-
Prologue
- University of Notre Dame Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
Prologue I sacrifice myself for my neighbours, for my fellow countrymen, for my children, and these sacrifice themselves in their turn for theirs, and theirs again for those that come after them, and so on in a never ending series of generations. A nd who receives the fruit of this sacrifice? -MIGUEL DE UNAMUNO, Tragic Sense of Life The Cathedral of Mary Our Queen is surrounded by well-groomed duchies of northern Baltimore suburbia. It is a dormant creature, roused only for events, such as the funerals of special men. The interior, over a hundred yards long, is a solemn cavity, vast enough to shelter a dirigible. There are many small altars along the sidewalls, each dedicated to a particular saint. Twenty four chandeliers hang from the ceiling in the shape of coronets for Mary Our Queen. A multitude of rainbows provoked by the stained-glass windows dapple the bent backs of the congregation. Today, the staves of grief have been assembled; everything is transformed, renamed, elevated. Chants, potions, and spells are summoned. Not having time, the healing stretch of space, the ritual folds back on itself, giving more surface upon which sorrow can disperse. All in attendance are lashed to their thoughts. Women are crying; men are crying. The distribution of Holy Communion is accomplished rapidly; not many receive at funerals. There is a vague revulsion at eating with the deceased in the room. Empty, the cathedral smells of cold stone and incense; now, the humid scent of mourning, the perfumes these burghers wear, xiii xv PROLOGUE fourteen hundred of them, rises to the cathedral's vaulted heights. Two dollars is what you would receive for serving at funerals, which, when I was an acolyte, made them less popular than weddings, which brought you five. The costumes of the church have changed since the days I served. Gone are the somber vestments of the Requiem Mass; now they are white and the service is called of the Resurrection. We altarboys, cherubic spectators of grief, made the trip to the graveside and held tapers taller than ourselves, which gave us the chance to brave the hot wax that dripped onto our hands. How many strangers have I seen lowered into holes? That was a dozen years ago; and this man that lies in a coffin under a satin shroud stitched HE IS RISEN is almost unknown to me. Francis X. Gallagher, attorney for the Catholic Archdiocese of Baltimore, former state legislator, and counsel for four defendants of the Harrisburg conspiracy case. In the courtroom he sat back with the defendants. At first he appeared to be not an attorney but the friendliest of federal marshals. His suits always had the ingratiating rumples of an accessible man. A dozen priests fuss around the altar; two clerics sitting in the sanctuary are the Fathers Joseph Wenderoth and Neil Mc Laughlin. They are standing trial in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for conspiring to raid federal offices, to bomb and to kidnap. The chasubles of the celebrants are lined with red, like the bodies, now so often photographed, that rest on a bright tray of their own blood. Kneeling in prayer arc Sister Elizabeth McAlister, R.S.H.M., and the inactive priest Anthony Scoblick and his wife, the former Sister of Notre Dame de Namur, Mary Cain Scobliek. They too are on trial in Harrisburg for conspiring to raid, bomb, and kidnap. The congregation rises and sinks to its knees in waves like pliant seaweed. Here, also, are Sisters Jogues Egan and Marjorie Shuman and Beverly Bell, all ladies of the Church, lately chris tened by the government with clammy surnames: unindicted coconspirators. Eight years of parochial school toll in my memory. The nuns would allot us three minutes for our examination of conscience xvi [44.220.245.254] Project MUSE (2024-03-19 11:38 GMT) PROLOGUE before confession. We felt the need to make up sins if we didn't have enough to present a plausible life. A cardinal eulogizes Francis X. Gallagher : "To the Christian, death is but the beginning of a better life, a life in which all of us one day will join." Court in Harrisburg is recessed this morning. Gallagher dis appeared from the crowd of usual faces; he had died of a heart attack at forty-three. Yesterday, the defendants had asked for a moment of silence in his honor. They and their lawyers stood, as did the prosecutors, press, and spectators; those who did not know him...