The kettle on the stove whistled shrilly, and Father Andrew walked over and turned off the burner. A cup was already set out on the counter next to the stove, a dry teabag waiting inside. Andrew filled the cup almost to the brim and let the teabag steep in the steaming water for a minute or so. He then dropped the teabag into the trash can and carried his cup into the adjoining room, where he settled into a large, comfortable chair.
The silence and solitude of the church rectory had always been a favored haven for Father Andrew. It was located in an austere wooden building which sat behind the church, separated from the larger building by a small courtyard. A narrow stone path ran through the courtyard and connected the two buildings. The smaller structure was more than a hundred years old. It rested on a rectangular concrete foundation, the blocks of which were poured from a mixture of sand and powdered limestone mined from a nearby quarry, and coal cinders from the builders' own home stoves. The cornerstone gave no indication of the year of construction, but was inscribed with only an unadorned cross. An assortment of trees of varying sizes and species, planted through the years by members of the parish, grew around the grounds. A well-tended flower garden still bloomed vibrantly, despite the lateness of the season, along both sides of the walkway.
A century earlier the modest outbuilding had itself served as the church for the parish. At that time it contained only two rooms. The main room, large enough to seat no more than fifty people, had been used for holding mass. A small anteroom located at the rear of the building had served as the residence of the parish priest for many years, and was later used for Sunday school instruction. When the parish constructed the larger church to accommodate its growing membership, the smaller building continued to be used for a time for small events. Many couples requested the smaller building for their wedding ceremonies, preferring the quaint atmosphere of the old structure to that of the newer, more modern one.
In recent years, however, the older building had given way completely to the newer one as the place of public worship and ceremony. The main room had been remodeled into more comfortable living quarters for the parish priest, with separate living room, bedroom, bathroom and kitchen area. The high, vaulted ceiling had been underlaid with a more functional flat ceiling, and the attic space thus created was now used for storage. The smaller anteroom had been reworked into a sitting area in which the priest could host parishioners seeking his counsel, or others who came by on social visits.
The rooms were small in size and spare in their furnishings, but they were more than adequate to meet Andrew's needs. All that he required was a roof over his head and a place to rest and to think and to write his sermons. These things were generously provided by his God and by the people he served, and he did not feel the desire for anything more.
Andrew sipped gingerly at the cup in his hand. The tea went down deliciously, leaving a relaxing warmth in his throat. He set the cup down on a saucer on the small table next to his chair and sat back with his thoughts.
The rectory had never provided a greater sanctuary for Andrew than it did at present. Even after twenty-five years of practice, the priest always felt drained on Sunday afternoons. After the final mass of the morning, his mind and his spirit needed a place to which they could retreat in order to restore themselves. The ideal place for this restoration to occur, Andrew always found, was the very place in which his sermons were composed. The most important part of his mass, and the most demanding, he would spend long periods alone in this modest home each week preparing his sermons, devoting hour upon hour to the careful thought and reflection which energized his words. God spoke to him most directly in this place, he was convinced, guiding his thoughts toward the message that He wished to have conveyed to His people.
Andrew used his rectory not only as a place to prepare his thoughts for mass, but also as a place to review the experience afterwards. He was continuously critical of his own performance as a teacher to his congregation. He constantly sought assurance that he was bringing a light of understanding into the lives of others. The most well-crafted and well-intended sermon, he knew, was useless if the people who heard it did not take it to heart. Were his sermons effective? he wondered. Was he delivering them well? Was he really reaching the faithful who came to hear him each week? He hoped that he was, but he could not be sure. Few people ever spoke with him about his sermons after they were delivered. Few seemed interested in discussing the meaning of his words with him, or in exploring the subtler ways in which the scriptures might speak to them in their daily lives. Most of his parishioners, he thought sadly, simply went home after church to watch football or auto racing on Sunday afternoons, and they were likely to remember those events far longer than they might recall any of the words that he had offered them.
He knew that the people of his parish had issues in their lives. He knew that they were occasionally worried or frightened by events, or that they were sometimes affected by the same emptiness that Andrew himself felt from time to time, but they rarely sought his help with their personal trials. Other professionals with other degrees and other means of treatment seemed more accessible for a modern populace in need of guidance. Other therapies seemed more direct and more promising for the array of problems posed by the contemporary world. Andrew could not offer pharmacological solutions, and he refused to dabble in therapies that would quickly fall out of fashion once their inefficacies became clear. Instead, he could offer only one book and one ancient philosophy to support the counsel he gave. For his own purposes, he found it to be a wise and adaptable philosophy that, in spite of its age, applied broadly to the entire gamut of human tribulations. Love the Lord with all your heart, it said. And love thy neighbor as thyself. So many difficulties could be overcome by abiding by these simple words. But it was a difficult philosophy to live by nevertheless. It required will and it often required sacrifice, and these were things that people did not come by easily. He was there to help them attain these things, as he unquestionably wanted to be. He only wished, in his most heartfelt way, that more people would allow him the chance to show them the way.
A knock on the door roused Andrew from his ponderings. He took a moment to reacquire himself before rising from his chair and crossing the room. Upon opening the door he was met by the sight of two starkly contrasted figures. The church deacon, a small elderly man whose body seemed even smaller because of his stooped posture, stood in the doorway, an apologetic look on his drawn and aged face. Standing directly behind the deacon, seeming to bear down ominously upon the smaller man from all quarters, was the unmistakably erect and imposing figure of the Mayor.
The deacon, his eyes expressing a thousand pardons for disturbing the priest in his chambers so soon after mass, spoke in a quiet voice. "Excuse me, sir. So sorry to disturb you, but the Mayor asks to speak with you, if you are available at the moment."
Andrew had told the deacon perhaps a dozen times after arriving at the parish that he was not required to refer to him as "sir."
"'Father Andrew' sounds better to me, Henry, don't you think?" Andrew would say. "Or simply 'Father' is fine, if you feel the need to be more formal."
The deacon had gradually learned to address Andrew by these more casual names under most circumstances, but Andrew noticed that the old man always reverted to the more formal title whenever he came to deliver a particularly important or unpleasant message. Andrew immediately knew the reason for the deacon's current formality, and he thanked him reassuringly for escorting the Mayor to his door. The deacon gave a slight nod of his head to both Andrew and the Mayor before shuffling away nervously toward the church, clutching the front of his coat tightly to his chest against the chill of a blustery fall wind.
Andrew held the door open widely for the Mayor and gestured for him to enter. "Please come in, Mr. Mayor," he said, striking the welcoming tone which he conveyed to all of his guests.
"Thank you very much, Father Andrew," the Mayor replied, as he stepped forward confidently and extended his hand toward the priest. Andrew casually offered his hand in response, which the Mayor grasped and shook firmly, never breaking his stride as he moved smoothly through the doorway. A forceful gust of air accompanied him as he stepped into the priest's sitting area. "Goodness, it is getting windy out there!" the Mayor said. "I hope your deacon will forgive me. I felt sorry to drag him out of the church that way. I would have been happy to show myself across the courtyard."
Andrew smiled politely at the Mayor. "Well, Henry would never turn down an opportunity to help someone. He would have felt worse than you do if he had let you walk over here by yourself. Please, take off your coat and have a seat."
Andrew waited patiently while the Mayor removed his overcoat and hung it on the coat rack next to the door. He showed the Mayor to a guest chair and offered him some tea, but the Mayor declined. Andrew then sat slowly down in his own chair with an air of apprehension. Although he knew the Mayor well, the man rarely came by to speak with him in person. Most of their previous conversations had been conducted by telephone, and the Mayor had indeed called him just a couple of days earlier. But the Mayor had insisted that this time he pay the priest a personal visit to discuss an important matter. He could not go into details over the phone, he had said. He would explain everything in person.
"My apologies to you as well, Father," the Mayor said, still settling himself in his chair, "for being somewhat cryptic on the phone the other day. I didn't mean to be evasive. I simply had to get some other things lined up before I was prepared to ask for your help."
"No apology necessary, Mr. Mayor," Andrew replied, still puzzled by the apparent mysteriousness of the Mayor's visit. "What is it that I can do for you?"
"Well," the Mayor said, "let me just begin by saying that that was a very interesting sermon you gave this morning, Father. Very interesting indeed. I found it to be quite stimulating."
"Thank you," the priest replied.
"I can't remember the last time I witnessed such a thoughtful oration given from the pulpit of this church. It was really quite impressive."
Andrew hesitated a moment before responding further, trying to determine whether the Mayor was being sincere in his praise. The Mayor had all the mannerisms of a veteran politician—a warm smile, a reassuring tone of voice, and a polished, affable demeanor which rendered a listener completely incapable of distinguishing a firmly held conviction from a tactical point of debate. Andrew was, for the moment, ready to give the Mayor the benefit of the doubt.
"Well, thank you, Mr. Mayor," Andrew said. "I try to convey a sense of the importance of my sermons to my audience when I speak. I suppose, perhaps, I may get a bit carried away at times."
"Oh, you are far too modest, Father," the Mayor replied. "I was rather pleased to see a vigorous sermon delivered in this church for a change. I have been thinking for a while that this parish needs a more energizing service each Sunday morning. They have become rather lethargic recently, wouldn't you agree?"
"Are you referring to the parish or to the services?" the priest asked.
"Well," the Mayor said, warming up to what now felt to Andrew like a rising debate, "I suppose I was referring to them both. You know it is a basic truth that the flock will follow where the shepherd leads. If a congregation is given a—how shall I say it—a less-than-emphatic message each Sunday by the leader of the parish, then how can we be surprised if they become sluggish in their faith?"
The Mayor paused for a moment to let his point take hold. The priest said nothing.
"We must insure," he continued, "that we do not allow this to happen. I don't mean to be critical, Father, and I hope that you will take my comments in the spirit in which they are offered, but I believe your sermons in the past have been too subdued. I want to encourage you to continue with the type of message that you hit upon today. I don't wish to insult your past efforts, because I know that you have been a fine minister for our community and a dedicated man of God. I only hope to improve the effectiveness of our church and help to provide a more beneficial experience for all of our parishioners."
Again the Mayor paused, allowing the priest an opportunity to respond, if he felt so inclined, without having to interrupt. But Andrew only sat silently in his chair, meeting the Mayor's gaze directly with his own and making no attempt to volley the Mayor's criticisms back and forth.
The Mayor cleared his throat. "It disappoints me," he resumed, "to see our neighbors disengaged from God's teachings for all but an hour each week of their lives. They have so many daily diversions and distractions that they must deal with, so many cares and concerns, and we have been offering them little more than a few readings from the scriptures once a week. It's not enough, Father; simply not enough. I believe that we must do more to guide them through the daily events of their lives. We must engage them directly on issues that affect them.
"Along that line," the Mayor continued, drawing in a breath that indicated he was arriving at an important point, "I thought that I would suggest another avenue by which we might engage the attentions of the community."
Andrew sat a bit straighter in his chair. The Mayor's repeated use of the word "we" drew forth unsettling connotations in his mind, and Andrew chose the words of his reply carefully, preparing himself for whatever unfavorable ideas the Mayor might propose.
"I'm always happy to hear suggestions from my parishioners," Andrew replied. "Although, of course, I can not guarantee that I will be able to accede to every wish. But, in any case, please tell me what you have in mind."
The Mayor's countenance became noticeably more serious, and he spoke in a manner which indicated that he considered his proposal to be more than a suggestion.
"I believe it would be beneficial to our community, Father, if the church were to take a more active role in our civic affairs. We are a self-governing community, as you know, and it is important that all of our public organizations are represented appropriately in the discussion and decision-making process. Therefore, I believe it is incumbent upon an institution as large as this church to provide leadership in these areas."
The Mayor spoke with greater resolve as he continued. He was now firmly engrossed in his train of thought, and he no longer gave any pause which would allow the priest to respond. He leaned forward in his chair, resting one elbow on his knee and gesturing assertively with his other hand as he spoke.
"I don't mean to be blunt, Father, but I must tell you that this church heretofore has been grossly underinvolved in the governance of our daily lives here in Bazelton. The church is routinely relied upon by our citizens for guidance in all matters of a spiritual nature, and you are to be commended for your efforts in that regard. At the same time, however, I must say that the church has neglected its responsibilities towards our more pedestrian needs. We are a community of citizens in both the civic and the parochial sense. The church ought to be central to both of those arenas.
"In fact," the Mayor continued, "if we were to be truly successful in our work, we would not even have to speak of them as two distinct arenas. They would be one arena, and none of us would ever think of them as separate. Church doctrine would automatically be the primary reference whenever and wherever civic matters were discussed. Not so very long ago that was the way things were handled. I have lived here in Bazelton all of my life, Father, and I speak from personal experience. It was a way that was very natural and commonplace. But lately we have allowed ourselves to fall behind in this regard, and I think it is of the utmost importance that we recapture that position for the church within our community. I don't put any of the blame for this on your shoulders. You are a newcomer to this town; the fault really lies with your predecessors. But let's not concern ourselves with placing blame. We must concentrate on the present. I have done my best to provide good governance to our community from the political side, but I am finding it increasingly difficult to meet all of the challenges we face as a society on my own from my position as Mayor. I need allies to support me from within the major social organizations, and the church is the largest and most important of all those organizations.
"So," the Mayor continued, "I am requesting your cooperation in achieving this goal. I am not here to simply place this responsibility solely on your shoulders and walk away. I am here to help you. I propose that we work as a team to achieve this common goal. I have a great many ideas as to how we can be successful, but your participation is necessary. I hope that I can count on you to fulfill your responsibilities here."
The Mayor sat back in his chair, straightening his necktie and crossing one leg over the other. His hands came to rest in his lap as he waited for the priest to reply. He knew that it would take a few moments for him to formulate a response. It always did.
Andrew pondered his words. He felt that he was being manipulated, but he was unable to refuse the Mayor before he heard specifically what he would propose. It was difficult to refute what the Mayor had said because his comments had been so general. Of course the church might get more involved in community life, Andrew thought. If the Mayor intended to propose a new Christian daycare center or a summer Bible study program, the priest did not need to be talked into supporting such projects. He would gladly undertake the effort if the need was demonstrated. But Andrew knew that the Mayor must have something more ambitious in mind. The Mayor was obviously preparing to propose something more radical, more controversial. Andrew was not ready to turn away the Mayor's overture out of hand, but he knew that he had to establish his ground in this unfolding debate.
"I don't know specifically what you have in mind, Mr. Mayor," Andrew said, "so you will have to explain these ideas of yours to me in more detail. Perhaps the church could assist you in some limited capacity."
The Mayor nodded. "I will be glad to tell you what I have in mind, Father, but first let me ask you a few questions, if you don't object."
"Not at all," Andrew said.
The Mayor spliced the fingers of his hands tightly together and slipped them over the top of his crossed knee. "You perform funeral services here at the church, correct?" he asked.
"Yes, of course."
"And must the deceased have been baptized a Catholic before you would perform a funeral service?"
"That's the normal procedure. Why would anyone bring a non-Catholic decedent to this church for a funeral?"
"Oh, for example," the Mayor said conjecturally, "suppose a young child died shortly after birth, before he or she could be baptized. Would it be appropriate for you to perform a Catholic funeral service for that child?"
"Well," said Andrew, "assuming that the parents were Catholic, I don't see any problem with it. I can't say that I have ever been in that situation myself, but I seem to recall that funeral services have been performed under those types of circumstances in other parishes within this diocese. To be safe I would want to check with the bishop. But my assumption would be that it would be appropriate."
"I see," said the Mayor thoughtfully. "And what if the identity of the parents was unknown? What if the baby had been abandoned by his or her parents and they were never found? Would the church still be willing to sanction a funeral in that case?"
"Now you're getting into a bit of a gray area, Mr. Mayor. Are you referring to an actual case?"
"No, not any single case specifically. I am speaking more or less hypothetically for the moment. But I am extremely curious as to the church's position on services for persons not yet baptized into the church."
"Well, I would definitely have to consult with the bishop in that situation. I can't say with certainty that the church would condone such a service."
"I see," the Mayor said again. He raised his head slightly toward the ceiling and folded his arms across his chest, holding his chin pensively in one hand. "Perhaps I could make a suggestion as to how we could handle such a case."
Again with the "we," Andrew thought. He was beginning to dislike this entire conversation.
"Suppose we performed two services," the Mayor said. "Suppose we first baptized the child and then we performed the funeral service. That would remove any restrictions, wouldn't you say?"
Andrew no longer had to consider his response. "Mr. Mayor," he replied abruptly, "what you are implying is a very radical idea. On whose initiative would these services be requested? Surely the court would appoint some legal representative to handle such a case. Are you suggesting that the church conduct some sort of scavenger hunt for unclaimed bodies and confiscate them for inclusion into the church after death? That strikes me as completely inappropriate. The church is an institution that must be joined of one's own free will while one is still living, and it doesn't occur all at once. Baptism is only the first step. Confirmation is really the more significant sacrament. It is the expression of the individual's free choice to join the church, and his acceptance of the responsibilities that that entails. I don't see that anything is gained by baptizing a body after the soul has departed."
The Mayor waved a hand at the priest's objection as if he were shooing a fly.
"What is to be gained," the Mayor replied, "may not be apparent in the short term, I agree. But I feel that we must consider all of the possibilities that are available to us. You see, Father, membership in the church is a valuable thing. It confers upon the individual a certain standing in the eyes of the community. We can use that standing to accomplish good things."
"Of course we can," Andrew retorted. "But we are both members of the church already."
"Yes, I know," the Mayor said. "But I am not talking about you and me. I am talking about the standing of the many deceased of our community who have never had a chance to join the church because their lives were taken from them prematurely. You must know who I am talking about, Father. I am speaking of the countless children who are aborted from their mother's wombs before they are born. In the eyes of many they have no standing. They are not recognized as souls worthy of saving. I want to change that. I want the community to see each of these lost souls as something to be mourned, as someone to be dignified in a moral way. The church is the best mechanism we have for doing that. If the church recognizes these children as children, and affords them the dignity of baptism and funeral rights, then we will have taken a great step forward in demonstrating the loss that this horrible practice inflicts on us. That is what I intend to show the people, Father. And that is the course in which I hope you will assist me. I want to hold formal services in this church for the lost children of Bazelton. I want to baptize them, and I want to eulogize them, and I want to lay them to rest in the cemetery with the full backing and participation of the church. I want the community to see that we care about the discarded souls of these children even if others do not. I don't want anyone to think that these children can just be tossed aside like so much waste. We must do something to stop that sort of mentality from seeping into the conscience of the community any further than it already has, because once it reaches a certain level it will be very difficult to cleanse away. This church is a model of goodness in this town, but I want it to be more than that. I want to make it a beacon of greatness. I hope I can count on your help in doing this."
Andrew looked at the Mayor critically. He was deeply unsettled by the man's suggestion, not only because it violated the presumptions of the individual sacraments involved, but also because it cast the church into an extremely precarious role. The Mayor was obviously not proposing to conduct the solemn ceremonies that these sacraments were intended to be. What he was proposing, instead, was political activism. Andrew could imagine the atmosphere at such services: pontificating rhetoric proclaimed loudly and boisterously for the benefit of television cameras and a fervently energized assembly. The deceased souls for which the Mayor claimed such compassion would be little more than instruments, conveniently within his grasp, by which the Mayor would snare the attention of the electorate. Andrew had heard the Mayor speak to several audiences during his recent campaign appearances, and he knew that the man was a candidate in full battle mode. Everything he did in public was engineered entirely for one purpose, and Andrew wanted no involvement in that purpose for himself or for the church.
"Let me say this about what I feel is the proper role for this church in this community," Andrew said, resolved to refuse the Mayor's request. "This church has one role and one role only, and that is to help each of our neighbors live a good Christian life. Now we may talk about exactly what we think represents such a life, and we may talk further about various actions which we may take and services which we may provide to our neighbors to assist them in this regard, but I think we must remain focused on our individual areas of responsibility here. I am not inclined, as you suggest that I should be, to blur the distinction between the church and the state to achieve these goals. I believe too much of that approach has been used in the past, to the detriment of our society. There was, as you correctly say, a time when little distinction between the two spheres of influence existed in the minds of the people. But that was not because the two spheres were joined into one as you imply. Rather, it was because each of those spheres knew and remained faithful to their proper place in the affairs of the people."
Now it was Andrew's turn to lean forward in his chair and occupy the space between the two men.
"Until recent years," he continued, "people tended to take direction for their living from the church, and no other entity dared to challenge its authority. And for the most part, the church did not exceed that authority. It pronounced a few simple rules about how one should live and it left the rest to the discretion of each individual. The church did not think of society in terms of groups, pitting this faction against that faction, which is such a common theme of life today. We were all brothers and sisters before God, and we were expected to live in harmony. It is true that we did not always live up to these ideals which had been set for us, but that was due to the weakness of the human character, not a flaw in the message that the church taught.
"Our government—your government—on the other hand, has a starkly different pedigree, if I may be allowed to view it with a critical eye. The state was not always such a pervasive influence in our daily lives. It has grown to encompass more than it naturally should, and, may I say, you have been a chief architect in its advance. You have created a leviathan, Mr. Mayor, and it has metastasized around us. I can not be held responsible for the thing that you have made, and I certainly will not contribute to its expansion. I can only counsel you to refrain from going further in this direction. You have built something of an empire for yourself here in Bazelton, and I know that you have ambitions that extend beyond this city. My advice to you is to abandon those ambitions. You have a wife who needs you and a community that respects you. Let me administer to the spiritual needs of our community as I see fit. If you would focus on the needs of your family and your local community rather than those of the entire state, I believe you would be leading a more fruitful life."
"I think you misunderstand me, Father," the Mayor replied. "I did not come here to ask for your advice on how I should manage my career. I have that very well in hand, thank you. And I will take any further suggestion that Louise is not well cared for as a personal insult."
"Forgive me, Mr. Mayor," Andrew said. "That is not what I meant. I know that you have attended to your wife's needs with the utmost compassion and resolve. I have often seen you do so with my own eyes. I simply worry that you will not be able to devote the additional time and attention to her that she will require in the coming years if you take on much additional responsibility."
Andrew sat back in his chair and tried to relax. "You realize as well as I do that Alzheimer's is a progressive disease," he said calmly. "Louise will never recover from it. The disease will only progress day by day, little by little, gradually taking her ability to care for herself. Her dependence on you will only grow greater with each passing day. I do not deny that you have the right to exercise your authority as Mayor as you feel is appropriate. But as your minister, I implore you to not overextend yourself. I only suggest..."
"With all due respect," the Mayor interrupted, "my motivation for speaking with you now does in fact come from my commitment to the people of Bazelton. I was not elected to sit back and watch my community fall from grace. I am not the type of person who can do that, and the people do not expect me to allow that to happen. They want me to do something about it."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor," said Andrew, "but I can not help you here. I would be abusing the role of the church and trampling the sanctity of the sacraments by conducting them in the way that you propose." His tone indicated that this was his final judgment on the subject.
The two men sat in silence for several moments, each wordlessly holding his ground. A gust of wind blew through the courtyard outside, and a smattering of dry leaves brushed up against the panes of the rectory window. The Mayor drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, pursing his lips as if he had just tasted something especially bitter.
"I wonder if I may ask you another question, Father," the Mayor said.
Andrew nodded, almost imperceptibly.
"I wonder if you might want to consult with the bishop before you give me your final answer."
"There is no need for that," Andrew said. "I consult with the bishop when I feel it is necessary. This is not such a time. I am quite sure that my decision is the correct one. And I am equally sure that the bishop would agree with me if I was to consult him on the matter."
"I admire your confidence, Father," the Mayor said. "I really do. But in a matter of this importance, I'm sure you will forgive me if I ask for verification from your superior."
The Mayor's tone was discomfortingly self-assured. Andrew was becoming annoyed.
"Mr. Mayor, I will tell you again. Your suggestion is unacceptable. I will not dignify it by bothering the bishop. He will see it the same way that I do. As far as I am concerned, the matter is closed."
Again the Mayor drew in his breath and audibly let it escape.
"Father," he said slowly, "I have learned over the course of my many years in public life that one can never be completely certain as to what opinion another man will hold on a particular subject unless one inquires directly." The Mayor carefully reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a cellular phone. He slowly opened the faceplate on the front of the phone and held it out toward the priest. "Perhaps you should call His Excellency and ask for his opinion. You'll find his number on my speed-dial. He's number nine."
Andrew stared at the phone. For a long time he could not take his eyes from the buttons on the keypad. He knew, painfully, that it was pointless to make the call. The Mayor's subjugating tone told him that he had already spoken to the bishop and his approval had already been acquired. Andrew felt the Mayor watching him as he sat there motionless, frozen in his defeat.
Finally the Mayor spoke. "I hope you realize, Father, that I have the greatest respect for you," he said, as he closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. "You are a man of God, and in my eyes there are very few men whose works are of greater importance than yours. My grandfather was a preacher; did I ever tell you that?"
Andrew did not give any visible response.
"Anyway," the Mayor continued, "I respect you not only for your profession, but also because you are a man of principle. You stand up for what you feel is right and I can not fail to admire you for that. You and I are really not so very different in that regard. Our tactics are different, that is true, but our goals, in the end, I hope you will come to see are very much the same. At least the bishop seems to think they are."
The Mayor stood up and retrieved his overcoat from the rack.
"My secretary will send you all of the information that you will need to prepare for the services," he said, as he slipped his arms into his coat. "I don't have the schedule fully worked out just yet, but it shouldn't take more than a few more days to finalize. We'll start off small. I like to begin something like this modestly and work up from there. It doesn't pay to start off too ambitiously, you know. If you do, then where are you going to go from there, you see my point?" He buttoned up the front of his coat and pulled a set of keys from one pocket. "No, we'll keep it small to begin with. You won't have to do much in the way of preparation yourself, Father. I'll handle most of the services myself, but the formal blessings and so forth will be yours."
The Mayor walked to the door and looked out through the window. "The wind seems to have died down a bit out there," he said. "That's good. I was afraid we might be in for a big storm. Well, good afternoon, Father. Like I said, my secretary will be in touch."
The Mayor let himself out of the rectory and closed the door tightly behind him. Father Andrew stayed in his chair and did not move. For a long time he sat alone in the fading light of the autumn afternoon, his cold, half-empty cup of tea sitting untouched beside him, and in his mind he heard the words of his morning sermon come back to him from what seemed a great distance.