The Sacrifice by William Kienzle Read Free Book Online Page B

last two weeks. The first week was for the parish women. For the second week Joe depended on the grace-filled wives to hound their husbands to go to church five or six consecutive evenings after putting in the usual workdays. If there was a parochial school, the pupils would be subjected to a mini-mission. They were excused from class to attend.
    After the week or two everyone seemed satisfied that the spiritual life of the parish as a whole had been ratcheted up several notches. All felt better for the experience. Except, of course, those who did not attend. They might feel a pang or two of guilt for favoring television with feet up on the ottoman instead of Joe’s scary exhortations and an unforgiving kneeler.
    But those parishioners who faithfully attended felt they had sacrificed and profited spiritually.
    The only one who did not attend, yet felt great, was the pastor, who, with an additional missionary priest present, took the opportunity for a well-deserved vacation.
    Joe Farmer had begun his specialized vocation many years ago by laboring very hard to work up about a dozen spiritual talks designed first to frighten, then to offer hope, and finally, to conclude with the promise of salvation.
    The story was told of one parishioner who, in the best missionary spirit, talked his non-Catholic neighbor into attending the parish mission with him. True to form, the five sermons delivered Monday through Friday concerned death, judgment, hell, purgatory, and, finally, heaven.
    After the first few talks, the Protestant gentleman confided in his thoughtful neighbor, “I have never felt so depressed in all my life!”
    To which the neighbor replied, “Not to worry. It’s all downhill from here on.”
    Koesler smiled as he recalled Father Farmer and his missions. The point of it all was confession. That’s what all the scary stuff was about.
    In the early days of Koesler’s and Farmer’s ministry, confession—or the Sacrament of Penance—for most Catholics became routine. Frequency was routine. Catholics confessed twice a year: Christmas and Easter. Or once a year: Christmas or Easter. Or once a month. Or once a week. Or for the dyed-in-the-wool scrupulous, as often as possible.
    In any case—with exceptions—there was little insight into the state of the penitent’s soul. Anger at home with the spouse but particularly with the children. Gossip. Petty theft. Bad language. The standby for children: disobedience. The standby for nuns: failure in promptitude.
    Things have changed, thought Koesler. The name now: Sacrament of Reconciliation. The format: no kneeling on a board and no anonymity-providing door and curtain. Those who had once used the sacrament frequently now used it rarely.
    There was some movement toward linking confession to a drastic change in life and/or lifestyle. And yet there still existed a push toward confessing at Christmas and Easter; the vast majority of penitents confessed because it was the appropriate time, not for good reason.
    Koesler was so lost in thought that he was startled when someone touched his arm. “I hate to disturb you,” said a smiling Father Tully, “but even by my watch, it’s pretty late.”
    Koesler glanced at his watch. It was as if he had overslept and was late in starting Mass. Embarrassed, he blushed. Onlookers were amazed.
    â€œOh, I am so sorry. I don’t know what I could have been thinking of.” He looked toward the church entrance. There were the altar ministers, patiently standing as stiff and attentive as little soldiers.
    For once he was grateful that something was starting late. This delay might enable him and Zachary to vest and get in line for the procession. At least they stood a good chance of not having to hurry to catch up.
    Fathers Koesler and Tully turned to go. They had taken only a few steps when it happened.
    Later, when he had time and leisure to piece it all together, the sequence of