The Last Chance

Chapter One

                                                                                Detroit, Michigan
                                                                                        2007

“...and God in Heaven will pull the tears from our bodies and water all the gardens of the earth.  And the lilies of the field and the wild grasses and the poppies and the roses and the golden fields of daffodils will rise up and cover the concrete barriers that keep man from man.  They will grow like ivy and kudzu and cover over the skyscrapers and the boardrooms where men wage wars.  Their velvet petals will crush what men call progress  and return us all to Eden, where every man is one man; where finally once again, every man is every child and every child is God’s child.  For truly, my brothers and my sisters, we are all God’s children...and we are on our way home!”

Father Radneazewski’s eyes closed and he finally took a breath.  His forehead was beaded with sweat and his heart pounded loudly in his chest.  He slowly unclenched his hands.  He hadn’t realized that during his sermon he had balled them into fists on the podium.  He felt as if the back of his head was coming off.  Perhaps that was what people were describing when they said that they felt light-headed.  He took another deep breath and opened his eyes.

His parishioners stared back at him.  He turned his head and realized that both altar boys, Jonah and Ricky were doing the same, waiting for some signal from him.  He took another deep breath, smiled, and then stepped down from the podium, turned back toward the altar and finished saying Mass.

                                                                                            ***
                                                                                    January  2010

Fr. Petyr Radneazewski sat quietly in the archbishop’s office, marveling at the richness of his surroundings.  The chairs were covered in soft, burgundy leather, the tables were polished to a high sheen and the rugs on the floor were thick and heavy.  On the wall at the far end of the room was a painting of the Christ Child that Fr. Petyr was certain he'd seen in an art history book.  There was an enormous flower arrangement on the center table made up of evergreens and white poinsettia, intertwined with red velvet ribbon, obviously a remainder of the Christmas holidays. 

The priest had never been in such luxurious surroundings and could barely keep his eyes still.  When he arrived, the archbishop’s secretary asked him if he would like a beverage.  He'd asked for a glass of water, and she had delivered it in a heavy crystal tumbler that he was nearly afraid to take, for fear of breaking it.  He held the glass on his lap in both hands, uncertain that the silver trimmed coasters would properly protect the high gloss on the table to his right.  Thankfully, the secretary finally called him into the archbishop’s office and collected the glass as he went inside.

The outer office had done nothing to prepare the priest for Archbishop Farley’s inner sanctum.  As opulent as the surroundings had been there, everything here was equally as simple.  The floors were solid hardwood, no rugs or carpets in sight.  The furniture was plain, almost utilitarian in its design; a sofa, three chairs, a small conference table and a large, very organized desk.  The only art that was instantly obvious was a beautiful, sculpture of the Madonna, resting on a black marble obelisk standing in the center of a bank of windows.  He stood silently just inside the door as his eyes swept up, down and around the room.  He would have been shocked had he known that what he considered the simplicity of the room was referred to by those in the know, as ‘Art Deco’ and dollar for dollar out-priced the furnishings in the outer office.

“You’re welcome to sit down, Father.  Unless, or course, you’d prefer to stand.”  Archbishop Farley had risen behind the desk and was smiling at Petyr. 

Petyr’s eyes snapped back to attention as he approached the archbishop, bowed his head slightly, and as was customary, kissed the large ring on the monsignor's left hand.  “Yes, of course.  Thank you, Archbishop.”  He took a seat in front of the desk.  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

The Archbishop slowly sat down and opened a file that was sitting on his desk.  He briefly scanned it and then looked up at Petyr.  “You’ve been a priest for a long time, Father.  You’ve been the pastor at St. Cyril’s for nearly”, he looked down at the file, “nineteen years.  You’ve done some good things.  Let’s see, I’ve made a note here.  With help from your parish and some pretty aggressive fund-raising you managed to grow St. Cyril Elementary in 1993, to a full K through 12 accredited program in 1999.  Your parish has increased in size by about 23% since you became pastor.  All in all, Father, you have done a wonderful job.  No one could ask for more of you.  No one.”

“Thank you, Archbishop, but this is nothing, it is just my job.  As you, I do God’s work, that is all, Archbishop, just God’s work.”

“Yes, God’s work.  That’s what I wanted to speak to you about.  We’ve had some calls, and if fact, letters from some of your parishioners.  In particularly”, he looked down at the notes on his desk, “Mrs. Scanlon, Mr. Khirshon and Mrs. Kozlowski.  They had some amazing things to say, Father, amazing things about you.”

Father Radneazewski slowly shook his head back and forth.  “Archbishop, there is nothing amazing about me.  I prayed with these people and God answered their prayers.  That is the whole story, there is nothing more.”

“I think there is something more, Father.”  He picked up a blue folder from his desk, opened it and pulled out what appeared to be a letter.  “According to Mrs. Emily Scanlon, 'I had been suffering from fourth stage inoperable ovarian cancer when I went to one of Father Radneazewski’s healing circles this past August.  I then went back twice that month, then every Tuesday in September.  He laid hands on me each time and when I went to my oncologist, Dr. Ethan Jantz on October 6th, he could find no evidence of cancer anywhere in my body.' "

“No, she is mistaken Archbishop.  We prayed together...that is all.  I am sure she has exaggerated her illness.”

“I don’t think so.  She has included a letter from her oncologist and a copy of her test results before and after her ‘experience' with you.  I also have similar letters from Mr. Kirshon regarding his Parkinson’s disease and Mrs. Kozlowski, regarding her daughter, Amanda’s leukemia.  These are only three of the many letters that I have received regarding your ‘healing circles’, Father.  This sounds like more than ‘just praying’ to me.”

“Cancer is a mysterious illness.  It often goes into remission for no apparent reason and just as quickly reoccurs.  The healing circles were started at the request of parishioners who wanted to take a more proactive approach to their lives with prayer.”

“I see.  So the healing circles are prayer meetings?”

Father Radnaezewski hesitated, turning the phrase over in his head before answering.  “Yes.”

“I see.  Prayer meetings are not something that we as Catholics ordinarily hold.  Non-denominational churches and Baptists are big on prayer meetings.  Traditionally, we do most of our praying at Mass or while saying the rosary.  As for the laying on of hands, Petyr, I...”

“Archbishop, I am only trying to give them some hope, some solace.  Sometimes a simple touch can do so much for an aching soul.  Sometimes not even a touch, but just an open ear, a listening heart.  Isn’t that what being a priest, ministering to a flock is all about?”

“Giving solace, ministering to your parishioners has limits Father.  Only Christ can lay hands on to heal; not me and certainly not you.  Miracles are tricky things.  Even at Lourdes most of those claiming miracles are unable to be proven.  The Vatican has studied many, many cases and most often it is a temporary remission of the original ailment.  Quite often it appears to be something of an hysterical or psychological healing, that is temporary at best.  I must ask you what exactly it is that you are attempting to accomplish with these ‘healing circles’ of yours, Petyr?”

“I assure you Archbishop, I am merely trying to ease their pain, to give them some hope, some peace, nothing more.  I believe that prayer is very powerful, I’m sure you must feel the same way.  I simply want to help them, to enrich their spiritual lives and if in doing so, they feel that their physical lives have improved, where is the harm?” 

Father Radnaezewski looked directly into Archbishop Farley’s eyes and the archbishop immediately pulled his eyes away from the priest’s gaze.  He focused his attention on the files in front of him for a at least a full minute and then looked back at the priest and spoke in the voice he reserved for recalcitrant confessors.

“The harm, Father Radnaezewski is that you are endangering the spiritual lives of your parishioners.  The harm, Father, is that by leading these ‘healing circles’ of yours, you have somehow subliminally led them to believe that you can perform miracles.  That you can, in fact, heal them of their illnesses.”  The archbishop was just getting up to speed, soon he would reach what his secretary termed combustion level.  His voice was rising with each word, and the color of his skin was deepening with every breath.

“In addition, your parishioners are spreading the ‘word’, so to speak, and local newspapers have now picked up on your activities.  And as the newspapers pick up these types of things, so does the Vatican.”  He took a deep breath and continued.  “That’s where I come in, Father.  I have been instructed by Cardinal Marin of the Vatican, who by the way, will be arriving on Thursday, to instruct you to end your ‘healing circles’ at once.”

“I don’t understand.  But why?  What have I done?  We’ve simply been praying.”

The archbishop stood and looked down at the priest.  “For the time being I will be asking the questions, Father.  Cardinal Marin will be investigating any and all claims of ‘miraculous healings’.  You will continue to say Mass, hear confession, perform sacraments, etc., but there will be no healing circles, no prayer meetings.  Have I made myself clear?”

Father Radnaezewski looked carefully into Archbishop Farley’s eyes once more, and for just a moment, the Archbishop suddenly felt as if all the sorrow he had ever felt had been reduced down to one tiny, potent drop that had just been laid upon his heart; it was so painful he feared if he tried to speak his voice would simply shatter.  He breathed in sharply and put his hand to his chest.

“Are you alright, Archbishop?”  Father Radnaezewski had come around to the back of the desk and was helping the archbishop into his chair.  He poured a bit of water into a glass and held it to his lips.  “Try and take just a sip.  You look a bit pale.”  The archbishop drank the water and set the glass back on the desk.

When he spoke, his voice was labored.  “Thank you, I’m fine, I’ve been working too hard and I missed lunch.  I assume we have an understanding Father?  No more prayer meetings, no more healing circles?”

“Whatever you say, Archbishop.”

“Good, then our business here is concluded.  You will most likely be hearing from Cardinal Marin.  Please make yourself available to him.  Good day, Father.”

“God bless you, Archbishop.”  Father Radnaezewski blessed the archbishop with the sign of the cross and walked out of his office.  The meeting had taken less than thirty minutes, but the archbishop felt as if he had been running a marathon for at least sixty.  He reached up and placed the first two fingers of his right hand against his carotid artery and looking at the second hand of the Rolex on his wrist he carefully took his pulse...slightly elevated, but probably nothing to worry about; yet better to be sure. 

He picked up the phone on his desk and pressed the intercom button to summon his receptionist.  She picked up almost immediately.  “Mrs. Ivey, I’m not feeling quite well and I think I need to see Dr. Oliveri.  Would you please ask him to come by here today before I go home?”

“Yes, Archbishop, I’ll call him right away.  Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, just explain to him that I need to see him today.  Oh, and if you could get me a pot of tea I’d appreciate it, thank you.”

“Yes, your grace, right away.”

“Wait, Mrs. Ivey, one more thing.”  He opened the blue folder on his desk and pulled out the stack of papers, rifling through them for a few seconds before finding what he was looking for.  “Would you please get Dr. Ethan Jantz on the phone for me?  He’s an oncologist and he’s on staff with the Barbara Ann Karmanos Cancer Center on John R in the Detroit Medical Center.  Thanks.”

Before the archbishop had a chance to re-read Dr. Jantz’s report, Mrs. Ivey had him on the phone and had delivered a silver tray holding not only a pot of Earl Grey tea, but a fully prepared cup with scalded milk and one cube of sugar.  As he often thought to himself at times like these, not withstanding the tiny sin of pride, ‘It was good to be the king.’