life, in retrospect, he considered the argument between Delvecchio and himself childish. Especially on his part. And it embarrassed him not only to recall the incident but especially to confess it to Tully.
But Father Tully was chuckling. “I’d have to agree with Delvecchio: Fooling with the organ during a Requiem Mass probably isn’t the ultimate sin of despair.”
“Especially,” Koesler agreed, “when you consider today’s liturgies: There’s virtually no distinction between ‘high’ or sung, and ‘low’ or spoken. But there still are rubrics.”
“Not many. And particularly guys my age and younger aren’t uptight about adapting the liturgy to the occasion.” Tully sat back in his chair, reflecting on the drastic changes in liturgy that followed Vatican Council II.
“I can remember quite vividly,” Tully said, “how tight everything was then: hands extended, facing each other at shoulder position and distance. The whispered words. The directed gestures. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was left to chance or choice.
“Oh, not that there weren’t priests who veered from the rubrics. But most of them were just playing out their own idiosyncrasies. Every single thing that went on in the Mass of yesterday was spelled out in precise detail.”
Koesler nodded. “I’m getting thirsty. What would you say to some iced tea?”
“Iced tea?” Tully thought for a moment. “Did you make it, Bob?” He remembered all too well a couple of cups of coffee brewed by Father Koesler. They had been indescribably unpotable.
Koesler smiled. He was aware that his guests hardly ever finished a cup of his coffee. His tea, however, did not live in like infamy. “Mary O’Connor made the tea, Zack. Want some?”
“Sure.” Tully had learned quickly that Mary O’Connor could be trusted to run the whole parish, not to mention make a beverage or snack. He found it unfortunate that Mary was going to follow Koesler into retirement.
Father Robert Koesler had met Mary when he was named pastor of St. Anselm’s in a Detroit suburb almost thirty years before. She had been parish secretary for his predecessor. Mary and Koesler were eminently compatible.
Mary would have long since retired, but she had determined to stay with it as long as her priest-friend did.
Father Tully well knew that finding anyone the equal of Mary would be to stumble across perfection. At least Mary had agreed to stay on until a successor could be found.
The two priests went to the large kitchen where their paragon was busily preparing for the arrival of the caterers. She poured the tea as they exchanged small talk. The priests, glasses in hand, then returned to the living room.
Tully rattled the ice cubes, coaxing them to melt.
Koesler stood at the window, his back to Tully, and contemplated the impressive buildings, many of which had been erected since his arrival at the old parish.
“By the way,” Koesler said, without turning, “I believe you said Bishop Delvecchio was giving you a difficult time?”
“I’ll say!”
“What’s the trouble?”
“He keeps bugging me about taking the Profession of Faith and the Oath of Fidelity.”
Koesler turned to face the other priest. “Profession of Faith and Oath of Fidelity? Oh, yeah; I think I remember now. When we became pastors, we were supposed to take the ancient Oath Against Modernism—which was a very poor relic of the nineteenth century. It was like promising to remember dinosaurs. Then this new thing came into effect. How long’s it been? Something like nineteen eighty-nine, wasn’t it? I didn’t pay much attention ’cause I was sure this would be my final pastorate and I never would be expected to deal with them. So, forgive me: Are they a real problem?”
Tully nodded. “They’re a real problem. I guess,” he added after a moment, “it depends on how seriously you take them. The good bishop was kind enough to send me copies. Want to hear some of the more ear-catching parts?”