April, 2005 was the passing of Pope Paul II and the Conclave. This piece is brought in here to show the work asked of me back then. It goes on now.
The Holy Spirit and Me–On The Beach
Pine Point, Maine
April 5, 2005
Mid April here is crotchety, cantankerous. Most of the snow has melted but the winds are cold, cold, cold. It is so great to be able to get to the beach. The impassable bank of snow at the end of our Lane was 35 feet high, where the plows had dumped it on a straight-in run. In the winter, we had cut paths through neighbor’s yards and beaten out a footpath to frozen sand. But, we didn’t go down on the beach much in January or February, and the Dachshunds were happy about that. Their feet get hurt and their lowslung bellies drag on the crusty top of frozen snow.
Cold as it was today, the sun said, “Come, smell salt, feel the crunch of sand that will soon be like warm grains of sandy powder when it’s all dried through and through. Be Maine people, Yankees, and trudge the northeastern shore of America.”
With it there was another Voice, “Hi, Paul. How are the Doxies? They look perky. You OK?”
I looked around. Nobody in sight. ‘Oh! Oh!,” the weird mind thought, “She’s back.” Tentatively, trying to appear serene, contemplative, I spoke softly, “That you, Holy Spirit? Been a long time now. Been OK with you, too? Sorry ‘bout the Pope and all.”
“Not to be sorry – I keep wanting to call you Emanuel – it is your first name, of course.”
“’Tis, but I rarely use it. Was a mother’s trick on an unborn child, you know how it is. They get these wild ideas and moniker a person for life. She didn’t want to use it, either, but liked that ‘E. Paul’ sound a lot. Whatever, a name’s a name. Hey, just came to me, you and the Father don’t have names at all. Only Jesus.”
“Thought you’d never notice, Paul. Names are for humans, because there are so many of you. Jesus has one because he was with you for a while. We did give a few names out to angels just to call attention to their peculiarities. Speaking of names, got any bets on the next Pope?”
“Your pick, isn’t it, Paraclete? Why ask me?”
“Not my pick at all. Peter just asked me to keep an eye on you, see how you were doing on that assignment he gave you about the church in this century. WE want to make sure things go OK, you know.” The Holy Spirit seemed miffed at me.
So, I miffed right back, “Looks like you’re doing a lousy job of it. Where the heck you been since he sent me back? Same place you weren't during the Crusades and the Inquisition? No Holy. No Spirit. No nothing. Just a gang of thugs killing people in torture and slaughter. The Shoah is the Horror. And where were you for the last 40 years when Vatican II was supposed to make it a church of the people instead of the clergy clowns? Where were you when our kids were being raped by a handful of sick and depraved priests? What were you doing when the bishops started the cover-up, which is still going on, I might add? Some Paraclete you are!”
“Hey, son, don’t talk to me as if I were a bishop who deserves no respect. We Three move in and out of human affairs in ways that you will not understand until you’re here and can see the whole picture. What you see are like those film clips on newscasts, smidgens of reality, designed to impress or revolt in 5 or 6 seconds of viewing. We keep reminding you to back off now and then to drink it all in, let the big picture take shape and then move on. Like the dribs out of Rome today: 40 votes for Ratzinger, 30 for Martini. Thoughts? Impulses? Got a favorite?”
“H.S., you know darn well my favorite is Cardinal Martini and has been since I first heard of him some years ago. He’s a real Jesuit, a biblical scholar, and he means it about collegiality rather than one-man rule. But, he sure doesn’t want to be Pope. I remember that great wisecrack he gave to a friend who asked him for his favorite color a couple of years ago, and he snapped back, ‘White.’ Nobody in the College of Cardinals can loose his sandal straps. As for that white-haired hardliner, don’t get me started now. He’s cruel. 40 votes is nothing. It’s 77 for 2/3rds and 58 for majority. I can count, you know.”
“Just asking, Paul, just asking,” said the Holy Spirit, “trying to decide whether I should interfere or not.”
“Have you forgotten 1978? Karol had only 5 votes on the first ballot. Did you interfere then?” I was getting a little upset with her interfering, not interfering, broad picture, soundbites, other worldly attitude. Some Paraclete. Word means to come alongside and give aid. Where the heck has she been? Even if she does show up, nobody can tell.
“Can’t say. What difference would it make now? What I want to know, and why I dropped in this morning, is whether you’re staying on as Catholic, regardless of who gets the papacy,” from a pushy Holy Spirit.
“You care that much? About me? Little old me? Well, to take a page from our heavenly book, what difference does it make, whether I do or I don’t? There are over 1 billion Catholic souls on the planet today. 1 billion. In this whole country, there are 67 million of us. You going to notice whether I’m on board or not after the 18th?”
“Ah! you’re guessing one ballot, then?” quickly from the Spirit.
“Huh? No, I’m not. The Cardinals begin voting on the 18th. I don’t know how long it’ll go. There’s not even the foggiest of how many ballots or who’s going to come out in whites. And frankly, My Dear, I don’t give a damn, to quote Clark Gable. It doesn’t make much difference who’s Pope, same as who’s President. Country and Church roll right along regardless. Just gives us something to crow about or complain about with cheers or boos.”
Hannah, my Dachshund, was whimpering. I looked down and she was soaked. Must have fallen in the surf while chasing a bird. The other one was up in the high grass looking for food. I picked Hannah up, snuggled her beneath my barn coat and kept on,
“I mean, Holy Spirit, just take a look at the history of our Popes. Most of them were mediocre foul-ups anyway. The last two great ones, Leo and Gregory, were 1,500 years ago. Only 80 or so out of over 260 made Saint. We’ve had more than our share of murderers, lechers, women chasers, warmongers and empire builders than most countries and their dictators. No country has ever had the fierce kind of absolute rulers we’ve had. Talk about obeisance and slavery. Mother of God, Holy Spirit, where have you been all these centuries? Out of the Galaxy? In a distant Universe? We even killed God. Crucified him.”
“True. True. You haven’t been very nice people to us, you know, despite all our sunrises and sunsets and morning glories on the plains, and …”
“An earthquake or two, plus some tsunami and volcanoes … Yeah, you put on quite a show when you have a mind to get our attention, don’t you?” I had to interrupt her, she was getting so smarmy.
“Well, Paul, think on it, if you will. Prayer won’t hurt. Your friend, the Jesuit Cardinal might be thankful were your prayer to be for God’s will rather than he be Pope. With his Parkinson’s, he might prefer a more peaceful sort of passing on than trying to bring you progressives closer to the neo-cons who’ve just lost their best friend in the Vatican.”
“C’mon. If you can work a miracle to elect Cardinal Martini, you can work a miracle to cure his Parkinson’s, too. I’ll buy that last crack of yours, too, that the conservatives have had their day for a while, so now it’s our turn, but really Holy Spirit, what good will that do, other than giving us a little backrub and a pat on the top of our heads for a while? There’s so much corruption in the church that it has to be dug out and cleaned up real fast, or there won’t even be a church.”
“That’s why I stopped you this morning, Paul. We left the church in your hands. You built it. You staffed it. You ran it for these past two thousand years. Rarely did we interfere. We’re a bit touchy on that free will business, you know, and from personal experience, we know how difficult it can be in tight spots. We were afraid, frankly, that you and your friends were going to bolt, if you didn’t get your way this time. You have been pretty strident lately.”
“Naw, we’re not bolting. Where would we go? We love you, even if you’re so distant at times. Not too romantic to say this, but you are all we got. You are the All, from whom all things come. We believe, even if we groan or scream a lot and blame you for the unfairness of it all. Be nice if the church could be sweetness and light, cozy and warm, a home away from home, peace and quiet, but if it were, we’d grow complacent, get bored and drift off looking for excitement some place else, I guess. Besides, if we can’t get along together here, how the heck are we going to do it hereafter? Why won’t those lordly bishops drop that Stalemate of Silence? That’s what keeps bugging me. Ah, if only they would talk to us. . . .”
“Oh! Paul, and you are talking to them?”
There was a swoosh, like a Nike, the dogs barked, and that cold wind picked up again, right off the ocean towards land. I said, “Thanks, God,” and turned around to head back home. Maybe if I stopped calling the bishop a blockhead, he’d open up a little and . . .
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