The Sacrifice by William Kienzle Read Free Book Online Page A

group of non-Catholic clergy are some neighboring Baptists.”
    â€œWhy is that?” Anne Marie wondered.
    The identical question was on her husband’s mind. So much of what was going on in this building and in this conversation was utterly foreign to him. He did not even know what questions to ask. So far, listening to the questions and answers, he was picking up interesting information.
    â€œWhy so many Baptists? Or why so few Episcopalians? Or both?” asked Zachary.
    â€œSo few of his own former colleagues?” Anne Marie clarified.
    â€œThat’s understandable,” Nan said. “If George were taking a stand against females as priests—a practice we … I mean they … favor, then a good number of that persuasion would be here today. And, I’m sure, a goodly number—if not a clear majority—oppose women priests. We have them, of course—oh, I’m sorry: Identifying with the Episcopal Church is a habit I haven’t yet got under control. What I meant to say was that the Anglican Communion ordains women to the priesthood—even to the office of bishop.
    â€œI think the vast majority of Episcopal priests who cross over to the Roman priesthood are taking a stand. They are protesting—they are Protestants, after all—the ordination of women.
    â€œThat is not George’s purpose. He is making this move as, in his words, a sort of coming home. I think his reasons for changing will become more clear, more evident, as time goes on.
    â€œThe point is, among Anglican priests who come over, very few would share George’s motive. If, on the other hand, he were protesting a female clergy, we could expect the presence of at least some of his colleagues who share that view.”
    â€œThat clears things up for me.” Anne Marie seemed satisfied.
    Koesler once again consulted his watch. It was perilously close to starting time. He would stay only a few moments more. Nervously, he looked around the church.
    In the choir loft, the singers and musicians were leaning over the railing, trying to see if the procession was about to start. Indeed, the altar ministers, holding the crucifix and a candle per server, were awaiting a signal to begin.
    Two of the servers were girls. The boy carried the crucifix.
    At least, thought Koesler, we’ve come that far. Now it was perfectly permissible for females to serve at the altar. But even that small concession had been hard-won and was by no means universally embraced. And— who was that?!
    In the sanctuary, near the altar, a black-clad figure was bent over examining something … something to do with the altar.
    The figure was no less than Father Joe Farmer.
    Now—Koesler borrowed from Gilbert and Sullivan—here’s a howdy-do! Just a few minutes ago, he and Farmer had been deep in conversation. Farmer had concluded by announcing that he would not join in the procession. He was just going up front to get a ringside seat, he’d said. He would eschew a position in the sanctuary, a position he had every right to occupy, in favor of a place of less distinction.
    All well and good. But what in tarnation was he doing poking around the sanctuary? He might have been investigating anything from a mouse—a church mouse, of course—to an altar stone. Joe’s mind worked in strange ways.
    Koesler’s stream of consciousness led him toward his appreciation of Farmer’s essence. When Koesler thought of Joe, the first word that came to mind was not “priest.” Nor was it “religious,” nor “missionary.” No, at first blush, Koesler thought of a salesman. The title character of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman. Yes, a traveling salesman.
    Thirty or forty years ago Joe Farmer had been relevant. He came to town to deliver a message. And then he would move on to another territory. At every stop, he would conduct a mission. In the early days, the mission would