"Father Michael?" Father Michael looked up from the paper "Why did you become a priest?"
"Oh, well, now Father Dwyer, that would be something of a story"
Really? Thought Father Dwyer, I was rather hoping you'd say something like 'I felt a call' or 'I had a vocation', because frankly my boy, you are a putz.
"I see", he said out loud "I only ask because your sermon on transubstantiation was, well wrong, totally contrary to Catholic doctrinal teaching so it was. And so I wondered, you know, what it was that brought you to Mother Church"
Father Dwyer was a country priest of a school long gone. He did not hold with the pseudo-friendliness of parishioners (or assistant priests) calling him by his first name. He was their shepherd, there should be distance and respect. And there was. He was average height, average build, his hair (when he had it) had been brownish, even his intellect was average. What was not average, (and his parish recognised this) was his love. He loved his parish and his parishioners. He'd been a priest for 30 years and he'd had his doubts; but he came back stronger, more compassionate, for realising that all are fallible, all need support.
Father Michael, now, he was of different stock "Well, father, I suppose perhaps it will give them something to think about. And you can put them right next Sunday so you can"
Father Dwyer looked at this ... this putz, no other word for it. Why was he here? Had he become a priest to be near little boys? If so he was either very clever or very stupid.
Two weeks after Father Michael arrived as newly appointed (unasked for) assistant priest, a priest who had originally been in a near-by parish had died in South America and there had been uproar at his funeral when accusations were made publically and loudly about his paedophile tendencies. People in Ireland then came forward; hurt, sad, disappointed people who had lost their faith because of this person. It seemed the church had known and packed him off somewhere far, far away to cover it up.
That Sunday Father Dwyer had preached on "Suffer little children to come unto me".
"If anybody was to lay a finger on a child in my parish I would hospitalise them! [he held aloft a blackthorn walking stick that could probably break an arm]. And I cannot advocate violence in others but I would not be surprised if every biological father here felt the same.
I am disgusted and appalled that our church is being dragged through the gutter like this"
People moved in their seats, was he condoning a cover up?
"I condemn not the press, the media, the victims. I condemn the priests and hierarchy that have allowed this to go on. They should be ashamed. I question how any church could condone private confession as adequate to put this right. ENOUGH!" he had slammed the stick down on the lectern and everybody jumped. His sermon had made headlines, for a day or two, before 'sleazy school head touches up pupils' took over.
No, any pervert priest who stayed around after that was either stupid or reckoned no-one would suspect him here. Father Dwyer rather suspected that in any test Father Michael would fall into the former category.
Weeks went past and they slipped into something of a tacit arrangement. Father Michael took the early mass (no sermon needed), and usually officiated at the main morning mass while Father Dwyer did the sermon. Father Michael generally couldn't mess up the rigorously laid down structure of the mass service. Father Dwyer got used to having him around, and it was good to cheer on Ireland demolishing England at rugby with company rather than alone.
Then the letter came
Hoping you are well and still giving your firey sermons. Hoping that Father Michael has settled in too. It is concerning Father Michael that I am writing. A vacancy has come up for Diocesan Liaison Manager, and I'd very much appreciate it if you could write a letter of recommendation concerning him. I feel it is just the kind of position to bring out the best in him.
I must get over to the parish sometime soon to meet up with my oldest friend (still alive that is – ho ho).
.... There is more of this story ...