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Church Money

Jim Meirose

    Hmmmm—a letter from Rome.
    The Pastor opened it—read it.
    My God no—what are they thinking? What—what kind of crazy idea is this—
    Father! Come here! Read this—
    The young priest came over and read it.
    Interesting, he said—
    Interesting! You call it interesting! I call it blasphemy—
    Father—be careful—it’s the holy father you’re talking about.
    But it is close to blasphemy—Jesus drove the moneylenders from the temple—what would he think of this—what has gotten into the holy father—what is Rome thinking—
    Do we have to do it do you think?
    You tell me—you’re the pastor.
    He looked down.
    My God I’ve never heard of such a thing—such a—foul thing to do to the sacrament of the Holy Eucharist—
    He looked up into the young priest’s clear blue eyes, which were waiting.
    The right thing to do—the right thing to do—is the right thing to do to obey—such an awful rule?
    The eyes waited.
    —but—the right thing—is to obey Rome—
    Yes, said the Pastor. We have to do it. At all the Sunday masses next weekend, we will tell the people. After each mass, we will meet with the ushers so they know what to do.
    Don’t you think we’ll lose parishioners?
    —yes I can see them walking out—I can see them getting right up and walking out—
    The pastor swallowed hard.
    Yes, he said. We may lose a few, but—Rome has spoken.
    The right thing to do—the right thing—keep telling yourself its right—Rome has spoken—Rome has spoken—
    And this is in addition to the regular collection?
    That’s what it says.
    Case closed. That is what it says.
    Rome has spoken.
    The priest explained the new procedure to the parishioners during the sermon of the first mass the following weekend. They sat before him, in stunned silence. After the mass was over, the priest spoke to the Pastor, who had been in the back listening.
    Did I do a good job of explaining it Father?
    Yes. You did a fine job.
    I cringed to hear it—I am still tingling all over from hearing such a thing—
    They seemed to take it well, said the priest.
    Took it well? How could you take such a thing well—
    I think they were stunned, said the Pastor. They don’t know what to think—just like I don’t know what to think. But come on now. We’ve got to go speak to the ushers. You told the ushers to gather in the sacristy, right.
    Oh yes.
    Let’s go.
    Why is my stomach churning so? Why am I shaking—
    In the sacristy, the pastor spoke to the ushers. They were silent, but for one.
    The people won’t like this, said the tallest of the ushers.
    I know, said the pastor—but Rome has spoken.
    Be the voice of Rome—to these men, be the voice of Rome—
    Do you have the hand stamps—and the baskets? asked another usher.
    Well, no—but we will get some by next Sunday—
    A third usher in a brown suit spoke up.
    And what happens if we have to make change, said a third. Do we have to carry change—
    This is a mess, said another. Clearly they haven’t thought this through.
    The pastor nodded patiently as he listened.
    I’m afraid I agree, but—
    They should have just asked for a donation—not exactly two dollars per host.
    Right, whatever the people choose to give—and to complicate it so with hand stamping at the door—I can’t imagine what they were thinking. Just make it a special collection or something—something like that—this is all wrong, Father.
    —I am the voice of Rome—of Christ—
    The pastor raised his hands.
    We have to do it the way Rome says, he said—we have no choice.
    The tallest usher once more spoke for the group.
    Don’t they think things through better when they come up with ideas like this?
    Tell him—say what Christ would say—
    I’m afraid it’s the idea of the Holy Father. He represents Christ on earth—
    The usher threw out his hands.
    Yes but he doesn’t have to stand there making change! he exclaimed.
    They all laughed uneasily. The Pastor spoke with a smile on his face.
    It won’t be so bad. We’ll get through it. All right men?
    One by one, the ushers nodded, and left.
    The Pastor and the priest walked off toward the rectory. As they crossed the rolling lawn, they spoke.
    That went over poorly, said the priest.
    Yes, I agree. But we’ve no choice.
    The following week, the ushers were stationed at the doors with the baskets, change, aand hand stamps. The people began to arrive for the first mass.
    The priest and Pastor were in the sacristy preparing. The tall usher rushed in waving his basket.
    Father—look—no one is giving money!
    Why have you left your station—people are coming in—
    I just thought you ought to know. I checked with the others. The people are just pushing past and almost no one is paying. I think John’s got four dollars. Fisher’s got two. That is it! What are you going to do when they start coming up for communion? How can you turn them away? I really can’t see you turning them away—
    Please, said the Pastor, raising a hand. Please, Mike—please let me think—
    What will we do when they come up—what would Christ do—
    They all looked the the Pastor waiting for what he would say.
    Lord God, what do I say—God give me words—
    He opened his mouth and listened to what he said. The words came strongly.
    We’ve got a mass to celebrate—God will tell us what to do when we get to the communion. It will happen according to God’s will.
    Yes. According to God’s will—
    They went out. They did the mass. In his sermon, the Pastor made no mention of the new arrangement or of how poorly things seemed to go when the people were coming in. He wove his sermon around the parable of the Good Samaritan, and stressed how God’s people should all love one another and help each other through this grinding mill called life. He likened life to a grinding wheel into which the souls of the faithful are fed. The souls either end up as fine meal which may feed many with its goodness, or as dust thrown to the side to be swept away into the trash. He himself had a personal theory that life on this earth was actually purgatory, since it seemed to be one long string of troubles worries and pains right up to death, which then led directly to the mansions of heaven. This was not church doctrine, so he kept it to himself.
    But he believed it.
    At heart, he was a sinner.
    After the sermon the elevation of the bread and wine went smoothly. Time ticked by toward the inevitable communion.
    What am I going to do—what will I do when the first one comes up without the hand stamp that indicates they have paid—lord what will I do—
    As the mass ground on he thought thoughts that might be thought by a condemned man being driven in a cart to the block.
    See—there are still blocks to go—there are three streets to pass over—now two, but no matter—there’s a long way to go—it’s hours more of riding this cart—the last street now, but no matter—there’s the scaffold, look at all the steps leading up, it will take what will seem like years to mount those steps—oh there’s still plenty of time—plenty—
    At last he stood before the altar, holding a host before his face.
    No one came up; he stood there alone.
    What do I do—what do I do—do I just turn and walk away—
    The people sat silently motionless in the pews, stony-faced. They all looked him in the eye. He stood with the host before his face.
    What I do now—is all important—what to do, lord—
    What to do?
    Movement in the pews. A young woman came alone down the aisle. She approached him. All held their breath. The priest glanced at the woman’s hand. It was not stamped. She cupped her hands before her and looked him in the eye.
    Dare not to give me one—dare not to give freely the body of Christ—
    His eye gazed back.
    No, no—you know the new rule—you know, you know, dear God—
    Her eye locked into his. It burned.
    Dare not give freely—
    The church flooded with dead silence.
    Dear God, Dear God—they are all looking at me!
    Don’t look at me! Don’t look at me—
    His hand came down.
    What to do. What will I do—
    The host went in her hand.
    Murmurs filled the church—
    She brought it to her mouth—
    Shouts came up—one, two, from the whirlpool of the murmurs.
    He gave out another host—and another—and another—to those without hand stamps.
    The Church filled to bursting with wild cheering. The pews emptied. They lined up for communion. The communion went on. His hand moved again. And again.
    The people were all smiling, joyous.
    After the mass ended, he went to the sacristy. The young priest beamed and slapped him on the back. Ushers and parishioners crowded around.
    You defied Rome, he exclaimed—you did the right thing. Rome is wrong—
    Yes, said the tall usher. You did the right thing.
    That whole idea was wrong—you showed them—
    You did the right thing Father—
    Good for you, Father—good for you!
    It was a stupid idea—you showed them!
    Yes, Father—you really showed them!
    He turned on them and thrust out his hands.
    No! he said strongly—I have sinned grievously. I no longer deserve to be a priest.
    His hands, which had sinned, shook before him.
    He went to the rectory and packed his bags and went to the bus station. He bought a one-way ticket to New York City. As he sat waiting for the bus, he reflected on what he had done. The sounds of cheering filled his head. He smiled slightly with eyes half closed.
    Purgatory—here I sit in Purgatory. I must go now to the next thing that will strike me, and overcome it, and then go to the next, and overcome that, and to the next—
    I believe in this.
    I believe.
    And it’s what I believe that matters.
    As he mounted the bus steps he knew God had forgiven him.

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