Isaiah 12:2
Thursday 30th August: Mary Young had had a good Catholic funeral. A splendid affair worthy of someone much loved whose death had come as a shock to the community. In the absence of clear evidence of suicide, the coroner had gone with death by misadventure. That had made things easier for the family - and for the church.
Jane Hanlin of 195 Longhill, Mary's neighbor, stepped in when Bob Young felt unable to organize a wake for his late wife. Jane had been close to Mary, had indeed thought she knew her, until this had happened. Jane was Episcopalian but she had been as shocked as any of the members of the congregation of Our Lady of Perpetual Help on Sumner.
Jane's husband, Michael, a former State Department diplomat, presided over the elaborate wake. More than four hundred guests came and went through the doors of 195 Longhill that late August day.
Now most of the guests had melted away. Those still there were in the Hanlin's oak-paneled drawing room, collapsed in assorted armchairs and sofas under the imperious gaze of an array of bronze coffee pots, mortars and pestles, keepsakes and artifacts from Michael Hanlin's days posted as an ambassador in the Middle East.
Things were calmer and the Hanlin's maid, Maria, was mixing apple martinis for the few remaining stalwarts in honor of the fact that apple martinis had been Mary's drink of preference, one of the few indulgences she had allowed herself.
The bishop was one of those who had lingered behind. Patrick O'Malley, Bishop of Springfield, was younger than most who achieved these exalted ranks. The rest of the company now numbered twelve in mute resonance with Christ and his apostles: Our hosts, Jane and Michael Hanlin; Father Sebastian; poor Angela, the hard done by blue-eyed blonde, and her reprobate husband Baxter Merrill; the recently married Hartnetts, Sean and Trish. Sean worked as a master carpenter, Trish as an interior designer. Also present were Richard and Marilyn Bryer who lived down in the valley. Richard had been a spook for the CIA and shared postings with Michael. Marilyn, the pillar of every church potluck and annual fair, could bake up a storm. Then there was Vicky Walters, trainee teacher at the local elementary school and latter-day hippie. And last but not least, police officer Donna White and her widowed mother Alicia.
Conversation revolved around the bishop. He had sent Bob Young home in the care of the monsignor of the parish, Father Davidson, and was now waxing lyrical. This apple martini was not his first drink of the proceedings.
Alicia White had encouraged Bishop O'Malley by asking why there was suffering in the world. The death of her own husband had hit her like a sledgehammer and she empathized with Bob.
Before the bishop could reply the ever-loquacious Marilyn Bryer chipped in. She had taught the children of the parish their catechism and done well at it. An achievement indeed. Teaching a gum-chewing, pubescent twelve-year-old how to tell the rosary is no easy task. Her success had given her some authority in matters spiritual, which she traded on on this occasion. "Points in heaven. The more you suffer the more points you earn in heaven. Could save you fifty years in purgatory."
The bishop raised a quizzical eyebrow at what he regarded as a very curious approach to church doctrine but didn't contradict her. This was at least in part spiritually sound. He cleared his throat and raised his hand - a gesture on his part severe enough to silence even Marilyn. She widened her eyes in anticipation as the bishop allowed the silence to build for a second before launching forth.
He stretched out crossed legs and leaned back in his chair. "As I see it," he pronounced, flicking a near invisible speck of dust from his lapel, "God made his decision when he created the universe. All that existed was made in a state of utter perfection." Bishop O'Malley's bright blue eyes glistened as his audience waited. He enjoyed exercising authority, as the rest of the company was aware. His eye rested on young Sean Hartnett, who seemed transfixed by the bishop.
Bishop O'Malley smiled at the young man and addressed the remainder of his conversation to him. It was his way, to pick one member of his audience as a focal point, little by little dominating that one individual with his intellect and thus avoiding the complication of having to empathise with his audience as a whole.
"As the good book tells us," said Bishop O'Malley, brushing aside a strand of boyish black hair that had fallen over his forehead, "God saw that everything was good. And he gave us free will. Both a blessing and a curse. In the scriptures," explained the bishop, "Free will is represented by the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.
"Without free will we would be mere automatons. It is present, as the tree is present in Eden. We are not expected to exercise the option for negative choice it represents. We are expected to be perfect."
Father Sebastian surprised himself by interrupting. "But Bishop, we are told that we all fall short of the glory of God."
The bishop smiled as to an indulgent child and sat up straight in his chair. "Yes, quite correct. But there are moments, for instance when you are engaged in selfless prayer, when you approach perfection - however briefly. God expects us to extend those moments, until we are true expressions of love. Christ commands us to be perfect in the Sermon on the Mount, despite our frailty."
"Yeh, Bishop, that's great. But none of that explains why God tolerates suffering," said Sean Harnett.
The skin at the corners of Bishop O'Malley's eyes crinkled as he smiled. "Come by and discuss it with me over coffee some time," he said to Sean. Then to the assembled company, "I am not dodging the question. There is no way God can intervene in creation under normal circumstances - for to do so would be to subvert free will."
Sean wasn't ready to be dismissed. "Just sayin' that doesn't make it true. Tsunamis, earthquakes, that sort of thing. God does that. That's the truth, but maybe you don'ow that, or do you just not wanna dare face it? Perhaps God's a traitor to life."
The bishop ran his tongue over his lower lip. "He doesn't so much cause these disasters as fail to intervene. St Paul teaches us the whole of creation is alive, aching for redemption. God has set everything in motion, then removed his hand. He has had to."
Sean wasn't giving up. "All the same, he doesn't care about the world if he does nothing. One thing I don't need is a God who doesn't care."
The bishop reached across, touching the younger man on the knee, focusing in on him entirely. "There is one way and one way only in which God can intervene, interfere directly I mean. That is in answer to prayer." The bishop took his hand away from Sean's knee and looked round at the others. "That because your act of prayer is an enabling act of free will. God is responding, not initiating."
"But his response is limited," Sean contended. "He doesn't wanna stop wars, prevent evil."
The bishop looked steadily at Sean and spoke with slow emphasis. "You think that God should move across the stage of this world leaving quivering nerves and cut tissue?"
"Not exactly how I'd put it but," Sean nodded, "I guess . . . Uh huh."
"Wrong. Not that God couldn't do so if He chose. It is wrong to place limits on God. But in my experience, God's priorities are not necessarily our priorities. Unfortunately . . ."
A silence fell on the assembled company, which embarrassed their Episcopalian host, Michael Hanlin. He smiled broadly and climbed to his feet. "Maria . . . another martini all round I think."
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