Three Cheers for Father Donovan

By John D. Loscher

Yearning to receive absolution that will forgive a platitude of sins during his lifetime of service to the Roman Catholic Church as a curate of Rome, the dying Father Patrick OFlannery Donovan of the Society for Jesus makes his last confession. That confession transforms into a full exposition of the triumphs and tragedies befalling his Holy Mother Church during the twentieth century. However, while this confession is a compelling history of Vatican City, it is an account the Holy See is desperate to forever keep hidden from the lay public. But can a monumental, epic story of this caliber truly remain eternally classified as secrets of the State?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546208655

John D. Loscher

John “J.D.” Loscher holds a Masters Degree in Public Administration and is a Certified Teacher. He served in the United States Air Force and is a veteran of the 1991 Persian Gulf War. His novels, Three Cheers For Father Donovan, along with the epic two-volume narrative, The Bolsheviks, put him at the forefront as an author of historical fiction. He authored the novels The Heart of the Matter, The Pontchartrain Connection, and The Maltese Messiah. He is the dramatist for a highly successful double trilogy. The first trilogy: Coming Out of the Dark, The Black Madonna, and In the Hands of the Gods. The second trilogy: To Slay a Dragon, The Unholy Family, and The Run for the Roses. Writing under the penname of J.D. Cooper, he wrote the novel Window to the Soul. He is currently hard at work researching and writing his next novel.

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© 2017 John D. Loscher. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/18/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0866-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0864-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0865-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017914249

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English Standard Version (ESV)

The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. ESV® Permanent Text Edition® (2016). Copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers.

Contents

Author’s Note

Preface: My Last Confession

Book I

In The Beginning

Meet Me In Saint Louis

Give Us a Sign

Finally, My Own House of Prayer

The New Jerusalem

Giving To Caesar That Which Belongs To Caesar and Giving To God That Which Belongs To God

Book II:

Onward Christian Soldiers

The Return of the Pharisees

A Time to Tear Down

Rachel Weeping For Her Children…

Book III:

The Apostle To Humanity

A Voice Crying Out In the Wilderness

From Out of France I Called My Son

The Renaissance of the Doge

Pacem En Terra

Vatican II

The Second Vatican Council Under the Direction of St. Good Pope John XXIII

The Second Vatican Council Under the Direction of Pope Paul VI

Book IV:

What The World Needs Now

The Den of Thieves

To Look the Devil Square In the Eye

Driving the Moneychangers Out of the Temple

Epilogue:

A Time To Die

The Road That Will Take Me Home

Afterward

List of Sources Consulted

To Miss Alison Gatt…one of the finest historians and colleagues I have ever had the privilege to know. Alison, your stories and commentaries brought the Etruscan world to life, giving me insights that I never before knew. For that, I am, and always will be, eternally in your debt.

Author’s Note

From the earliest of times, while expounded upon by numerous dogmatic institutions, the various theological concepts encompassed under the guise of what we call religion constitutes a core belief known as faith. Though heralded by all to be a comfort, history has proven repeatedly that, by playing on the superstitions of men and women, religion has been used to enslave its believers by shackling them in chains of guilt and fear. From the dawn of time, using divine ordination as a weapon of oppression, religious employees—priests, nuns, ministers, rabbis, and mullahs—deplorably made themselves lords and masters over the flocks to whom they are supposed to serve. Anyone wishing to contradict this opinion needs only to examine the history of the Vatican…and I’m not talking about the Vatican of lore. Please forget about the Vatican when it was ruled under the shameful tutelage of the Borgia, Della Rovere, or de Medici families, let alone any of the other corrupt, perverted men who sat on the Throne of Saint Peter during the historical epochs known as the Dark Ages or the Renaissance. No, I’m talking about the twentieth century here…the timespan which we know as contemporary history!

The following is a work of fiction. The adventures of Father Patrick O’Flannery Donovan of the Society for Jesus exists only in the author’s imagination. Nevertheless, the incidents described within this story are historically correct. Many are easily verifiable by consulting a historical record referenced within. The rest are first-hand accounts either experienced personally or relayed to me by Roman Catholic lay workers—some retired and some still employed. So, to state it plainly, if it wasn’t true, I wouldn’t be writing about it. But then, like they say, not only is the truth better than a lie, the truth remains far more compelling than any work of fiction…

John D. Loscher

March 15, 2011

Preface: My Last Confession

At first glance, one might pay little heed to the Roman Catholic priest marching down the elongated—and highly decorated—corridor of the Vatican, black robes billowing with every passing step. Yet this cleric was no ordinary priest: the crimson sash-like apron adorning his waist and extending downward to his ankles acknowledged his clerical rank to be that of a Monsignor of the Roman Catholic Church. While this is normally an exalted position for any clergyman, within the hallowed confines of the Vatican, monsignors were a dime a dozen. Yes, while the vast majority of the world’s churches may be crying out for Roman Catholic priests, here in the Eternal City, there was no shortfall of laborers. Be that as it may, it was perfectly clear to any passerby that the balding male wearing those fine robes clearly was a man with a mission. The manner by which he strode down the hall before passing the two matching statues of Egyptian pharaohs acting as load-bearing pillars…with such an obvious purpose…one might have expected to see sparks flying from his heels with each resolute step!

Striding through the doorway, a massive structure with a depiction of Christian martyrs torn to pieces by hungry lions sculptured in the finest of white marble, the monsignor came face-to-face with a priceless Hellenic Greek statue cast completely in bronze. While normally a wonder to behold, today the monsignor turned left and continued his brisk pace down the long corridor without paying so much as a passing glance at the naked man perched on his pedestal. True to form, the monsignor failed to pay heed to the wide array of priceless marble statues from classical antiquity that lined the length of the corridor. He also gave no notice to the breathtaking artwork—one of which bore the official seal of the walking corpse—Pope Leo XIII—painted upon the ceiling. Not even one of the few known surviving statues of the Greek goddess Artemis, the goddess of fertility, as the Lady of Ephesus—with its array of twenty mammary glands—captured the monsignor’s attention. The look of concern etched upon the monsignor’s stern face emphasized his worn wrinkles—a sharp contrast to the black cassock and scarlet apron he wore. His stiffly-starched and steam-pressed white collar had yellowed to the point of off-white color…the by-product of a substantial amount of perspiration.

Despite his emotional detachment from such a wide array of artistic wonders, he could not hold off forever. That indifference was shattered—as it always was—when the monsignor walked past a marble statue of a naked boy carrying a small child, equally devoid of clothing, on his shoulders. However, it was not the image of this child squeezing a cluster of grapes, juice would trickling into the cup held by the boy beneath which attracted the monsignor’s attention. No, the eyes of this statue captivated the monsignor in the same manner as they did everyone: unlike other statues, the eyes were clearly visible. Just how the sculptor accomplished this artistic feat was baffling. A statue’s eyes are normally lifeless. Yet the pair carved into this statue radiated a lovely shade of sapphire blue. Not only that, but penetrating black pupils were also clearly defined.

A long time ago, some fellow priest of Etruscan heritage who happened to be an expert on the Greco-Roman civilization stated that statues like this one were once common throughout all of ancient Greece. However, centuries of pilfering by thieves and senseless, destructive wars had taken their toll. Now, there are only two surviving statues of this type known to be in existence throughout the entire world. The Vatican possessed one. Someone else laid claim to the other. The monsignor never bothered to learn who was owner of the second statue.

He strode through another doorway at the end of the corridor bearing the bust of Pope Leo XIII. Always indifferent to the reign of the drug-addicted, ninety-three-year-old former Vincenzo Gioacchino Raffaele Luigi Pecci, the monsignor passed beneath this bust of the walking corpse without so much as a glance to honor the geriatric pope whose passions consisted of getting high on cocaine and collecting every piece of Greco-Roman art he could get his hands on! Taking another left hand turn, the monsignor found himself walking down another corridor. Only this one served as the warehouse storing the Vatican’s collection of fine tapestries. Just like the rest of its artwork, only the finest tapestries in the world were allowed to grace the hallways of the Vatican. It went far beyond the fact that these tapestries were woven with such meticulous care that the maker of any grand Persian rug would have been impressed. No, many were actually double woven—once on the front and once on the back—producing optical illusions of textile figures staring back at the viewer or streams of water always flowing towards the viewer at any angle whenever one walked past! At the very end of this corridor, the seal of Pope Gregory XIII—the pope who gave the world the Gregorian Calendar as the replacement for the obsolete Julian Calendar—was suspended over the doorway. Passing beneath the image of this winged, amber dragon superimposed upon a crimson shield, the monsignor was greeted by the sight of a white marble staircase descending into the bowels of the Vatican. These stairs were long and steep. Hence, the clergyman understood the need to be cautious.

Abandoning his quick-time march, the monsignor made his descent with deliberate care…escaping any scrutiny from the numerous pilgrim/tour groups who normally flooded the Vatican’s hallways as well as the famed Swiss Guards who were sworn to protect the Holy Father from any and all harm. But with visiting hours over, the passageway was now devoid of any other set of prying eyes. That was for the best as far as the monsignor was concerned. He knew perfectly well the news he carried had the potential to be devastating—especially for the man to whom he was about to report. Passing though a doorway at the base of this staircase, the monsignor stepped into the famed Sistine Chapel. Now, with Michelangelo’s stunning painting of The Last Judgment to his back and that spectacular masterpiece of a ceiling which, when combined, forever cemented the name of Michelangelo as the artistic genius of the Italian Renaissance, the monsignor’s eyes came to rest on the subject of his immediate concern…and dread…

The face of the Cardinal-Archbishop of Munich, West Germany, (though German had been united since 1990, there would always be an East Germany and West Germany in the mind of the Cardinal-Archbishop of Munich) bore a definite sourpuss look. Truth be told, his frown more closely resembled that of a sneer—a disposition the cardinal was always careful never to wear whenever television cameras might be on the premises. It was a stark contrast from the steadfast, smiling face always flaunted in public. From his expression, the monsignor correctly concluded that, up to now, the Cardinal-Archbishop of Munich had been pacing the circumference of the Sistine Chapel as nervously as an expectant father.

The cardinal’s full head of hair had once been blonde—betraying the Aryan heritage to which the Teutonic clergyman was extremely proud. Now, thanks to the years of tension, work, and worries inherent when one is a Prince of the Roman Catholic Church, that flaxen mane had gone from golden to white. However, even though those pallid locks served as an indicator of age, his full head of white hair contrasted rather sharply to that of the almost bald monsignor…but that was only the beginning of the differences between these two men. The flowing scarlet robes of the cardinal were much akin to the attire worn by the monsignor who strode up to greet him—they were starchly pressed and wrinkle-free. Yet, while the monsignor’s garments bore no accoutrements save for his crimson, sash-like apron, his counterpart sported an enormous, eighteen-carat gold crucifix, bedecked with an ornate hoard of precious gems which hung from a golden chain in the center of his chest. This bejeweled crucifix was superimposed with alternating gemstones: a sapphire at the top, followed by a ruby, an amber jewel formed the center, an emerald came next, and a diamond adorned the bottom. Not only did each one of these thirty-carat gemstones—representing the holy colors of blue, red, yellow, green, and white—run the entire length of this crucifix, the same held true for the single crossbeam. On the crucifix’s left crossbeam, another thirty-carat sapphire and ruby had been strategically mounted. The amber stone running down the length of the crucifix formed the center of the crucifix’s crossbeams. It went without saying that the right crossbeam was balanced out by naturally bearing a thirty-carat emerald and a diamond. This magnificent, but gaudy and sanctimonious, piece of jewelry adorning the cardinal’s chest was kept in its proper place, suspended by the eighteen-carat gold chain. Today, the importance the Cardinal-Archbishop of Munich possessed as a Prince of the Roman Catholic Church was strenuously emphasized…especially to the likes of a clergyman three ranks lower than himself!

"Well?" the scarlet-clad cardinal posed impatiently to the monsignor even before the junior-ranking clergyman had come to a complete stop. From the tone of his voice, the interrogative sounded less like an inquiry and more like an impending order.

"Lui sta morendo," the monsignor answered his interrogator in the Tuscan tongue.

It was an effectively simple answer. Unfortunately, the good it might yield would prove to be miniscule. Though his elder churchman hailed from Bavaria, he had resided in Rome for over a decade; hence, Italian, rather than his native German, had long since become the cardinal’s primary language. But then again, the monsignor realized that he could have phrased his answer in either French, Latin, Spanish, English, or Portuguese as the Cardinal-Archbishop of Munich spoke each of these languages in addition to being able to read—but not speak—both Greek and Hebrew. Consequently, while this aging Prince of the Roman Catholic Church had no difficultly understanding the balding monsignor’s words, for him to hear a report verifying, "He is dying," did little good. This cardinal could not be put off so easily.

He’s been dying since nineteen-ninety! the cardinal sneered as a reminder of his displeasure to the junior-ranking cleric. So, just what makes his imminent demise such a certainty this time around?

That’s probably why he’s a cardinal and I’m still a monsignor! the clerical messenger speculated.

He’s asking for a priest, the clerical envoy answered. He says he wants to make his last confession.

"Deo grátias! the cardinal exclaimed in the official language of the Roman Catholic Church. He arched his back in joy while delivering this blessing." The involuntary spinal spasm allowed the cardinal to look upwards. He spied the multitude of highly-decorated artistic figures adorning the vaulted ceiling. To conclude his mirthful outburst, the cardinal threw both hands skyward—towards the masterpieces of classical Renaissance artwork painstakingly painted brushstroked overhead.

The monsignor frowned. Even though he had allowed his skill reciting the Latin language to become corroded—degraded somewhat over the years as a by-product of the Roman Catholic Church abandoning this dead language for its worship services—the junior clergyman did not like it when a clergyman invoked the Church’s sacred tongue for anything other than rites reputed to be holy. Furthermore, the obvious elation now displayed on the cardinal’s face made a mockery of that sacred blessing.

I will be more than happy to be the one to console Father Donovan’s immortal soul! the Cardinal-Archbishop of Munich volunteered with ultimate relish.

The monsignor sighed heavily before answering his overly eager and blissful boss:

"He says, ‘anyone but you!’"

"Scheiße!" the Bavarian hatefully swore in his native tongue. Following his profane outburst, the cardinal instantly back to the Tuscan language that had grown to become his ‘primary’ language:

"I can’t believe how that pathetic, three-fingered, paddy, yank, jerk-clerk of a curate has the power to destroy me!"

True, he may be missing both his right thumb and index finger, Your Eminence, but I would be hard pressed to dismiss a keeper of the Vatican Archive as some ‘jerk-clerk,’ the monsignor strongly cautioned his superior. "You know Good Pope John loved him so."

The cardinal was not the least bit impressed by this warning:

Angelo Roncalli was a fat, drunken fool! he quipped. "When he was sober, which was next to never, the former Cardinal-Archbishop of Venice ran amuck by calling for that silly Second Vatican Council and leaving the Church in tatters in the process. Were it not for Pacem in Terris, his transitional reign as Supreme Pontiff would have gone down as a failure!"

For the first time since their meeting, the balding monsignor had to agree with this verdict:

You’ll get no argument from me on that one, Your Eminence, he conceded, loathing the outcome of the Second Vatican Council. "But, the fact of the matter is simply this: Father Patrick O’Flannery Donovan of the Society for Jesus has held that job since nineteen-seventy! His Holiness, Pope Paul the Sixth, created the position exclusively after the Holy Father denied Father Donovan’s request to be sent back home to his beloved Saint Louis, Missouri…"

Once again, that balding head dipped ever so close to the gaudy, bejeweled Prince of the Roman Catholic Church. With his crimson robes to shield him, the monsignor could not witness how the Teutonic clergyman quivered beneath his vestments…but he could sense the cardinal’s uneasiness. It only served to strengthen the monsignor’s resolve as he spoke out boldly:

"…It’s a job he’s held for a quarter of a century and three succeeding papacies, Your Eminence!"

That’s only if you bother to count the thirty-four day reign of Pope John Paul the First as a papacy, the Bavarian snorted in disgust. His disposition then raged to hateful:

"And the papacy of Giovanni Montini was a failure…and we’ve got that ignorant piece of shit called Humanea Vitae, written personally by mafia Pope Puke, to thank for it!"

The monsignor shrugged his shoulders. True, Pope Paul VI’s papal encyclical forbidding the use of birth control, other than the rhythm method, had done the Roman Catholic Church no favors. Furthermore, as the former Cardinal-Archbishop of Milan, for Pope Paul VI to turn the Vatican treasury over to his cronies from Milan—the La Cosa Nostra Spaghetti and Meatball Guys for safekeeping hadn’t helped much either…Throughout the course of the fifteen-year reign of Pope Paul VI, the Italian mafia looted the Vatican’s coffers! In this case, the monsignor was forced, sadly, to accept that the Cardinal-Archbishop of Munich spoke the truth: The moral dissertation penned by the successor to Saint Good Pope John XXIII had done irreparable damage to the Holy Mother Church.

On the surface, this encyclical failed miserably in overturning what had become the laity’s commonly accepted practice of using the pill as the preferred means of artificial birth control. That was definitely bad to begin with, but what made matters infinitely worse was how this papal encyclical succeeded in triumphantly demonstrating to the world that the laity could ignore an edict from the Holy Father and the earth beneath their feet did not split open wide to swallow these sinners up! It was a discovery which destroyed Church authority, more so than either the Great Schism or the Avignon Papacy combined! The monsignor, however, did not let on as to how he agreed with the judgment rendered by this overly smug Bavarian. Instead, he feigned nonchalance. By doing so, his gesture succeeded in deliberately serving to chide his superior.

Well, our Great Pope John Paul the Second has seen it fit to leave him in that position, Your Eminence, the monsignor retorted.

Now it was the Cardinal-Archbishop of Munich’s turn. He leaned forward in an accusatory manner, his upper torso now filling the messenger’s peripheral vision as he rendered his rejoinder:

"Well, whaddaya expect from some Unter-Mensch Pollack? the cardinal scoffed odiously. Our current Holy Father is a descendant from a DEGENERATIVE Slavic race. My God, why doesn’t EVERYONE know that the Slavs are nothing more than a race of sub-human beings? They’re just like the Russians: NOTHING MORE than a miserable race of people only SLIGHTLY above niggers, coolies, Jews, and gypsies…and if that isn’t good enough, how about the fact that our current pope IS a drug-addicted junkie-bastard to boot?"

The monsignor audibly swallowed. It was no secret that, after his attempted assassination in St. Peter’s Square, the medical orderlies administered morphine to the Holy Father during his stay in the hospital in order to ease his suffering. And yes, this treatment proved successful in relieving the Holy Father from the constant, throbbing pain that was the aftereffects of a grueling, post-operative recovery to remove four bullets—a pair embedded in the pope’s lower intestine, in his left hand, and a final round lodged in his right arm. Yet there had been a definite downside to this therapy: Pope John Paul II found out that morphine does a hell of a lot more than just kill the pain…it helped him grind his teeth and feel great too! As a result, nary a day went by without the Holy Father getting morphine injections thrice daily. Anymore, the guy couldn’t function without the drugs.

"Your Eminence, I would tend to believe that our Polish pope, a man who bravely fought against the Aryan invaders from your fatherland as a member of the Polish Underground during World War Two, would be MOST INTERESTED to learn of your past…and that of your father," the monsignor pointed out to his superior.

This bit of verbal sparring proved to be a well-calculated ruse. By refusing to use the derogatory term ‘Pollack’ to describe the former Prince-Cardinal Archbishop of Kraków, Poland—the man who been sitting on the Throne of Saint Peter for the last seventeen years—the monsignor roused far more than tension in the face of the Cardinal-Archbishop of Munich. The white-haired German cleric shivered, anxiously quivering in trepidation.

Good! Nothing like the smell of fear! the monsignor reminded himself as he pressed his advantage:

Fortunately, only Father Donovan knows who you really are, the monsignor softly stated, devoid of sympathy for the Germanic clergyman. "And he knows what you are. He remembers you well as a boy, Your Eminence…you know, fanatical Nazi…proud member of the Hitler Youth…"

The monsignor’s eyes then narrowed accusingly:

"…And he knows about your father too!"

My father was a lowly civil servant…a mere policeman!

Oh, that’s a great play on words, Your Eminence! Everyone knows that the ‘police department’ employed by the Third Reich was called the GESTAPO!

The clergyman hung his head in shame. The crestfallen look on the face of the Cardinal-Archbishop of Munich struck the monsignor as an outright admission of criminal guilt.

The Nazis, the cardinal sadly whimpered, his voice trailing off. "One of my few mistakes…"

Maybe so, my fine, upstanding Teutonic churchman, but this one is a real biggie!

It was then, as if the scarlet-clad churchman could sense what this clerical messenger was thinking, the Cardinal-Archbishop of Munich became most defensive:

"…You do know that if the Wehrmacht had taken Moscow in nineteen-forty the Soviets would have been crushed. Stalin, as well as all his bloodthirsty henchmen, would have been executed for being the mass-murdering criminals that they were; communism would have ended right then and there; and all of humanity would have been thus spared from oppression by the most evil and repressive empire the world has ever known. If that had happened, then history would be singing the praises of Adolf Hitler. Our Führer would have gone in the annals of history as one of the greatest statesmen of all time!"

Well, I’m sorry, Your Eminence, the monsignor countered with equal resolve. "But, I’m afraid history has already judged your Führer; and, it has judged him to be evil."

"Der Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei brought ORDER and PROSPERITY to the vaterland after the chaos and poverty that was the democratic Weimar Republic!"

And the minions who were members of the National Socialist German Workers Party…you know, Your Eminence, people like yourself…murdered some six million Jews, an estimated six million Poles, probably a lot more than the acknowledged six million Russians, and God-only-knows how many gypsies in the process!

"Der Unter-Mensch…der Juden, especially, got exactly what they deserved! My God, even His Holiness, Pope Pius the Twelfth, referred to Die Letzte Lösung für die Jüdische Frage as ‘God’s Holy Work!’ So why should the world be so HATEFUL to a divinely inspired visionary like our noble Führer, Adolf Hitler?"

"Maybe it’s because, for a dozen years, blood ran throughout all of Europe…courtesy of your ‘noble Führer’ and his wise ‘Final Solution for the Jewish Question,’ Your Eminence!"

"JEWISH LIES!!! the Cardinal-Archbishop of Munich stormed at the monsignor. ALL NOTHING BUT JEWISH LIES!!!"

Your Eminence—

"Everyone who passed away in the camps died of natural causes!"

How can you say that, your eminence?

Because it’s the truth. The death certificates drafted by each camp’s medical officer even say so.

The monsignor was about to launch into another protest, this one based on the logical assessment of how twelve to fifteen thousand people could all manage to die on the exact same day of tuberculosis, acute cardiac arrest, or the flu. A nineteen year-old man dying of a heart attack? Yes, as strange as that might sound, SS Sturmbannfuher Dr. Josef Mengele did sign off on a death certificate saying just that! Fortunately, by this time the monsignor knew well how such a sensible lesson as this would fall on deaf ears. So why bother wasting time? Instead, he dipped his head contemptuously closer to the man in the scarlet robes. He then rendered his conclusion:

"So you say, but, I must remind you, Your Eminence, as a soldier of the Third Reich AND a member of the N.S.D.A.P. via the Hitler Youth, you…and your father especially…are personally responsible for spilling some of that blood."

Are YOUR HANDS so clean, my Yankee dago-wop monsignor? the cardinal asked his subordinate, the inquiry a definite challenge to the holier-than-thou condemnation he had just endured at the hands of this junior-ranking cleric. "Were you not once yourself a supporter of Benito Mussolini and his black-shirted fascist thugs as a boy? Or, why don’t we talk about your association with Lucky Luciano and his wicked band of spaghetti and meatball guys?"

The monsignor’s eyes were downcast. Yes, in Italy, the existence of this shadowy organization dubbed, Mafioso, was an accepted and established fact of life. Yet, whenever it became necessary to make any reference to these ‘men of honor,’ no one dared to speak the dreaded M-word. Instead, these cut-throats were always euphemistically referred to as ‘the spaghetti and meatball guys’…because that is what they always seemed to eat! Hence, anytime some man of Etruscan heritage was observed devouring a platter of spaghetti and meatballs, that was a definite indicator of how this diner was a made-man…a man no one dared to fuck with unless they wanted to have both of their legs broken!

You know, monsignor, that exiled, evil, murdering Yankee mobster from New York? the cardinal continued accusingly. The one that Thomas Dewy, while fearlessly serving as Attorney General for New York, successfully managed to get deported from America back to his native Sicily, when you were a seminarian. Too bad you also didn’t get sent to that puny island that looks like it’s being kicked in the ass by the toe of the Italian boot during the war!

The monsignor hung his head:

"Despite Mussolini’s proud legacy of being the sole Italian politician to provide Italy with a stable government, bringing both prosperity and global respect? Yes, that legacy has allowed the rather corroded reputation of Il Duce to be rehabilitated somewhat. Yet, in spite of those accomplishments, it is just like what you said to me earlier, Your Eminence…‘One of my few mistakes.’"

Maybe so, my fine, upstanding Yankee dago-wop churchman, but this one is a real biggie!

Having confessed his sin, the Yank of Sicilian heritage raised his head. He looked the Aryan straight in the eye. It was perfectly clear from the cardinal’s inflexible look that absolution for his youthful indiscretions was out of the question. It made for an easy decision.

"I shall be the one who will administer to Father Donovan’s spiritual needs," the monsignor announced.

The scarlet-clad churchman seemed to ponder for a moment before speaking:

"Well, now that I think about it, I suppose that would be for the best, the cardinal admitted. After all, I NEVER got into this business to help ANYONE…or save anybody’s soul for that matter. Privately? I believe in none of the shit this multinational corporation is selling to the ignorant masses…Publicly? I believe in it all! I’m only here today because they gave me a choice: enter the seminary or stand trial at Nuremburg. Now, knowing full well beforehand about the so-called justice the allies were handing out to my countrymen from this Nuremburg court? I chose the former! I took a job whereby I became an entry-level employee of a large multinational corporation that has a whole bunch of well-meaning rules that don’t work in real life! That’s why I’m standing before you now, my Yankee dago-wop monsignor, as a distinguished Prince of the Roman Catholic Church; and, I’m just trying to keep my job…NOTHING MORE!!!"

I am glad to know the immense amount of joy you have for your vocation, Your Eminence.

Monsignor, the only time I ever knew more happiness was when I was shoving Jews in the oven!

Having bared his tortured soul, a wide smile of satisfaction broke out across the angst-ridden face of the Cardinal-Archbishop of Munich. Having achieved the upper hand, the Aryan from Bavaria now felt secure enough to issue a warning to the junior-ranking cleric:

I’m sure your services will prove most beneficial to our ailing brother cleric during his final hours of life, the cardinal whispered in a most sinister tone…

"EVERYONE…OUT…NOW!!!"

All three persons occupying the room shifted their attention to the individual standing in the doorway. The first of these, a shirtless, sickly, elderly man was lying on his back between a pair of white sheets. He was obviously not going anywhere. The second party comprising this trio was also male. Yet this representative wore a shirt that was the same color as the bed sheets…adorned with a necktie with sloping horizontal stripes alternating of blue and red. The dark blue blazer perched on the back of the chair went well with his gray trousers and versatile dark brown loafers. However, it was the stethoscope wrapped around the man’s neck which correctly identified him to be a lay physician. The final member of this trio was female. A Roman Catholic cleric as demonstrated by the habit of dull brown and white, the cassock of matching colors covering her body, and the rosary tied around her waist. The nun, a registered nurse serving as a Hospital Sister in the Order of Saint Francis of Assisi, eyed this newcomer with a professional, yet disapproving look of contempt. While this new arrival did wear the robes of a Monsignor of the Roman Church, the sister rationalized how that alone did not qualify him to be a licensed healer as she was. Furthermore, this sister was strong-willed—she was both an American from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and young enough not to allow herself to succumb to the taunts of a bully. Thus, she stood her ground before the male cleric in defense of her professional, rather than spiritual, calling:

"Father Donovan is under my care, the nun bravely declared to the overbearing monsignor. Thus, in my own counsel will I decide when the time is proper for me to take my leave; and not one moment before…Monsignor!"

A mangled right hand, missing both a thumb and an index finger, slowly materialized from beneath the bed sheets. The grisly sight of the bed-ridden patient and his deformed, three-fingered hand effectively silenced anyone from making any further protests.

Do as he says, the sickly octogenarian begged in a cracking voice. This is a spiritual matter. I must speak to the monsignor—

"Father Donovan…please," the nun broke in, pleading with all her might for the bedridden priest to reconsider. She was quite cognizant that her patient may well perish without further medical attention. It was that knowledge which compelled the nun to redouble her efforts to induce her fellow American cleric to have a change of heart:

"Listen to us!"

Do as he says, her patient repeated, his voice as hoarse before. He found both strength and comfort in the final words written by Saint Paul of Tarsus to his dear friend Timothy. All things considered for a dying man, the elderly curate believed these words to be especially appropriate for his current situation:

"The time for my departure is near. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith…"¹

Having made his point, the invalid priest continued:

…What I must say before I die is for the ears of my fellow seminary classmate from Rome’s Gregorian University and fellow Jesuit, Monsignor Remcata, only.

"Father, as a certified registered nurse, I cannot allow that!" the nun declared, invoking her prerogative as a medical professional.

Sister Jinathau, you have done all you can for me, her patient reminded his caretaker. "Not all your powers, nor all your skills, will allow me to escape my fate. Sister, you are both a fine nurse and a good nun…a nun worthy to serve alongside Mother Theresa of Calcutta. But, never forget, sister, that you are a woman of God. That is your true profession. First and foremost. Medicine, on the other hand, is your TRAINED profession; and, that profession happens to be a science…not a religion."

The middle-aged sister—a young nun from Father Donovan’s perspective—sniffled once. Even though she struggled mightily to suppress a second, her display of raw, human emotion succeeded in bringing a smile to the face of her bed-ridden patient. Far too many devote Catholics truly believed that priests and nuns ceased to be human from the moment they donned a collar or habit. But Father Donovan knew that was pure horseshit. He was no mindless automaton drone, nor was this nun. Her behavior proved it. That was good. It reaffirmed his faith in the Roman Catholic Church. It strengthened the priest and allowed him to issue what he knew in his heart to be his final command:

Now, obey my wishes, sister, and take your leave of me…

The dying priest shifted his attention to the layman seated on the opposite side of the bed:

…You too, doctor.

The physician said nothing. He merely nodded once before rising from his chair. He walked up and stood alongside the nun who struggled to compartmentalize her emotions. The two medical professionals stood shoulder to shoulder and looked down at their patient. Though they would have denied it with every fabric of their existence, each knew in his and her own heart that this would be the last time they would ever see this Roman Catholic priest alive. As if to confirm their knowledge that this moment marked his transition from this world to the next, Father Donovan looked directly at this pair. The dying Jesuit priest then raised his mangled hand skyward. He began to slowly trace the sign of the cross. Both the physician and the nun followed the lead of the dying priest and began to cross themselves accordingly. All the while, the sickly priest invoked what would prove to be the final blessing he would make on Earth. Ironically, he did so speaking not in English or Latin, but in the Italian language he had come to know so well—the by-product of having served a total of seventy-four years, counting the two years he spent at the Gregorian University as a curate of Rome:

"La benedizione di Dio Onnipotente ... Padre, Figlio e Spirito Santo scenderà su di voi e rimanere per sempre."

AMEN!!!

Doctor…Sister…you are dismissed. And may the peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you always.

The physician and nun turned around. The monsignor standing in the doorway took a step to the left to allow the duo to pass. Both walked past the monsignor, heads down, hiding their matching looks of sorrow and pain. Upon clearing the threshold, the doctor closed the door behind him.

Monsignor Marcus Antonio Remcata, S.J. and Father Patrick O’Flannery Donovan, S.J. were now alone. Lifting his right hand high overhead, the monsignor began tracing the sign of the cross over the bed-ridden priest while speaking in the official language of the Roman Catholic Church. It was a tongue both men knew extremely well. Indeed, each was pleased to hear the old Latin blessings that they fondly recalled from the days of their youth:

"In nóminee Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti."

"Amen," both responded as one.

Monsignor Remcata’s right arm descended to side. He then raised both of his hands together in unison. Upon reaching his heart, the monsignor folded his hand and continued to pray over the aged, sickly priest in Latin:

"Introíbo ad altáre Dei," he continued.

Upon hearing the Latin invocation, "I will go unto the Altar of God, Father Donovan happily gave the required response, To God, Who giveth joy to my youth."

"Ad Deum qui laetíficat juventútem meam."

"Glória Patri, et Fílio, et Spirítui Sancto!" Monsignor Remcata joyfully proclaimed.

As before, the divine proclamation, "Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, demanded a responsorial. That proper response: As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen." Indeed, with equal joy, Father Donovan uttered those beautiful Latin words:

"Sicut erat in pincípio, et nunc, et simper, et in saecula saeculórum. Amen!"

"Osténde nobis, Dómine, misericórdiam tuam!"

Father Donovan was delighted to hear the invocation, "Show us, Oh Lord, Thy mercy! Feeling better than he had in weeks, Father Donovan invoked the responsorial, And grant us Thy salvation!"

"Et salutáre tuum da nobis!"

"Dómine, exáudi oratiónem meam."

Dammit! This is the end! Father Donovan realized rather sadly upon hearing the words, "Oh Lord, hear my prayer. With the greatest of disappointment, Father Donovan gave the finishing responsorial, And let my cry come unto Thee."

"Et clamor meus ad te véniat."

Both men crossed themselves reverently. With the same deliberate slowness by which he had earlier traced the sign of the cross, the monsignor shuffled to the chair recently vacated by the physician without saying nary a word. The monsignor maintained his silence as he took his seat. No sooner did the monsignor take the load off his feet than he got down to business with the skill of a hunter surveying his quarry. This action ensured that Monsignor Remcata now sat alongside the priest who lay covered by a knitted afghan that extended to his neckline. It was a remarkable display of modesty for a man half-naked. It was especially befitting for a Roman Catholic priest clad only in his skivvies.

Wearing a genuinely sad expression, the monsignor surveyed the dying man. Father Donovan was, after all, a fellow Jesuit priest and graduate from the Gregorian University. Despite an age difference spanning two decades, both were good friends…an outgrowth of their combined efforts in expelling Satan from a human host as part of one menacing exorcism. True, their respective duties guaranteed the placing of a strain on that friendship—in spite of both being permanently assigned to the Vatican, neither had seen the other in almost six years. That was the sad consequence of Father Donovan being forcibly retired twenty-five years ago by Pope Paul VI as an intelligence officer for the Vatican Secretary of State in order to be quietly reassigned as a keeper of the Vatican Archive. That tasking by the Holy Father had successfully turned the aging Father Donovan into another faceless Vatican bureaucrat. On the other hand, the talents belonging to the scholarly Monsignor Remcata ordained that he would be destined early on in his career to become an expert of cannon law. As a result, he wore two hats simultaneously: he now served the Holy See as both a Professor Emeritus at the renowned Gregorian University and Chairman of the Theology Department at Saint Louis University. Those that can’t, teach! Monsignor Remcata would occasionally like to joke with self-depreciating silliness…usually whenever he consumed a little too much of the sacred Blood of Christ from his communion chalice!

Because of their radically diverse careers, Father Donovan’s confessor had outstripped and vastly surpassed him. Both rank and standing within the Roman Catholic Church. Yet the sight of a fellow alumni seminarian and good friend brought a smile to his sickly face.

So Marc Anthony, at the very end, we meet again, Father Donovan jokingly quipped.

The bedridden priest extended his left hand in friendship towards his superior. Not only was his left hand closer to the seated monsignor, but this hand—fortunately from Father Donovan’s perspective—still possessed all five fingers. Long ago, years before entering the seminary…even before returning from Flanders Fields to his hometown of Saint Louis, Missouri, after being sent home as a hero from the Great War due to his crippling wounds…the teenage Patrick O’Flannery Donovan resigned himself to the fact that he would forevermore be using his left hand when it became necessary to extend salutations. It was a practical matter. Besides, by using his left hand whenever he made a greeting, that made for a far less clumsy handshake!

It’s good to see you again, Three Fingers, Monsignor Remcata quipped with equal humor as he accepted the grip from his old friend. You look good, Patrick.

NO I DON’T!!! the priest stingingly replied. May I remind you, Marc Anthony, lying is a sin.

The monsignor smiled. Yes, he had been caught in a lie. However, out of deference to the ego of his bedridden buddy, he did not look upon his fib as the least bit sinful. His deception was necessary. He was merely being…tactful.

Still thinking I’m Cleopatra’s lover, huh, Three Fingers? Monsignor Remcata joked.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Nor I.

The monsignor witnessed the lighthearted expression on Father Donovan’s face evaporate. The ailing Jesuit priest turned somber:

Bless me father, for I have sinned—

I would say that’s putting it rather mildly, Three Fingers, Monsignor Remcata interrupted in a desperate attempt to humor a dying man. Unfortunately, his attempt to generate some campy humor proved unsuccessful.

Monsignor, this shall be my last confession, Father Donovan continued in a serious manner. With that, Father Donovan’s confessor abandoned any attempts to placate this priest with the use of wit or comedy:

What sins have you to confess? the monsignor asked with solemn gravity.

A platitude, Monsignor.

A platitude, Father?

Yes, going all the way back to the beginning.

Then I must suggest, for the sake of your immortal soul, we start there.

Yes, Monsignor, you are correct. For the sake of my soul and for our Church it is imperative that I start at the beginning…

Monsignor Remcata cringed with fear. He grit his teeth upon observing how serious his fellow Jesuit curate now spoke to him while on his deathbed. While this outward display of raw emotion was not lost upon the dying priest, he refused to allow it to interrupt his thought process…the byproduct of the discipline instilled by both his military service and his beloved Jesuit order. Thus, Father Donovan merely continued with his confession objectively:

…Now, I’m not talking about the time in nineteen-oh-one, when a saintly Irish-Catholic mother hailing from the mean streets of America’s Gateway City rewarded a hard-working, Irish-Catholic bricklayer, her devoted husband, by giving birth to a son. Nor does it involve anything about a somewhat bad-tempered and mean-spirited, Irish-Catholic boy who grew up in the Irish ghetto of Saint Louis, Missouri, alongside family and friends. No, it was a time long after nineteen-oh-five, Monsignor. The year when Cardinal-Archbishop Glennon embarked on his epic labor of love…replacing the old Saint Louis cathedral on the riverbank of the mighty Mississippi River—the birthplace of the Saint Vincent DePaul Society—with a brand new basilica, one suited to his visions of a temple dedicated to the Lord God Most High. True to form, it was also after Father Dobberstein commenced with his own personal quest to do likewise in West Bend, Iowa. You do know the story, Monsignor, do you not? How Father Dobberstein labored with his own two hands in solitude to construct his marvelous Grotto of the Redemption in nineteen-twelve?

Monsignor Remcata nodded. He had personally seen the relatively obscure Grotto of the Redemption….and it was truly marvelous.

I’m happy to hear that, the monsignor informed his penitent sinner. "Long ago, even before we were ordained as priests of the Society for Jesus, I came to understand a most sacred truth: That to receive the Body of Christ in the Holy Eucharist is the one, fine pearl for which a man will sell everything he possesses in order to attain it. The price we pay for that perfect and magnificent pearl is set in the confessional. That is why one must NEVER hold back in the confessional. To purchase that pearl by receiving Holy Communion requires that we must always remain focused when receiving the sacrament of Penance. For only by committing oneself to acknowledging the TRUE REASON for one’s faults can one confess all sins and receive the necessary purification which will allow one to acquire the perfect pearl when we receive Holy Communion."

Now I know why you became a theologian, an impressed Father Donovan intoned.

You had the ability.

The reaction to this bit of praise was met with a dismissive wave of his deformed right hand.

Naw, Monsignor, not only was I never the bookworm, Father Donovan protested. I never really cared much for school.

Upon making this remonstration, the dying priest proceeded to confirm his declaration by shrugging his shoulders as if to say, ‘Oh, what the hell.’

I still don’t! Father Donovan confessed. I was never one of those academic types like you who, for some God-unknown reason, seem to enjoy being cooped up in a library doing never-ending research to extrapolate the reason for Our Lord Jesus Christ stopping the Passover meal immediately after giving his disciples the third cup, the blessing cup, at the Last Supper rather than concluding the meal with the fourth and final cup, the cup of consummation as is required under the Hebrew Passover celebration…

The dying priest shook his head in refusal.

…No, Monsignor, I was always the type of priest who preferred to be out and about, Father Donovan concluded. Yet I also know that you are, indeed, most correct with your theology…

A sly smile crossed the face of the dying priest.

…Not surprising, all things considered…

This keen observation caused the monsignor to do likewise. It demonstrated how, although his body may be failing him, the elderly curate’s mind was still as sharp as ever.

"…And, you are very wise to remind me of that sacred obligation, Monsignor. Indeed, for me to make my final confession a good one, it is imperative that I start from the very root causation for my failings so I can be the one who will own that one, perfect pearl."

Then let us begin.

"This is going to take some time, Monsignor," Father Donovan warned his confessor.

You’re not going anywhere, Monsignor Remcata reminded his fellow Jesuit cleric. Nor shall I.

A single tear of appreciation trickled down the bed-ridden priest’s left cheek. He wept, rather than spoke to his confessor:

Monsignor, there is a dying man who can’t tell you how glad he is to hear those words!

You won’t be! the monsignor told himself jokingly. Especially if I just happen to be the one who dies first!

You can skip the flattery, Three Fingers, Monsignor Remcata chastised the sickly American cleric. But, once having issued his rebuke, Father Donovan’s Sicilian classmate broke into a wide, appreciative smile which proved to be the perfect preface:

"Since you are supposedly dying and because you tell me you have a platitude of sins to confess, I suggest we start immediately!"

In reply, the dying priest nodded, demonstrating his understanding of the truth.

Indeed, Marc Anthony, Father Donovan agreed. "This time you are the one who is correct…"

BOOK I

IN THE BEGINNING

Meet Me In Saint Louis

Brother Donovan, would you please come with me? the tottering nun asked the young man reverently perched on one of the many kneelers occupying Kenrick Seminary’s Saint Vincent de Paul Chapel. Though she was a tiny woman—two inches below five feet—this sister of petite stature had no difficulty determining that this lowly seminarian was lost deep in prayer, meditation, or both: on bended knee, eyes closed and head bowed as he knelt in prayer before an Iconostasion dedicated exclusively to the devotion the great Saint Paul. She could not help but take note at the folded hand that was fittingly positioned over his heart. Unhappy that she would be compelled to disturb someone so pious, the infinitesimal nun failed to recognize this Iconostasion owed its existence to the Orthodox Catholic Church. In any other set of circumstances she might have reminded herself how this version of the Iconostasion demonstrated that her faith paid rightful homage by borrowing from its older brother. The chief difference being that, instead of serving as one of many numerous icons forming a rude screen separating the church’s sanctuary from the nave, the Roman Catholic Church customized this ancient and venerated design by conversion into a chapel used strictly for private prayer. Were she not committed to accomplishing her tasking, the diminutive sister would have marveled at how this alternation suited her immensely. Only now, the fact that her summons yielded no visible response raised her ire.

Is he ignoring me or did he just fail to hear me? the sister wondered. With contemplation beginning to give way to impatience, the tiny nun redoubled her efforts by speaking in a forceful octave:

"Brother Donovan, I’ve come to inform you that there’s a person of some importance here who wants greet you."

The young seminarian, sporting a receding hairline of auburn locks, lifted his head with calculated slowness. After opening his eyes, he was instantly rewarded by the welcome sight of a wooden altar upon which rested a golden crucifix. It was centered between two beeswax candles mounted on golden candlestick holders, strategically set before the icon of St. Paul with another icon, this one bearing the ancient Christian symbol of the anchor underneath. Though slightly bloodshot, the diminutive sister rejoiced at how those hazel eyes were clear rather than glassy—the mark of any seminarian who had a proclivity for freely indulging himself with one of the chapel’s many gallon jugs of communion wine!

Immediately, the tiny nun breathed a sigh of relief that this seminarian’s attention was bearing down upon the bronzed image of a half-naked man hanging from a Latin Cross by nails driven through his palms and feet. While he be but a lowly seminarian, Brother Donovan had just completed his sophomore year at Saint Louis, Missouri’s famed Kenrick Seminary. Since he was now in his junior year, Brother Donovan was now an upperclassman. As his reward for his new upper-class standing, he had also been elevated to a new rank: Deacon of the Roman Catholic Church. Now, within the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church, the title of deacon is one of no great significance. Even a sister of diminutive stature such as herself recognized this fact. However, this waiflike nun was also a realist. True, Patrick O’Flannery Donovan might still be a seminarian—and thus little more than a Roman Catholic priest in training—but, upon obtaining the rank of deacon, the odds were now over eight-four percent that he would eventually be ordained as a celibate priest of the Roman Catholic Church. Yes, unless some unforeseen character flaw emerged, any seminarian who came this far was generally destined to accept Holy Orders and begin their priestly career as a Curate of the Roman Catholic Church. And in the Roman Catholic Church, celibate male priests ALWAYS held absolute sway over celibate female nuns no matter what rank or seniority!

Despite the fact of feeling generally relieved, the nun grimaced at the sight of this newly minted deacon bringing together his middle, ring, and pinkie fingers so as to properly conclude his prayer session. As Deacon Donovan proceed to trace the sign of the cross, the elfin sister reacted as she always had when she witnessed this man perform that solemn ritual: She found herself a bit shaken. Yes, while it could be construed that such revulsion might be sacrilege, she could not help herself. The sight of that deformed, mangled right hand, missing both the thumb and index finger appeared repulsive…even though she knew that deformity was man-made.

War hero or not, any man who suffers a wound like that somehow sickens me! The nun told herself. Boy, am I glad I wasn’t around for the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ…before fainting, I would have been puking my guts out!

Having finished his venerations, the upperclassman and newly-minted deacon rose to his feet. He turned to his left. Gazing downward, his eyes fixated upon the tiny woman who had succeeded in interrupting his meditative devotion to the inspired writer, theologian, and missionary who penned a vast majority of the epistles comprising the New Testament.

Then I strongly suggest that you show me the way, Sister Mary Regina, the young seminarian advised. "After all, though I now be a deacon, I believe it would be both unwise and rude to be anything less than diligent to anyone in need of my ministry…"

The faint trace of a smile appeared on the face of the normally stoic nun and it brought gladness to the seminarian’s heart. It was proof that, however miniscule, his theology was every bit as sound as that belonging to St. Paul of Tarsus! As had become his habit due to his war wound, Brother Donovan extended his left hand so that he could use his index finger to point the way to the chapel’s enormous mahogany altar which dominated the elevated open sanctuary. He then gave this nun his first command as a Deacon of the Roman Catholic Church:

Please, lead on, sister, he intoned, giving an order which sounded much more like a request.

Delighted to be treated with such respect, Sister Mary Regina passed through the open doorway. Though he knew well the most expeditious means by which to exist from the private prayer stalls lining Kenrick Seminary’s St. Vincent de Paul Chapel, Deacon Donovan wordlessly followed her. Fortunately, it took only six paces to reach the chapel’s main aisle. Now, directly in front of the high altar, both performed a lazy left turn. The sight of elongated rows of wood pews, four deep on both sides, spanning the entire length of the chapel rewarded their sight. Instantly, the eyes of the seminarian came to rest on the third row of pews…these were the ones allocated specifically for seminarians of the junior-class only.

My new pews! the deacon enthusiastically reminded himself.

Like most things at Kenrick Seminary, one’s class standing dictated the pews in which one sat. Freshmen occupied the pews lining the main aisle. The next row was designated for sophomores. The third row was for juniors. Seniors occupied the row farthest from the main aisle. There was a logical reason for this segregation: The closer one was towards the main aisle, the more one was scrutinized by spying eyes. The farther one was from the main aisle, the more room one had due to seminarians who either dropped out or were weeded out via expulsion for various misdeeds…usually involving alcohol or licentiousness. As he trod down the length of the chapel’s main aisle, the new upperclassman was already looking forward to celebrating his first mass with only the seniors—the first classmen—eyeballing his every move.

At the very end of the chapel’s main aisle was an ornate archway skillfully carved from wood. The centerpiece of this archway was comprised of a pair of hand-carved, wooden statues mounted on either side of the archway in such a way that each appeared to be scrutinizing anyone entering or departing the seminary chapel. The first of these life-like statues was a representation of Saint Great Pope Gregory I, the Holy Father generally acknowledged to be the Father of Christian Worship. As a prolific—some might even say ‘obsessive’—writer of theology, it would be Pope Gregory I who insisted on revising the Holy Liturgy by moving the recitation of Pater Noster (Our Father). This adaptation prescribed that the Lord’s Prayer would be declaimed by all immediately following the Roman Canon and immediately before the Fraction…a position that is still maintained by the Roman Catholic Liturgy to this very day.

The other statue paid homage to the first Holy Father elected in the twentieth century: the eventually canonized Saint Pope Pius X. The reason for carving a statue honoring this pope who hailed from the Archdiocese of Venice was obvious: This Holy Father was the one who gave his blessing for then Archbishop John J. Glennon to begin construction of the second Kenrick Seminary. Passing between these two wooden statues brought both the nun and deacon to the Holy Water Fountain. Since the chapel lacked a narthex, both proceeded to silently dip their fingers into the stagnant water pool and reverently trace the sign of the cross. Having been sufficiently blessed, the sister did exactly what everyone had to do in order to enter or exit the seminary’s chapel: she pushed open the heavy wooden door.

The sight of the main lobby of the renowned Kenrick Seminary of Saint Louis, Missouri, instantly rewarded their eyes…

Much like Father Dobberstein’s famed Grotto of the Redemption, Kenrick Seminary is a historical milestone that is oft overlooked by many. Just why this remains so is a mystery. This seminary can trace its origins all the way back to 1818! That was when the very first Roman Catholic Bishop of Saint Louis, Missouri, Louis William Valentine Dubourg founded Saint Mary’s of the Barrens Seminary. By birth Bishop Dubourg was a Frenchman. He emigrated to America during the chaos that was the country’s first revolution in order to escape being sent to France’s National Razor—the guillotine—for alleged ‘counterrevolutionary leanings’ according to the ruling Jacobins led by Robespierre.

Once safe and sound on American soil, Bishop Dubourg set about ensuring that the Roman Catholic Church would have a proper place within this Protestant New Republic carved out by the Freemasons. His résumé proves that his efforts were an unqualified success: chancellor of Georgetown University, founder of both Saint Mary’s College in Baltimore, Maryland, as well as Saint Louis University, a chaplain as well as close personal friend of the renowned Masonic Worshipful Master, President George Washington, and the eventual Archbishop of Besancon, France.

But it was by serving as the initial vicar for the newly-formed Diocese of Saint Louis by which Bishop Dubourg cemented his rightful place in the annals of American history. He did so by eagerly dedicating the first Roman Catholic seminary west of the Mississippi River in Perry, Missouri, within his first year on the job. This is remarkable when one considers how Bishop Dubourg was