Robert Blair Kaiser's summary of the story so far: Juana Margarita Obregon, the cardinal's prosecutor in Mexico, stuns the cardinal by appearing in his cathedral plaza, come back, as it were, from the dead. She tells him how she was spared in the jungle holocaust, spared, perhaps, so she could help him re-form the American Church. The cardinal's chancellor, Msgr. Hawkslaw, believes he was brainwashed, a notion more than confirmed when Mahony mounts a Mass of the Resurrection for his martyred captors, confesses his own mishandling of the priestly sex abuse crisis, and tells a packed audience in the cathedral he will be looking for new ways of becoming a Christian. Now here's Chapter Ten...

Chapter 10: Phoebe

A WEEK LATER, MAHONY PAID A VISIT to the Dorothy Day Hospitality House in downtown Los Angeles, and arranged with Jeff Dietrich and his wife, Catherine, to take up residence in his suite at the rectory—getting their agreement to oversee the conversion of the cathedral rectory into an upscale shelter for homeless pregnant women. At nine in the morning, Hawkslaw was pouring himself a cup of coffee in the rectory kitchen when Mahony informed him that they'd be moving—today.

"Where are we going?" asked Hawkslaw.

"I'm moving to the AIDS wing at Queen of Angels. You can go wherever you want."

Hawkslaw gave him a twisted grin. "Kicked out? Just like that? Any suggestions?"

Mahony shrugged. "Every rectory in town has two or three vacant bedrooms. you might call your, uh, friend, your Opus Dei friend at St. Basil's. It's only a few blocks from the office."

STEVE LOPEZ, WHO HAD ALREADY WRITTEN sixteen seething columns about Cardinal Mahony over the past ten years, wrote on the second front page of the Sunday LA Times:

Yesterday, I watched his Mightiness the cardinal-archbishop of Los Angeles making the rounds among AIDS patients at Queen of Angels. He looked like someone who was not in a hurry, surely not in a hurry to condemn these sorry plague victims, surely not to rush off for lunch at the Jonathan Club with members of this town's elite.

He sat with many of these AIDS guys, held their hands, gave them their chemical cocktails, listened to their stories, blessed them, asked them to pray for him.

He looked like Christ with the lepers.

Two days ago, he gave up his deluxe suite in the cathedral rectory, which he has made into a shelter for homeless pregnant women and put the name of Dorothy Day over the door. Then he checked into a two-room suite at Queen of Angels. In the AIDS wing.

At last, we have a bishop who is putting the gospel in play.

I haven't been to Mass in seventeen years.

On Sunday, I am taking my family to Mass at the cathedral.

I understand Cardinal Mahony will be celebrating the ten o'clock.

I want to hear what he has to say. But if he says little, that will be okay.

His recent actions fairly shout.

IN EARLY JANUARY, the cardinal took a phone call from Thomas Dimleigh, his auxiliary bishop in Ventura County. "Wuh, wuh, wuh, we got a problem," stuttered Dimleigh.

"Namely?"

Up in S-s-s-olvang, at St. P-p-p-Priscilla's—"

"That's where we appointed Sister Phoebe McNulty as parish administrator, right?"

"Ruh-ruh-right. Last August. And she's the pro-pro-problem. Without a p-p-p-priest in the parish, as you know, she presides over a Eucharistic serrrrrrr, serrrrrrr, service every morning. Doesn't draw many. Maybe a dozen men and women, mostly reeeeeeeetired p-p-p-people."

"I know." For Mahony, this was not unusual. All over the Catholic world, catechists and deacons were doing the same thing, from the favelas in Rio to the Australian outback. When they got a rare Mass-visit from one of their circuit-riding priests, they would ask him to consecrate a large supply of extra hosts, which were reserved in the locked tabernacle, then distributed at Eucharistic services in his absence. But parishioners were acutely aware that those prayer services were not the Mass. Some were complaining. Without the Mass, they were beginning to feel like Protestants.

Dimleigh said, "Well, now I h-h-h-ear that Sister Phoebe McNulty is playing p-p-p-priest at St. P-p-p-priscilla's."

"She's saying Mass?"

"Well, not exactly. She t-t-t-takes her place up at the altar, then has everyone in the p-p-p-pews saying all the words of the canon of the Mass in unison. So, in a suh, suh, sense, they are all ceeeeeeeel, ceeeeeeeel, celebrating together."

"How do you know this, Tom?"

"One of the regulars, a Mrs. S-S-S-Simpson, came to me yesterday afternoon and told me. Wanted to know if this was a vuh, vuh, valid Mass."

"And what did you tell her?"

"I said I didn't think so, but I'd ch-ch-ch-check it out."

"Did you?"

"I phoned Sis-sis-sister."

"Sister Phoebe?"

"Yes. I phoned her and asked her if there was any tuh, tuh, truth to the stuh, stuh, story. She said, 'You don't really want to know, do you?' I said I did. She said I oughta just f-f-forget we were having this conversation."

To Bishop Dimleigh, Mahony didn't appear upset. "Pretty clever, huh?"

"I geh, geh, guess so."

"You ever meet Sister Phoebe?"

"Oh, y-y-yes. Petite little thing. Ruh, ruh, ruh, red hair. Ffffffinely freckled. I think she's a leh, I think she's a leh, a leh, a leh—"

"A lesbian?

"Yes."

"Funny," said Mahony. "One of the women in the early Church who presided over the household liturgies in Corinth was named Phoebe. you believe in reincarnation, Tom?"

"Nuh, nuh, not really."

"Well, before we do anything—and maybe we don't want to do anything—before we do anything, can you give me the names and phone numbers of some of the regulars at Sister Phoebe's daily liturgies?"

"I don't know. I can t-t-t-try Mrs. Simpson. She may have some nuh, nuh, names for me."

"Okay, Tom. let me know, huh? And Tom?"

"Yeh, yeh, yes?"

"Keep this to yourself, okay?"

WHEN MAHONY GOT A LIST OF SIX NAMES and a dozen phone numbers— everyone seemed to have a land line and a cell phone these days—he called each of them—three men and three women. Those he could reach had a breathless, almost exultant, air about them as they spoke about what they called "our people's liturgy."

"It's the neatest thing that ever happened to me," said the third person he called, memorable to him because she was a young assistant city manager in Santa Maria. "I go to seven o'clock liturgy every morning now, and I arrive at work full of the spirit, ready to change the world. Or, at least, the city of Santa Maria."

Mahony tried two more numbers, got no answer, left voice mail messages, and tried the sixth person on his list, a man named Kevin Stevens, who turned out to be a seventh-grade teacher at a public school in Santa Maria. Mahony asked him if the story was true. "Are you guys having priestless Masses?"

Stevens said, "First thing I'd say, we don't call them Masses. Second thing, these are the most devout, solemn liturgies I have ever seen. When we say the words, we say them in the kind of wonder-filled tones we use when we're reading our nieces and nephews their bedtime stories."

"What do you think is happening at these liturgies?"

"Same thing that's been happening for centuries in every Lutheran church in the world. They believe that at their communion services, they are receiving the Body and Blood of our lord."

Mahony mulled that. He wondered if anyone except Mother Angelica would dare say they weren't.

Stevens said, "That's what happening here at St. Priscilla's. Sister Phoebe's great. Very spiritual, really awesome. But she has a Schillebeeckx kind of sacramental theology. She doesn't say she's confecting the Eucharist. She says our little community of loving persons has gathered together in Christ's name. And so, we kinda believe Jesus is there in the midst of us."

"I see," said Mahony. He, too, believed Jesus was there in the midst of them. Instead, however, of asking himself if this could be called a Catholic liturgy, Mahony thought, If this is an example of Santa Maria's average, seventh-grade public school teacher, the families of Santa Maria are indeed lucky. "You mention the name of Edward Schillebeeckx, the Dutch Dominican. How do you happen to know Schillebeeckx?"

"I was a seminarian, Cardinal Mahony."

"At our St. John's in Camarillo?"

"At the minor seminary. When it was time to move on up to theology, I dropped out."

"I see. Any particular reason why?"

"I was looking to find my masculinity. For a while, I found it in the penises of other men."

Mahony gulped. This young man's candor took him by surprise, but it helped Mahony speak candidly, too. "Are you gay?"

"No, not gay. I just think I was confused about my sexual identity. A lot of my classmates in the seminary were confused, too. Many of them are priests now. And still confused."

"Did you find your masculinity?"

"Yes. We're all sexual beings. We become men by being men, not eunuchs."

"And priests are eunuchs?"

"St. Paul used the term. 'Eunuchs for the kingdom of God.'"

"Yes, he did."

"But that eunuch system isn't working very well in the Church today, is it, Cardinal Mahony?"

"Depends," he said. "Some priests are very faithful to their promises of celibacy."

"And many are not?"

"Some. I don't know how many."

"In this culture, they're fighting a losing battle. Prayer helps. Daily Mass and Communion helps. But it doesn't substitute for a real woman. A loving woman."

"And not even your daily liturgy helps you control yourself?"

"Oh, it's not a question of control. I have a girl friend now. We sleep together, and she's helping me find my masculinity by being with her. I have no need to control that. I am loving it. In fact, I am exhilarated."

Mahony had to ponder that. At seventy-two, he didn't find himself thinking much about sex. He knew it was the big problem for his young priests, gay or straight. But few of them—maybe one out of a hundred— could talk things over with him as this young man was doing now. Kevin's testimony told him he still had a lot to learn about sex, about that important part of being human that he and his fellow clerics found so difficult to integrate in their lives, or even talk about.

He flashed on the image of María, young, high-titted María, and then, with a pang of guilt, switched gears. He said, "I am curious. We banned Schillebeeckx. And yet you found him in your seminary library?" Mahony had met the Dutch Dominican, one of the stalwarts at Vatican II, who was called to Rome three times after the Council to answer charges of heresy. He was never silenced, or even disciplined, but seminaries banned his works.

Stevens said, "That's what made us go out and buy his books ourselves, so we could understand his radical new theology of the sacraments. For us, Schillebeeckx took the magic out of the Mass. Christ doesn't come down from heaven like a bolt of lightning when the priest says, 'This is my body.'"

"Yes," said Mahony. He knew that most post-conciliar theologians had gone along with this view. Christ was present in the Mass, but not because the priest had the power to change the substance of bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ with an incantation. Christ became present in the whole Mass. And, whatever changes came about in the bread and wine during Mass, Thomas Aquinas' "transubstantiation" today was pretty well identified with the change that took place in the people, at Mass, when they were transformed into other Christs, so they could go out and change the world. He wasn't sure how many Catholics understood that. But this Stevens fellow seemed to understand.

"I now have a little collection of Schillebeeckx," Stevens said. "And I share his stuff with some of the folks in our liturgical community at St. Priscilla's. you ought to come up sometime and see what we are doing."

I should," said Mahony. "But I won't. Not right now. St. Priscilla's is one of those places that I cannot take official notice of. If someone from the Vatican calls and asks me about it—and I am sure someone will, sooner or later—I have to go to Dumbsville."

MAHONY WAS RIGHT. Within a week, Bishop Dimleigh's informant in Solvang, not getting any satisfaction from him, or from the cardinal, faxed a letter to the Congregation of Divine Worship in Rome—with a copy to Cardinal Re, telling them about St. Priscilla's outlaw Mass every morning.

The informant copied Sister Angelica, too, the starchy nun who ran EWTN, the Catholic television network. She assigned a television crew to film Sister Phoebe's daily Mass.

"You must be mistaken," Sister Phoebe told EWTN's assignment editor, who phoned for permission to come and tape at St. Priscilla's. "We don't have daily Mass here. We don't have a priest in residence. As administrator of the parish, I do conduct a communion service."

Her careful words deflected a visit from EWTN. But she couldn't keep her people's liturgy a secret forever in a land where the press's power was now compounded by the signal drums of the global village—the Internet. In three days, the whole world knew how a little nun named Phoebe McNulty had solved the priest shortage at St. Priscilla's in Solvang. And how, emulating her, liturgical communities had sprung up in priestless parish after priestless parish in villages, towns and cities around the world.

It happened like this. A twenty-something reporter for the Santa Barbara News-Press did the first feature story on Sister Phoebe's liturgy that ran on Wednesday morning, January 14 under the headline CATACOMB CHRISTIANS REAPPEAR IN SOLVANG. Matt Drudge ran the story on his Web page that night. It got 1,578,000 hits. On Thursday morning, the CBS Early Show reported Drudge's pickup. And on Friday morning, the New York Times ran a Page One story by Laurie Goodstein, with a three-column picture in color of Sister Phoebe. Goodstein's story not only said that the people of St. Priscilla's Parish had solved the no-priest problem. The people of many parishes and small faith communities, according to Times reporters around the globe, were already emulating the example of California's St. Priscilla's.

Goodstein's piece was highlighted by a quote from Sister Phoebe. "No, I do not want to be a priest. That way, I'd just be co-opted in and by the clerical culture, and become part of a dying institution called 'the priesthood.'" Goodstein also reported that, for the last two mornings, an increasing number of teenagers—several dozen the day before—had been showing up for Phoebe's 7:00 AM liturgy. Goodstein said Phoebe said, "I am not sure what that means."

Goodstein drew meaning from one of the kids. She ended her piece by quoting a fifteen-year-old named Heather Scanlon: "Now, we own the Mass. It is ours."

Peter Steinfels did his Saturday column in the Times on Sister Phoebe —"the spiritual sister no doubt of St. Paul's Phoebe, who presided over the breaking of the bread in Corinth." He quoted Father Andrew Greeley, whom he reached at his home in Tucson. Greeley said, "In fact, deacons from Chiapas to Borneo have been doing their own Eucharistic liturgies for more than three years. Now Sister Phoebe's little community has just taken the priesthood of the faithful to the next level."

Steinfels also quoted Monsignor Pietro Sambi, the papal nuncio in Washington, who said, "We have known all about Sister Phoebe's wildcat liturgy for some time and have begun a process. The so-called Mass that she's saying is quite invalid, according to Canon 1378 of the Code of Canon Law."

Steinfels pointed out that Sister Phoebe wasn't saying Mass. "As I understand it," he wrote, "the whole congregation is the celebrant." He quoted Keith Pearson, a Jesuit liturgist from New york who was teaching at Rome's Gregorian University. "When the whole congregation says the words of the canon of the Mass in unison as solemnly and as devoutly as I understand folks are doing all over the world this morning, certain Vatican prelates may be frowning. But I don't think God's frowning even a little bit."

MAHONY TOOK A PHONE CAll from his longtime friend John R.Quinn, the retired archbishop of San Francisco, who told him, "Well, Roger, the fat is in the fire, huh?"

Mahony laughed. "you saw the piece in Friday's New York Times?"

"Yes."

"And Steinfels' column yesterday?"

"Yes. What was Greeley thinking of?"

"I don't know, John. When does Greeley ever have time to think?"

Quinn laughed.

Mahony said, "I think it is safer if priests who are on our side just say they know nothing. If they'd just keep a poker face on this."

"Hard to do that when everyone in the world knows it's happening."

"True enough. Just a minute. I have a fax coming in here." Mahony walked over to his fax machine and peeked at the underside of the note to see if it had a letterhead. It did. It was from the Vatican's Sacred Congregation of Divine Worship. "It's from Cardinal Arinze's office," reported Mahony after he had skimmed the note. "It says I am under the pope's orders to stop this so-called people's Mass."

Quinn said, "Good!"

"You sound fairly gleeful."

"I am. This may be the test case we've been looking for."

"Test case?"

Quinn reminded Mahony of a remark by a ranking monsignor at the Holy Office several years before, uttered one night at dinner in the Villa Stritch. "The U.S. bishops don't need the Vatican's permission to do what they need to do in America. All they need is balls. But few U.S. bishops have them."

"So now," Mahony said to Quinn, "you think this is my chance to show the world I have balls?"

"You're well on the way to doing that," said Quinn.

"I really haven't done anything yet."

"That's the beautiful part. You don't have to do a thing."

"How's that?"

"Give Arinze a taste of the Vatican's own medicine. Tell him you will investigate and report. And then take your sweet time."

"And then what happens?"

"In the meantime, the people at St. Priscilla's will go right on doing what they've been doing. And so will everyone else in the world who has a mind to. All of a sudden, the famine is over."

"Famine?"

"Eucharistic famine."

Mahony thought about that. If you could believe the New York Times, Catholics everywhere—including huge numbers of young people who hadn't been to Mass in years—were investigating these people's liturgies. Nothing wrong with that. "Praxis trumps doxis, huh?"

"Exactly. Lex orandi lex credendi. The people's faith comes out of their prayer life."

"How do I tell that to Arinze?"

"You won't have to. In a very short time, I predict, it will be quite obvious, even to those idiots at Worship, that the people have solved the Eucharistic famine ambulando."

Mahony understood the allusion to Xeno's theorem. According to the Greek philosopher, it was logically impossible to move from A to B without first going halfway from A to B. But you couldn't go halfway to halfway without first going halfway to halfway to halfway. And so on, forever. Logically, you could never move. The solution, said Xeno, was to start walking. Solvitur ambulando. "And what if the men in the Vatican say they disapprove?"

"Of what the people are doing?"

"Yes."

"I think they'd be loath to do that. In the long tradition of the Church, the popes don't usually tell the people what they must believe. When Pius XII declared that the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary into heaven was Catholic doctrine, he did not say, 'This is what you must believe,' but rather, after he had polled the world's bishops, 'This is what we do believe.'"

Mahony said, "We're not exactly talking about belief here. We're talking about a direct order—to stop this people's Mass in Solvang, California."

"But, strictly speaking, it is not 'a people's Mass,' is it? They call it 'a people's liturgy.' you don't have to stop what doesn't exist. So I say just ignore the order, for as long you can."

"And then what happens?"

Quinn said, "Maybe nothing. By the time your answer is due at the Vatican, the issue could be moot."

"Moot?"

"It won't matter," said Quinn, "what the Vatican says or doesn't say. The people will decide what they want to do, and the Vatican will let them. In Italy, red lights don't always mean 'stop.' Everything is open to discussion. It's the Italian way. And if I am wrong, I'll eat my hat."

As Quinn had surmised, the Vatican was slow to act. But, because he left Philadelphia's Cardinal Grandeur out of his equation, he was soon inquiring about the best ways of making his hat into a comestible.

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Other books by Robert Blair Kaiser:
A Church in Search of Itself
Clerical Error
The Politics of Sex and Religion
“R.F.K. Must Die!”
Pope, Council and World
Co-author (with Tim Smith): Jubilee 2000, A Musical Comedy

[Index of this serialisation of Cardinal Mahony — A Novel]