Cole and Father Wagner sat at the dark round walnut table in the rectory’s kitchen. The buttery colored walls warmed the room. The two men ate their sandwiches with dill pickle spears and Fritos from a bowl set in the middle of the table within easy reach of each. The priest filled Cole in from the beginning, telling the story of how he got into the priesthood and how he’d grown stale and begun to doubt his own faith. He walked him through the events of the past Christmas Eve and described that night as his own metanoia, or transformation.
“Metanoia is a powerful word,” Wagner explained as he chewed on a bite of the thick marble rye bread he had slathered braunschweiger on. “In the secular world, psychiatrists might use the word to describe the process of experiencing a psychotic breakdown and the subsequent re-building or healing process.
“To Catholics, it means an almost seismic spiritual transformation, the most famous example is Saul being struck by lightning and becoming Paul. In the Bible, when Saul is struck by lightning he has an epiphany. His hard heart breaks open and he becomes filled with the joy of the Lord.
“A metanoia is a radical transformation. It’s a powerful answer to a typically anguished prayer…and it demands a response.” Wagner’s eyes were full of fire as he defined the meaning of metanoia and began to detail his own personal transformation.
“If Sigmund Freud or one of his contemporaries watched from the couch out in the other room on Christmas Eve, I’m sure he would believe he witnessed a psychotic breakdown. In truth, it was my salvation and rebirth.” He smiled and held up his glass of skim milk. “Until that night I couldn’t stand milk. After I left the farm I lost the taste for it and my preference for beer grew over the years, as I became more and more dispirited.
“But I haven’t had any alcohol since the night of my metanoia, other than the wine during Mass, which we believe is the actual blood of Christ. You should have seen the look on Bower’s face when he came to replenish my beer stock the first week and all of the bottles were still full. I’m sure he’s been telling more than a few people about that.”
Cole was enjoying the conversation but felt the need to get to the point. “Tell me about the sermon,” he said.
“Well, I told you how this transformation is like a prayer answered that requires a response. You see, my Christmas sermon was my response. I sat down to write it and my hands were shaking, but the words poured out. That homily almost wrote itself, but they were my fingers gripping the pen that flew over the paper. On Christmas Day, in the sacristy getting ready for Mass, I lost my surety. I was shaking, I was so nervous. But once I began walking down the center aisle, I didn’t feel old and tired. People told me after Mass that I looked radiant. My voice rang out, clear and reverberating. Everything I did was effortless. When it came time for the homily, I didn’t look at my notes. Not once. And as I spoke I felt the deepest, warmest love at times, and at other times the most righteous anger.”
Cole studied the priest. “I know how strongly you feel about abortion, but I need your cooperation if we’re going to prevent more physicians from being killed. Will you help me?”
Wagner was quiet. Slowly he nodded. “Yes. I despise the work these abortionists are carrying out, but it’s not right to take their lives. We need to let God judge them. What can I do?”
Cole asked for a diagram of the inside of St. Gabriel’s Church, one that showed the layout of all the pews. He told Wagner his plan to blow up the diagram and put a name in every seat. Wagner got up and Cole followed him to his den. There was a tall wooden butter churn filled with rolled-up tubes of architectural drawings. “I found this old churn in the attic of the farmhouse I grew up in,” he said. “I think what you’re looking for is in here.”
There were at least a dozen rolled-up tubes of paper in the churn, each held closed with a rubber band. There was a sticker on the outside of each that gave a brief description of what was inside. As Cole scanned the labels he saw interior and exterior elevations and schematics. When he came upon one labeled “interior layout,” he grew hopeful. “This could be exactly what we’re looking for.” After getting Wagner’s approval, he started sliding the rubber band to the end, but it was brittle and broke halfway there. The date on the label said it was from 1966, the last time the church had seen a major renovation. He took care unrolling the paper, which had also become stiff and fragile over the years.
Cole had the diagram mostly open, though it had been rolled up so long it had a mind of its own and wanted to retreat into that shape. The size of the paper, three by four, was a pleasant surprise. “This should be big enough to work from, and it’s got all the pews laid out the way they’re situated today, I presume,” Cole said. “If you’re okay with it, I’m going to take this with me and make a number of copies. We’ll keep a master copy at the courthouse that we’ll fill in. The group we have doing interviews will each get one to use as reference.”
He let the paper roll itself up again and asked Wagner for another rubber band. He produced one from his desk drawer and Cole secured the paper with it. “I’ll also want a list of all your parishioners and any contact information you have on them. We’ll start interviewing people and filling up that diagram with names as soon as possible. When I get the diagrams copied, I’m going to send someone back here to interview you. You said you were up and down the aisles, and greeted people before Mass started. I’m hoping you can give me a head start on people in pews, even if you don’t remember the exact pews they were in.”
“I can do that, and I have a list of our parishioners and their contact information on my computer. It’s on a large spreadsheet. If you want to wait, I can print out a copy and give it to you now.”
“Tell you what, Father. Here’s my card,” Cole said, handing him his official Bureau business card. “That has both my email address where you can send me a copy of the spreadsheet, and my cell phone in case you ever need to get a hold of me. I’d better head back to the courthouse now and see what else I can get done today.”
“Do you want a ride?” Wagner asked
“No, thanks, Father. “To be honest, it felt good to walk down Beaumont Road again. Even with everything going on right now, it brought back some nice memories.”
“You know, Cole, I remember your parents,” Wagner said. “Sitting here talking with you was like talking to your dad. I’m sure people have told you that you look like him. I used to admire your parents’ faith. I knew that your dad closed up the Blue Heaven at two a.m. on Sunday mornings and probably didn’t get home until after three. But every Sunday he and your mom were here for nine-thirty a.m. Mass. Every Sunday. And when you came along they brought you, too. I don’t remember much about their funeral, to be honest, other than the fact there were so many people there to show their love and support.”
Cole remembered the funeral and the bleak feeling that enveloped him at the gravesite. It had been a warm, sunny day, yet he had never been so chilled. He could picture a younger Father Wagner making an effort to console him, and his eyes welled up again. He walked toward the rectory’s front door, carrying the rolled-up layout of the church in his left hand and discreetly wiping his eyes with the back of his right.
As he got to the door he turned to Father Wagner and asked, “Any chance you have any of Bower’s beer left in the fridge that you won’t be needing anymore?”