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Presentation Mother House is in the centre of St. John’s and part of a larger number of buildings that create a complex of ecclesiastical structures including the Basilica of St. John the Baptist. The cornerstone was laid by Archbishop John Thomas Mullock in 1850, and it was officially opened in 1853. The building remains an active Presentation convent and has been turned into a nursing home for aging nuns. A little-known fact is that the Mother House is home to one of the most perfect gems of religious art in the world—The Veiled Virgin, created by internationally acclaimed Italian sculptor Giovanni Strazza from Milan. It is considered a perfect wonder of the sculptor’s art.

Father Peter Cooke needed to hide from the world for a little while. He sat quietly in the chapel gazing at The Veiled Virgin. The basilica was full day and night with a steady stream of people. He had to bring in extra volunteers just to empty the donation boxes in the back of the church. His office and mobile phones rang constantly. The church’s elderly secretary was at her wits’ end. Between media requests for interviews and parishioners’ requests for blessings, he could not keep up. He was overwhelmed. The archdiocese sent over two additional priests just to have someone in the basilica every day to talk to people. But the public wanted him. He had become a rock-star priest. Something he never thought possible.

“Not words but deeds,” said a woman’s voice, cutting into his thoughts.

Father Cooke turned quickly to see Sister Pius standing in the doorway of the chapel.

“It’s the motto of the Presentation Sisters,” she informed him.

Father Cooke looked back toward The Veiled Virgin.

“It means we not only talk the talk, but we walk the walk.” Father Cooke was deep in thought. “Her facial expression has a holy, ethereal quality, doesn’t it?” Sister Pius continued. “Many people say it leaves them with a deeply religious experience, unique and lasting.”

The priest sighed heavily.

“Many people believe that if they say the rosary on their knees in front of this statue, the Virgin Mary will answer their prayers.” The nun sat in the pew next to Father Cooke. “But your prayers have already been answered. Maybe you are here just to marvel at the beautiful marble and glow of her face. It is quite stunning, isn’t it?”

“The church is my happy place,” he finally responded. “Growing up, my friends had dreams of being doctors, lawyers, architects. Not me. I wanted to be a priest. My family thought I was nuts. My father threatened to disown me. My mother begged me to reconsider. They thought it was a phase and it would pass. I knew it wouldn’t. It was a calling. I could feel the Lord calling me, pulling me into this life.”

Sister Pius had known Father Cooke for many years. She had no doubt he was telling the truth. “I felt the same the way,” she told him.

“I’d become so disillusioned in the past ten years. I believe in the Lord’s work. I couldn’t understand why others couldn’t.”

Sister Pius sat silently, letting him talk.

“I was so frustrated by the Vatican’s lack of engagement with their people. They have no idea what it is like to be a priest on the front line. A priest with a big empty church barely able to scrape enough money out of the collection plate to pay the heat bill.” He turned to face Sister Pius. “Did I do wrong, Mary? Did I betray those who confessed their deepest sins to me?”

“You certainly got what you prayed for,” the nun answered.

“Did I break my vow? These sinners came to my confessional to unburden their souls and confess their sins to me as a priest in the Sacrament of Penance. That’s a very sacred trust. Each one of them knows that in the confessional they are not speaking to me, but through me to the Lord.”

Sister Pius listened intently. “Sometimes I am glad the Church does not allow women to hear confessions. I don’t know if I could hear the sins of a murderer or sexual deviant and not make a call to the police. I don’t know if I could put my vows before the protection of people.”

“Most days you just hear the same thing,” said Father Cooke. “They cheated on a spouse, stole from their workplace, spread gossip. It’s so easy to tell them to say ten Hail Marys and do something good for somebody. But then there are the times I struggle.” He stood up and began pacing back and forth in front of The Veiled Virgin. “When I spoke to the media and the parishioners, I didn’t give any names or dates of offences. I spoke in general terms. No one was identified. I know the Code of Canon Law states it is a crime for a confessor in any way to betray a penitent by word or in any other manner or for any reason.

“I asked each penitent to go to the police and confess their sins to truly unburden their souls and give their victims closure. They weren’t interested. It left me wondering if they were sitting in my confessional to unburden their souls or to torture me, knowing I could do nothing with the information.” He turned to face Sister Pius. “I recognized some of the voices, you know. Having to smile and act normal in front of someone you know just raped a child and intends to do it again is a crucifixion of another kind.”

“What are you hearing from the new archbishop?” Sister Pius inquired.

“I am being investigated internally for directly violating the seal of confession. If I am found guilty, it could mean anything from automatic excommunication down to being punished in other ways—like being sent to a monastery for perpetual penance.”

“Harsh,” she said, already knowing the answer to her question. “So, when a priest molests children, they send him to a monastery for counselling or to another parish to hide him, but they excommunicate a priest who protects children?”

Father Cooke sat in the pew again with his head in his hands. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to be anything but a priest. I honestly thought I would be buried with my collar on. I never meant any harm.”

“I am leaving the church,” she said flatly.

“What? Why? I hope this circus I created is not responsible for your decision.”

“No, it’s something I’ve thought about for a long time. I think I always knew at some point I would retire from the church. Hang up my habit and live a normal life. I think I would like to own a dog and a cat.”

“A dog and a cat.” He could see it. “That sounds lovely, doesn’t it?”

“Peter,” Sister Pius said, taking his hand in hers, “no matter what happens, I want you to know that I support you and I know your heart is pure. I know you had no ill intent.”

He could feel tears well up in his eyes and did his best to keep them from rolling down his face. He looked toward The Veiled Virgin. “I don’t have many friends. Being a priest is a solitary choice for a man, but I have always counted you as a good friend.”

She put her arms around him and hugged him tightly. After a few seconds, she let go and stood up. “Not words but deeds, remember. I have some rounds to do on the nursing home floor.”

“Thank you, Sister,” he said sincerely.

“For what?”

“For hearing the confession of a tormented priest.” He grinned.

“Any time, Father Cooke, any time.” As she left the chapel, she saw him get down on his knees and begin to pray the rosary. She hoped that The Veiled Virgin would answer his prayers as She had done for so many others.

* * * * *

The archdiocese office was busier than it had ever been. The secretary usually took two to three calls a day, and one of them was always from her sister. Lately she was taking over a hundred a day and had gone through stacks of telephone message pads that had been collecting dust in her desk drawer for years. The call that came in that afternoon would be one she would tell everyone about for the rest of her life. Her children, and their children, would talk about this phone call in great detail.

By the time she opened the door to the archbishop’s office, she was out of breath and her face was red, even though it was only a twelve-foot walk. “Pick up the phone, Archbishop . . . pick up the phone,” she wheezed.

The archbishop was startled when the door to his office flung open so abruptly. His first thought was his secretary was having a stroke. He jumped up from his chair. “Are you okay?”

“Pick up the phone,” she yelled. “It’s the Vatican . . . the Vatican!”

“The Vatican?” he questioned. “Are you sure it’s not another prank call?”

Her hand clasped her chest. “It’s not just the Vatican . . . it’s the Holy Father! His Holiness is calling you, himself!” she screamed. “Pick up the phone, it’s the Vicar of Christ!”

“Oh, good Lord!” He fell back in the chair. “Why didn’t you say?” He ran his fingers through his hair and straightened his collar as if the Pope could see him through the phone. He was only on the job two weeks; he had started in the midst of a media storm, and now the Pope was on the phone. His hand shook as it picked up the receiver. “Your Holiness,” he bellowed into the phone, then, without realizing it, he blessed himself. “It is such an honour, Your Holiness, it is such an honour.”

The conversation lasted almost forty-five minutes. By the time both priests hung up the phone, there was no doubt about what the plan was for Father Peter Cooke.