MAPLEWOOD, VIRGINIA
(or, maybe, St. Matt's)
[With apologies to Sherwood Anderson]
Chapter One
What’s In a Name
Six o’clock is always too early for Chris. He knew he stayed up too late, but there was a lot or reading to do. Still he was a good enough priest to make sure he began Mass promptly. Six-thirty was about as late dedicated parishioners could catch Mass and get to work on time.
Nonetheless, it was always a scramble for him to wash and dress and say a prayer and be at the altar on time.
Before he had knelt next to his bed for a moment and climbed in he had been reading St. Thomas Aquinas, contemplating the theology that churchmen for centuries had relied upon to set church doctrine. Chris Utermollen was orthodox in his training and faithful to that education in carrying out his priestly duties. Not all of his congregants in St. Christopher parish were of the same mindset; they, however, seemed to accept their pastor and his teachings because he had the good humor of a slightly overweight middle-aged man.
After Mass that day a thirty-something parishioner of a more progressive bent appeared in the sacristy with his opinion on the subject that currently was agitating most of the congregation. Sean O’Conner, a graduate of Boston College, challenged Chris on who would be the new patron saint of St. Christopher’s. Chris, of course, had been pleased when the bishop assigned him to church dedicated to his namesake. Now the Vatican had decided the sainted man who bore on his back across a raging stream the Second Person of the Blessed Trinity was fictive. The parish needed a new name and Chris had persuaded his bishop to permit the parishioners a voice in selecting a new patron. The name “Chistopher”, of course, described the act of the fictional character rather than merely being a given name.
Sean argued for his favorite American saint, Elizabeth Seaton who dedicated herself to teaching children after she was widowed. A St. Elizabeth of Hungry parish already existed in the diocese; that should not deter the bishop from honoring an American saint. Chris was not opposed to that saint as the parish’s new patron, but he was not enthusiastic either. Besides, he did wish as much input from the parishioners as he could get. The project, he supposed, would bring more reaction than perhaps anything he might be involved in, other than taking a stand – or appearing to take a stand – on some controversy that would inspire those in the pews to spew letters of complaint to the bishop. The absence of girl altar servers in the diocese had already caused the bishop a lot of stomach upsets because of local reaction.
“Judas priest, Father! You don’t want a woman saint’s name on this parish,” Sean shouted in disgust. Father Utermollen chastised him, “Do you realize youhave used an euphemism for the Savior’s name?” Chris managed to mollify Sean by saying he would add St. Elizabeth Seaton to his list, and then managed to turn the conversation to baseball. The hometown triple-A club was in a slump.
The priest went to the rectory and made himself a fattening breakfast featuring bacon and cinnamon toast with plenty of butter. Afterward when he had finished his daily office reading in his breviary, he got down a book of saints from his study’s book shelves. There were martyrs, and religious order founders – men and women – and the stigmatics. None of the names seemed to strike a note with him. And, he remembered, it was he who had persuaded the bishop to consider the suggestions of St. Christopher’s parishioners. Still. Maybe he could nudge them in his direction, should he be able to settle on a favorite saint’s name.
Chris’s book of saints happened to be an old one that contained a listing for Christopher that went so far to note that he had died circa 251 at Lycia. It also noted that “many legends had grown up around his name.” The account continued that “he was an ugly giant who made his living carrying people across a river.” Christopher, it noted, was the patron of travelers “and in modern times particularly of motorists.” Because of that last notation, the Vatican’s recantation on the saint led to numerous accounts in the press commenting on all those medals that motorists kept in their cars would be only souvenirs, and talismans.
A couple of other Christophers were listed in the saints book, both Italian priests of the 13th and 15th centuries. So should one of them be picked as the successor patron? That would require a lot of explanation, if not a change in the rectory’s letterhead.
Chris prepared for bed, crawled in and his thoughts ran rampant then settled on what to rename the parish. O’Connor was becoming a real pain. He was lobbying other members of St. Christopher to swing toward Saint Elizabeth Seaton. That was his call, of course. Yet, there should be a way to stimulate more interest in a new name. Chris tried bringing it up in his Sunday homily, but few suggestions were coming into the rectory. The next thing Chris remembers is a buzzer going and going. He had a half hour ‘til Mass.
Mabel Schnetzer and Ester Langford were daily communicants, and daily complainers. They couldn’t understand why St. Christopher had been removed from the official listing of saints. Their line of attack was to flank the rectory and make a direct assault on the chancery. Bishop Hemrick was not accustomed to people coming up to him after his Masses to complain; he knew how to handle obsequious Catholics, but not those who wanted something other than what he had ordered his pastors to do. The widows Schnetzer and Langford told him upon his scheduled visit to St. Christopher that there was no need – indeed, no necessity – to change the name of the parish. His repetition of the opinion from Rome, which he now had down pat in a sentence of mere boilerplate, did not convince the ladies.
“You’re so kind to take such interest in this parish’s dilemma,” Bishop Hemrick said, or words to that effect. In truth, he wanted to tell them to shove off, but that was the kind of language the old sailor from the Korean Conflict was reluctant to use. Insteadhe encouraged them to submit their choice of St.Gregory to Father Utermollen.
The deadline having arrived, Chris called a meeting of the parish council to consider the names proposed for the parish. General Henry Allen Peperdyne, the retired Marine who chaired the council, had organized the name selection process with the precision of a phalanx Alexander the Great might have ordered into battle. His laptop at hand, he appointed Anne Curran at his left to open the suggestion box and read off the suggestions, and he asked Jake Oberstar at his right hand to take notes. The general would construct a spreadsheet and tally the results on his computer.
Little time elapsed before General Peperdyne discovered there was no pattern, and very little duplication in the suggested saints or titles for the Lord or Mary. His spreadsheet was anything but a battle plan. He admitted to himself that his prowess as an organizer was found wanting. His phalanx had crumbled. A Colonel Blimp would have harrumphed and banged the gavel at that point. Peperdyne coolly named Anne Curran and Jake Oberstar a committee of two to pull together a list of ten of the twelve dozen or so names suggested for submission to the parishioners in ballot form. The ballots, he suggested, were to be passed out by ushers at all Masses two weeks hence. Pencils would be at the end of pews so that the congregants had no excuses to leave without marking their choices.
St. Isidore the Farmer got the plurality for some reason Chris could not conjure. The runner-up, St. Ethelbert, probably finished high because the parish was close to home of a NFL franchise whose current star running back was Omar Ethelbart, close enough for football fans. The general wanted to take the first two names and have a run-off election, so to speak. Chris was not too sure, and besides, no female saint’s name had garnered many votes.
Sean O’Connor showed up at the next Council meeting, arguing with passion and a background paper for St. Elizabeth. Council members could come up with no logical reasons to counter his arguments, but for the sake of their process, rejected him out of hand.
Chris faced no real deadline from the bishop, but he did wish to have an end to the new name business. He thought of calling for a novena for the purpose of inspiration, but invoking a novena in the name of a particular saint would be like asking Dick Chaney to head a committee to select a vice presidential candidate. If only St. Christopher hadn’t turned out to be fictitious. He had betrayed, so to speak, people who had depended upon him. The non-saint was a sort of Judas.
“Having nominated two candidates,” The Acts of the Apostles read, “Joseph, known as Barsabbas, whose surname was Justus, and Matthias, they prayed, ‘Lord, you can read everyone’s heart; show us therefore which of these two you have chosen to take over this ministry and apostolate which Judas abandoned to go to his proper place.’ They then drew lots for them, and as the lot fell to Matthias, he was listed as one of the twelve apostles.”
Father Utermollen asked General Peperdyne to prepare a drawing for the next council meeting. Somehow all the slips contained the same saint’s name.
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