August 1991
There were three figures seated around an ornate oval table.
They sat in shadow, the dimly lit lamps barely penetrating the gloom of the chamber.
The two petitioners appeared to flank their superior.
Or so he seemed, by virtue of the high-backed, immaculately tooled and carved oak-and-leather chair that he sat in.
It resembled nothing less than a throne.
The heavy man sat back, deep into its recesses.
He rubbed at his temples beneath a shock of unkempt steel-grey hair.
It was clear that he had been disturbed from his slumbers.
Tall, well-stocked floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered every wall in the room save for those housing the doorway and the black slate fireplace.
An imposing portrait of the Sacred Heart of Jesus hung above this, the Christ gesturing toward that odd little red mound, surrounded by thorns and blazing with celestial light.
The first priest cleared his throat and spoke.
“Eminence, we must consider the bigger picture.”
His confederate followed swiftly. “Hearts and minds, Eminence… hearts and minds.”
The Cardinal pinched the bridge of his nose where his spectacles had previously rested.
“My God, I feel like Pilate going before the mob.” He seemed perplexed. “This is really too much…” he protested.
The first priest saw an opportunity. “Then give them Barabbas!” he exhorted.
Again his colleague spoke. They were clearly a well-rehearsed double act on matters of lobbying. “And on a simple technicality – the building… we are not insured, Eminence.”
The Cardinal seemed thoughtful. He turned it over in his mind for a moment. “People are watching. Only today I saw it on the television news. Public opinion and all that.”
“The world has no interest, Eminence. It is a storm in a tea cup,” said the first priest, careful to ensure that this did not sound like an admonishment.
“The clergy at the cathedral gave full access to the men’s families. But they became concerned that their supporters were coming and going in a way which was incompatible with the cathedral’s role as a place of worship.”
“It is also the effects of the activities of their supporters on cathedral routine,” said the other.
“The focus of the campaign has changed, Eminence.”
“When the two men entered, they were asking protection and sanctuary be provided by the church against threats to their lives. As the situation has deteriorated however… well… the premises have been used as a faculty from which to plan and run a campaign by non-church groups.”
“You asked us for counsel, Eminence, and we are now of the view that the men and their families must choose… choose between running such a campaign and having the protection of the church.”
“Remember your flock – your own people… these are difficult times for the church,” added the second.
They worked him like two sheepdogs.
Nipping and snapping at his heels.
Driving him toward the open gate.
The Cardinal leaned forward in his chair.
The priests could see from his expression that they had misjudged the extent of their immoderation.
“Do not suppose to lecture me on the challenges facing Mother Church…”
Both were contrite. “No Eminence,” they whispered.
“… nor on the hearts and minds of Christian people.”
The first priest stole a cautious glance at his comrade. It seemed to say, ‘tread warily’.
“Of course, Eminence.”
“Again – who is the parish priest caught up in all this down there?”
“Father Cudden; a very…” – the Priest chose his words carefully – “able communicator, Eminence. We are in constant contact with him.”
The stout man sighed heavily and shook his head. “This is a very delicate conundrum.”
“But a civil matter, Eminence; ultimately a civil matter nonetheless.”
The Cardinal lifted his spectacles from atop a sheaf of papers, and squinting at the pages asked, “And the petition?”
The first priest was caught momentarily unawares and scurried hastily through his notes.
“Ahhh… let me see… from the county of Tyrone; a Father Frank Connolly. An uncle, I believe. A peripheral concern, Eminence… left his best behind him in the Missions.”
He allowed himself a smile of smug superiority.
The Cardinal, seeing this, reached across the table and snatched the priest’s cuff. He turned the man’s hand over, palm up.
“And your best, Ambrose – where might we locate it, eh? In the Blackfriars library or the reading rooms of some theological college, nursing a sherry or a fine cognac perhaps?”
The man was instantly ingratiating in his clarification. “Eminence, I simply meant—”
“Quiet now,” the Cardinal interrupted. “I’m tired and I have devotions later.”
The two Priests began to shuffle and gather their papers together. The second tentatively pressed home his brief. “And your decision, Eminence?”
The Cardinal retuned to massaging his temples wearily.
“We all three know what will happen to them on their expulsion. The absence of war does not guarantee the peace.”
“These things are happening every other day, Eminence.” He made it sound paltry. Of no significance. He made it sound like the most natural thing in the world.
“Have these two young men attended confession… sought forgiveness?”
The two priests spoke in unison. “No, your Eminence.”
He sank back into the recesses of his chair. “The ignorant neither forgive nor forget; the naive forgive and forget; the wise forgive but never forget.”
The priests sensed an opportunity.
“These young thugs… they urinate in the flower beds…”
“Condoms in the sacristy… they mock us.”
“And what of compassion?” asked the Cardinal, as much to himself than the men.
“The compassion of our Lord Jesus Christ and the Holy Mother Church is infinite,” intoned the first. The second fingered his rosary and nodded in agreement.
The Cardinal was silent.
The men gathered up their briefcases and moved toward the door.
The Cardinal called after them. “Be in no hurry to turn them out. There is no witness so terrible, no accuser so powerful as the conscience which dwells within us.”
He rose and tied the belt of his silk dressing gown around his girth.
“You shall have my decision in the morning.”