The Diocese of Disorder

By Dan Felix

Bishop Precious hinders a true man of God from performing faith healing but enables a conman of the cloth to work a charity fraud. He rubbishes and intimidates experienced as well as outspoken priests. And what is more, the sick and wounded priests are abandoned to their fate. Bishop Preciouss materialistic lifestyle influences Father Cajetan, who takes to amassing wealth and then leads a life unbefitting of a priest. Materialism, maltreatment, murder, cover-ups, cronyism, and the like become the order of the day. Horror! After everything has been considered, who murdered Rev. Father Wence? Can order be restored in the dysfunctional diocese? Can truth be stranger than fiction? Find out in The Diocese of Disorder, the story of a disordered diocese, set in Nigeria, the United States, Rome, and Canada.

Whether you read The Diocese Of Disorder as a work of satire or fiction,
one thing is clear: theres a crying need to address the issues raised in it.
Dr S. King

Skillful and ingenious exploration of faith, fact and fancy.
Unputdownable.
Dan Brian

Grace does not change nature, and the corruption of the best is the worst.
Brilliantly plotted and lively paced.
Dr J. Cornwell

captures a man in a position of power and status, falling to weaker
aspects of his personality. Great Job!
J. J. Fatton
The Editor

Every Bishop should read The Diocese Of Disorder, an insightful novel of
good and evil that touches the heart. And, if possible, address the questions
raised in it as they relate to his diocese.
Sir M. Felixson

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496981141

Dan Felix

Dan Felix, PhD, studied philosophy up to doctoral level, and graduated summa cum laude. He spends his time working, researching and writing.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Initially, the early-morning sun was obscured behind a thick blanket of cloud and fog. The morning sun put up a great struggle thereafter, trying to break through the cloud and his brother fog, foisted on Our Lady of Pilgrims parish, by the harsh harmattan of the Diocese of Olmen. While the struggle continued, Rev. Father Wence, tall and athletic, busied himself preparing for the Sunday Mass; when he was done, he ambled down to the church, seeing as the fog of disorder and the cloud of fear shrouding the parish, as well as his mind, refused to disperse.

In the parish church, he wasn’t a bore while he preached from the pulpit, and his sermon wasn’t either. His uplifting sermon was enough to carry the parishioners, as none dozed while the fresh sermon progressed.

The Mass was also brief. It took him just an hour to celebrate a Mass; that made many parishioners look forward to attending Mass at 7:30 a.m. every Sunday; it had become the curate’s Mass, kind of. Wence became the beloved of the parish, who had become bored with the sermons of Rev. Father Fabulous, which was often a repetition of ideas that no longer struck a chord with the parishioners.

Fabulous, fiftyish and podgy, the pastor of the wealthy parish in Omaan, had lost touch with books; it was over eight years since he last read one. His two book shelves, tucked away in the far corner of the pastor’s apartment, were all covered with dust.

As Fabulous walked to the church to celebrate the 9:30 a.m. Mass, he halted to greet Lazarus, a pious parishioner who had switched from the 9:30 Mass to 7:30. Good morning, Father, Lazarus said.

Morning, Lazarus. How are you? Fabulous said.

Thank God! And may I congratulate you for the newly sent curate. His sermon strikes me.

I hope it won’t strike you dead, he quipped, and then, but did you attend today’s 7:30 a.m. Mass?

Yes, that’s the Mass I now attend. I found myself always itching to attend Father Wence’s Masses ever since I first listened to his sermon.

Oh well, practice what you hear him preach, too.

Fabulous looked at his Rolex and said, Okay, Lazarus! See you next time. He turned and headed toward the church.

Have a nice Mass, Father, Lazarus said.

As Fabulous neared the sacristy, he saw a few parishioners waiting beside Wence’s Peugeot sedan. Then, acting as though he forgot something, he turned and made toward the rectory, and then he interrupted Wence’s chat with those parishioners. At what time is your second Mass? he enquired, sounding casual, even though it was an ingenious way to shoo them away.

I am about leaving. Thanks, Father, Wence said, and looked at his Casio wristwatch.

His next Mass was at ten o’clock, leaving him a reasonable time to drive down to St. David’s Church, an out-station in Umdu. All right, brothers and sisters, let me go for the second Mass, he said. Then, waving a hand to them, he got into his car and drove away.

He thought about St. David’s rectory—still under construction—as he drove. He daydreamed about becoming St. David’s pastor in the future. This was a daydream that had before, as now, fired him with enthusiasm for the project, making him do his best in the fund-raising events organized for the station. His openness about all things financial attracted a great deal of donations to the parish projects. His style was to reach out to the people. And it pleased parishioners more than Fabulous’s bossing style. Besides, the parishioners disliked being bossed around, especially in matters relating to charity.

St David’s would be a good parish to manage as a pastor, given their docility and generosity. As regards the church politics, they were childlike. But that didn’t mean they were ignorant about it.

Amongst them were learned and successful ladies and gentlemen: doctors, lawyers, engineers, and the rest—the only thing was, they were a meek flock, following their priest as water through pipe. And this made St. David’s the dream of any priest who knew them, and a bishop’s prize for his favorites.

In the Diocese of Olmen, all parishes were not equal in terms of viability and manageability. It was an open secret that the bishop reserved urban and wealthy parishes for his favorite priests and victimized outspoken priests by posting them to rural and poor parishes. In a system where a priest was only as economically secure as his parish, priests were wary of being dumped in a poor parish. A vindictive bishop, moreover, could victimize a priest by rotating him from one poor parish to the next, till he’s worn out (then, as now, this was part of the ugly side of the church in the Diocese of Olmen.)

But think of the church in some parts of the Western world. A bishop can’t victimize a priest that way—whatever his relationship with him—as all priests are entitled to a monthly remuneration by a central body. In such a system, the parish where one would be posted doesn’t matter, since a pastor in a wealthy parish would get almost the same remuneration as a priest in a poor parish. Every priest, therefore, would settle down to administer the sacraments—no matter where he’s posted—without eyeing another parish or feeling victimized by the bishop.

After the Masses, both priests met in the dining room. Fabulous conversed with Wence while they were having lunch. How was your Mass at St. David’s? he said.

Oh good! The Lord’s wonderful. People are responding. St. David’s rectory may be ready by next year, God willing.

That’s great! And then you’ll move over there as the pastor, he said, his eyes fixed on Wence’s face.

Wence forced a smiled without uttering a response. He never wanted to be seen as angling for the yet-to-be-inaugurated parish (or rather, to be termed a pushy priest). However, he was unable to read his boss’s mind: Fabulous wasn’t yet ready to relinquish St. David’s to anybody. And Wence kept dreaming of becoming the pastor there. A short silence followed, as each of them munched his way through a plate of farina with bitter-leaf soup.

Fabulous, typical of himself, never mentioned the subject again. While he was obviously acting purely out of self-interest, Wence, even though he kept his desire to become the pastor to himself, had St. David’s interest at heart. When Sunday lunch was over, each retired to his room to have a siesta.

In his bedroom, a self-contained room, Wence lay on his bed and indulged himself with some daydreaming: about serving as the pastor of a newly inaugurated St. David’s parish, about making landmark achievements there, and, after a few years, about proceeding to the First World to undertake further studies.

He also daydreamed about reading Utriusque Iuris, since he wished to become the diocesan legal consultant. The diocese was still managing with her yet-to-be-well-trained staff, so much so that any of her priests who obtained a doctorate would automatically take charge of the diocesan judiciary, handling marriage cases and other legal issues, canon or civil.

He inadvertently spent a considerable part of the siesta time in reverie and then was jolted out of his dream by the singing in the church from the charismatic renewal movement, which rose to a crescendo. He looked at the alarm clock on the occasional table and jumped out of bed, putting on his cassock for the evening Mass. He had fifty minutes to get to St. Catherine’s, another out-station in the parish, where only the curates—fortunately the exception, rather than the rule—celebrated evening Masses.

Ten minutes after driving off from the rectory, Wence’s Peugeot sedan started jerking. He began saying some ejaculatory prayers: Jesus and Mary, I love you. Help me! San Pio, I need you!

After a few more miles, the car jolted to a halt on the country road. He looked at the dashboard and noticed two red lights were glowing, but he was not car engine savvy. He noticed it was twenty-eight minutes to the top of the hour, the fixed time for the Mass.

Beads of sweat started dripping down his face. There was no one in sight. He stepped out of his car. Then, holding the driver’s door slightly ajar with his left hand and guiding the steering wheel with the right, he pushed the car to the side of the road. He then took the Mass box from the trunk, locked the sedan, and started trudging along the lonely road to the church.

The people of God murmured as Wence burst into the church, about fourteen minutes late. He was breathing rapidly as well as sweating profusely. The thoughtful ones suspected he must have had trouble on the way, but they couldn’t figure out what the trouble was.

Before crossing himself to begin the Mass, he explained why he had been late. There followed a collective murmur of sympathy from the faithful. With that spirit of sympathy and forgiveness, Wence said a quick Mass, with thoughts of his car flashing through his mind now and again. The sympathetic spirit manifested in the offertory. After the Mass, Wence noticed that the collection box was unusually stuffed with more bills than coins. Perhaps due to my car breakdown, he thought.

Madam Elizabeth, a kindly parishioner and a businesswoman, offered him a lift to the rectory after the Mass. And when they reached the roadside where Wence abandoned his car, she asked, Should I stop to see if we can start your car?

Is your husband a mechanic, ma’am?

No, but who can say? It may be a minor fault.

I don’t think so. It’s like an engine trouble.

Oh, I see. Let’s proceed to the rectory then.

Here Elizabeth paused and changed the subject of the conversation. Father, would you dine with me next Sunday?

Before I take up dinner invitations, I always consult my diary as a matter of course. Thanks for the kind thought, anyway.

I’ll wait to hear from you, then?

Okay, Wence said.

Next, she dropped him off in front of the rectory, shook his hand, and pulled away.

At supper, Wence broached the ordeal of his car trouble. Fabulous’s mouth fell open in consternation. His mind focused more on the cost of the car repair than the ongoing tale of woe. Engine repairs can cost more than ten grand! And how much did he collect from the Mass? Well, we’ll see, we’ll see, he thought, and then he opened up to Wence. Where did you leave the car?

On the roadside, some kilometers to St. Catherine’s Church.

Arrange for it to be towed to the rectory tomorrow morning. I’ll see what I can do.

Please, how do I arrange for it? I don’t have sufficient money. And I know nobody who owns a towing van.

Ask some people to assist you push it back here, or you could do worse than push it inside the St. Catherine’s Church compound. Then I’ll see what I can do to help, Fabulous concluded.

Wence intuited that it would not be easy. Why tow my car to the church premises? he thought to himself. Would it not have been better to tell a mechanic to go and see why the car broke down instead? Obey first, before you complain. The supper gradually came to an end. A few hours later, the memorable Day of the Lord passed by.

Chapter 2

Monday was Wence’s day off, but he woke up early, as he would on his working days. He didn’t have a sound sleep, worried by his car trouble and the thought of returning to where he abandoned his car on the roadside.

As usual, he went to the chapel to say his office and the lauds. During meditation, his thoughts drifted back to yesterday’s ordeal; the reaction of the people of God; the kindness of Elizabeth; and the ambiguous statements of Fabulous at the dining table. Before he knew it, he had spent more time than he normally spends at morning prayer. Then, he rushed the concluding part of the lauds and headed for the refectory. There, he wolfed down a hunk of bread with a glass of Peak evaporated milk laced with coffee powder. He didn’t touch the omelet prepared by Jane, the cook.

Wence donned a navy blue shirt and black trousers. The work he was going to do didn’t require putting on his clerical collar. Then he caught a taxi to Omun, to go and do as Fabulous suggested. There were already four passengers in the yellow Peugeot 504 station wagon. The passenger in the front seat recognized him and surrendered her seat and got into the back, as an act of respect for their priest. Wence thanked her and hopped in. He was silent all through the short commute to the spot where he abandoned his car.

Sighting his car, he signaled the driver to stop. As he dipped his hand into his pocket, one of the men in the back whispered to the driver, I’ll pay for him. The taxi driver waved to Wence, but he didn’t catch what was going on. He brought out a twenty Naira bill from his pocket. The taxi driver told him a good Samaritan had just paid for him.

Wence’s eyes widened in surprise. He looked at all the commuters to find out who had done the good deed. He was humbled by the kind gesture. Next, he imparted his blessing on them, saying, May God accompany you.

Amen, all the passengers chorused.

He waved to them and ambled over to his car. When he saw what remained of the Peugeot, which he had received as an ordination gift, he squealed in despair. My God! he shrieked, as would a pious driver at a heart-stopping moment of a head-on collision. A flush of adrenaline tingled through his body as he glided round his car.

He closed his eyes for a moment to regain his composure. Seconds later, he began assessing the extent of the larceny: the two headlights and all the tail lights were filched, and the four wheel covers were pinched. The left quarter mirror was smashed to gain access into the car. The car stereo was nicked. The opened hood suggested the thieves might have also tampered with the engine. The neatness and ease with which the car parts were disassembled left little doubt that a mechanic must have been involved in the larceny.

He stood with arms akimbo, unable to think clearly or come to terms with the situation, and watched the other vehicles pass, and then he prowled around the area as if he were looking for clues as to who committed the larceny, like a private detective. In Nigeria, going to the police to report that your car was stripped would be a sheer waste of time, given that several cars are snatched every day, and never recovered. Wence heaved a resigned sigh and thanked heavens his car didn’t end up in a chop shop.

He thought over the situation: the only available option was to have the car towed back to the rectory, and then wait and see what would happen next, as Fabulous hinted. And to do so, he had to get back to the rectory and ask for sufficient money to hire a towing van. By 3:30 p.m., his damaged sedan was resting in the garage behind the rectory.

A few days later, it transpired that Rufus, a Mass server who served last Sunday, was among the bandits that stole Wence’s car parts. It happened that, in the small hours of Monday, while Rufus and his accomplices were stripping the car, Ernest, a palm wine tapper and churchgoer, was climbing down a palm tree in the vicinity. As chance would have it, he witnessed Rufus and his partners in crime in the very act of larceny; afraid they may be carrying guns, he slunk away.

Around five o’clock on Monday afternoon, Ernest got on his bike and rode off to the rectory to see the Reverend Father. Wence was in the chapel hearing confession when he arrived. He pressed the door bell, and Jane answered the door, telling him Wence was hearing confession in the chapel and that he could wait for him in the lounge.

When the chapel door opened, Ernest saw Rufus through the see-through curtain coming out of the chapel with Wence; he shook his head in disbelief. He wiped his eyes, stood up, and peeped out cautiously to make sure it was Rufus that he was seeing. And then he sank back into the arm chair. Rufus said good-bye to Wence and made for the gate. He didn’t see Ernest.

Rufus went to confession soon after the theft as a precaution: should it come to light that he took part in the theft; his confession to Wence would deter the priest from denouncing him to the police. It was a deliberate ploy that he had used to shut a priest up in the past: it happened in a period someone was regularly pilfering money from the collection plate. Fabulous had complained that he couldn’t find a high denomination note that he saw a parishioner drop in the plate during a Sunday offertory.

Fabulous arranged with Pious, a seminarian, to set a trap during a Sunday Mass: he gave Pious a fifty Naira bill marked with the letter C, which he was to drop in the collection plate during offertory.

The next Sunday at Mass, Pious dropped the fifty Naira bill in the collection plate. Rufus was among the servers at the Mass. After the Mass, as the priest was divesting in the sacristy, Rufus, in the process of clearing the altar, pilfered the fifty Naira bill, which was the largest denomination in the plate. Shortly afterwards, in the sacristy, Fabulous glanced inside the collection plate. To his dismay, the marked fifty Naira note had disappeared.

Fabulous called Pious, Rufus, and Abel, the second server at the Mass, and told them that money had gone missing; a fifty Naira note he saw in the collection plate while incensing round the altar. Did any of you take it? Fabulous questioned.

They stared at each other. None of them admitted having taken the fifty Naira note. So the fifty Naira note grew wings and flew off the collection plate after the Mass, he said, looking at them askance.

Can we conduct a search? Pious asked. Rufus and Abel nodded in agreement.

Next, Pious searched Abel. He found nothing. He searched Rufus, and there it was: the fifty Naira note. He identified the letter C marked on it at once. Rufus, shamefaced and scratching his head, was at a loss for words.

Instant suspension from assisting at Masses was his fitting punishment. But a confession to Fabulous the following week saw him pardoned and readmitted as a Mass server. It was then that he learned the efficacy of confession in making a priest keep mum about a crime, irrespective of the fact that he might have heard about it at confession. Immediate confession worked then, but will it work now, given the enormity of the theft?

Talking of Ernest, he revealed what was no longer a secret to Wence, who had just heard Rufus’s confession. However, he remained too flabbergasted to speak. He only watched as Ernest told his story. With feigned surprise, he asked Ernest some questions relating to the story told. Are you sure of what you just said?

I saw him with my very eyes, Father, Ernest said.

How many persons did you see?

I saw three.

Will you testify to the law enforcement authorities about this?

Ernest sat up, his eyes wide open. No. And don’t say I told you, he said. I don’t trust these policemen!

Wence, bemused by the human drama unfolding before his eyes and, wishing to take his time before taking any action, ended his discussion with Ernest.

Thanks for the information, he said. I guarantee that what you have just confided to me will remain a secret between us, like a confessional statement; my lips are sealed. I will handle the matter myself.

Ernest’s revelation and Rufus’s confession put Wence in a fix, or rather, a dilemma: he had the confessional seal to maintain, but he had a civil duty to accomplish. What’s more, he was at the receiving