the answer.”

“I don’t know, Tracey,” he played along.

She bent her face next to his and whispered into his ear. “Tell me, Jarrod. How do your presents make me feel?” The scents of perfume and semen mixed in his nostrils.

“Horny?” Jarrod guessed, according to formula.

“That’s right!” she answered as he lifted the silk negligee over her head. She slid her long supple body over his. She took him on a trip to a place of dreams; her bed was the ship that carried them. In the morning they would awaken in the place from whence they started. Then, he would be gone—until it was time to do it all again.

Jarrod caught sight of the slender man jogging in the road past Tracey’s house early the next morning. He didn’t recognize him, which was puzzling because he thought that he knew everyone in Bates. It was his job, as Mayor, to do so. He pondered the doubt for a second and then forgot it. He climbed into his Lexus and started out on the road to Albany.

*********

The Valley Sentinel was a weekly paper that was mailed to subscribers. The story of Ethan’s sermon spread over the town gradually, like a slow leak from an oil can, as the postmen delivered it. In a big city the headline would have screamed out from newsstands. The reaction would have been simultaneous. That was not to be the case in Bates.

News started spreading by word of mouth. It was repeated by persons who had not even read the article. Like the oil from the leaking can, it made dirt stick to it wherever it spread out. With each repeated rendition, the story changed a little—or a lot. Versions were as numerous as cows in the pastures in the fields on the hills above the town. Discussion was most concentrated in the Village, rather than the farms, where the close proximity of the people facilitated the spreading of the story.

In the school there was little talk of it at first, being isolated from the outside. Of course, in the District Office the phones rang non-stop. Callers were simply told that the district was aware of the story, but had no comment. It left most callers even more irate.

In the High School the news started getting around slowly. Most teachers took care not to discuss it with students. At lunchtime an actual copy of the Sentinel appeared in the Teachers’ Lounge. Nearly everyone took their turn reading it.

Bob Jackson had not been able to completely suppress the story. His publisher friend agreed to submerge it on the bottom of page two. It was about three paragraphs long. The article merely reported what Ethan’s tape had told them, and that the district refused to comment.

Most of the teachers didn’t believe the report. Few of them belonged to Ethan’s congregation.

“Why didn’t Jackson deny it?” asked Pete Wendell, a chemistry teacher. Others around him nodded. Although they didn’t quite believe the pedophile story, their natural distrust for management taught them not to give full support. Something must be amiss, their instincts told them. They were sure that something was bound to come out. It would be about one of their number; something heretofore hidden that someone wanted to keep secret.

They started to glance around the room at one another, silently speculating; reminding themselves when this person, or that one, had said something strange, or done something out of step with what was expected for some unexplained reason. They swayed to and fro, silently, as they furtively resized-up their colleagues—people that they had recently known well. It was a dance without music; a careful stepping and tiptoeing to be certain to be placed in the right spot, and to make sure where all the other dancers stood. One never knew when the music might start.

**********

James didn’t take lunch in the Teachers’ Lounge, preferring to correct homework papers at his desk in the Math Office. Nathan had seen him in the hallway and told him about the article. “Just stay with the Plan,” he advised. “This will work out if you just stay with the Plan.” James nodded and said that he would. The Plan was his only choice.

He sat alone in his office and was midway through his papers when Vicki came into the office looking for him.

“Why don’t you come for dinner at my apartment tonight?” she asked.

James hesitated. He really didn’t want to go, and didn’t know how to refuse.

“Are you afraid that I’ll cook meatloaf again?” she kidded.

James shook his head. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“What trouble?” she hooted. “I was just going to get a pizza. Bring a six-pack.”

“Is that an order?” he asked.

“Call it a firm request,” she called over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her.

******

Vicki and James lay in bed together, just finished having sex. It was that interlude that follows the act when the bodies are relaxed, having released their built-up tension, but the senses are wide awake.

James, at first, was an indifferent sex partner that night. Vicki changed that with the skills she had accumulated over many years and many partners. She showed him how the woman could be on top. James went along, and then found that he liked it. He could grasp her breasts as they did it, and he did. As she bounced up and down he held them like the reins of a horse. Vicki rode him and milked him and squeezed him until she dissolved his lethargy. Then he thrust back; he pushed—she pulled. Before long he lost control until they landed together in this period of relaxation and awareness.

They lay together silently. She let her fingers play with his wet, now-flaccid penis.

“You were a Catholic priest before you came to Bates,” she said. “You’re the one Ethan Chandler was talking about.” It wasn’t an accusation, or even a declaration of discovery. She was just telling him that she knew it.

“Yes, I’m the one,” he admitted

“It all adds up. You’re single; no past; a virgin with no other reason to be a virgin.”

“I’m not guilty of what they’re saying. I’m innocent of anything like that!” he uttered, half in hope that she would believe him, half in anger.

“I know that, James,” she said tenderly. “I would have seen it in you before now, if it were true. We’ve been naked together, after all.”

“I think I remember that,” he quipped, starting to feel better.

“I know the part that you remember,” she answered, “but I don’t mean just without clothes.”

“That would be an interesting character reference,” he said sarcastically. “Is that why you asked me to come here tonight?”

“Sure,” she said cheerfully. “I knew that you’d be down and I thought that I’d help you take your mind off it for a while.”

“Mission accomplished! A true act of ‘friendship’,” he answered, meaning it, remembering their rules.

“Now I feel better, too,” she lilted. She rested her head on his shoulder, her fingers still at play below.

“So, why did you quit being a priest?”

“I was just burned out—going through the motions. I didn’t want to do it anymore when I didn’t think that I was accomplishing anything,” he explained. Vicki shrugged, issuing no judgment on the pronouncement.

“Are you saying that you don’t believe in God anymore?” she asked.

“When I first arrived in Bates I was almost sure that I didn’t. Then I got the assignment with Raymond and some other things; I started changing my mind,” he confessed.

“What about now, after Chandler’s attack?” she queried.

“Maybe I had the right idea at the start,” he grumbled.

“James, it sounds like you believe in God when things are going your way, and not when things are against you,” she said squarely. James was silent for a while as he thought over what she told him.

“Maybe you should have been the priest,” he mused.

“We were Methodists,” she countered.

“That would explain it,” he laughed.

Vicki’s hands were still at play below, but he was no longer flaccid. He turned over atop her. They spent the last of their energy in a lively round of the Missionary Position.

*************

As James was running the next morning before work, he thought about his old mentor, Father Brendan, and a sermon he gave one day to the assemblage of priests at the school.

“What do ye ask fer when ye’re prayin’? What ae’re ye teachin’ yer young charges t’ pray fer? Do ye ask fer success; beg fergiveness; an end t’ one sufferin’ or another? Do ye t’ll God dat if He would only grant ye dis or dat ye’ll be grateful and devout fer the rest o’ yer days?”

“Do any of ye t’ink dat God cares a whit if a football game is won, or if all of yer boys pass deir exams or any sich t’ing. If He sends sufferin’ to ye, is it not fer a reason? Who might ye be t’ ask Him t’ end somethin’ dat he has sent ye? And if ye say ‘O, T’ank ye, God, for all o’ dis sufferin’, does He t’ink dat ye mean it?”

Father Brendan paused while the group of priests pondered the weighty questions. He drew a deep breath before he continued.

“What should ye be sayin’ to Him when yer prayin’?” he posed as he leaned forward and peered into their faces through his thick lenses. Again, he let seconds of silence drown out their consternation. He leaned forward, preparing to give the answer. The young priests leaned forward to hear it.

“Ye young lads just t’ink about dat,” he said softly, then descended from the lectern and resumed the Mass.

*************

TO BE CONTINUED