“Accept my memory, my understanding, my entire will. Whatsoever I possess Thou hast bestowed; to Thee, I surrender it wholly. Grant me only Thy love and Thy grace—with these I am rich enough and desire nothing more.”
He waited and waited. No answer came. Though he struggled against them, tears fought their way up behind his eyelids. “Accept me,please…”
Then Joseph did hear voices—and they seemed to be coming from the altar. He raised his head. He realized with disappointment that the voices were attached to bodies: Bishop England and Miss Joanna were standing outside the sacristy door.
She was carrying fresh altar cloths. His Lordship was reading his sister something from a newspaper, and he sounded angry. Framed by her mantilla, her face was a portrait of worry. Then Miss Joanna noticed Joseph and smiled.
“My lord!” Joseph pulled his legs beneath him in order to rise and honor his Bishop. But he hesitated. He should not cross the altar rail unless he was serving.
“Please, son—stay where you are.”
Josephwishedhe were this man’s son, though he knew that was impossible.
“We didn’t intend to interrupt your devotions.” Bishop England folded his paper.
“You didn’t. I wanted…” Joseph remained kneeling, his eyes downcast. He wasn’t sure how to explain, so he greeted Miss Joanna instead.
She answered with her usual kindness. She set the clean altar linens on the priests’ bench and genuflected to Christ in the Tabernacle. Then Miss Joanna went about her work, gathering the used altar cloths. She handled the linens with utmost care because they might hold the remains of Christ’s Body.
His Lordship also genuflected before he passed through the altar rail. He sat in a pew and set his paper aside. “Can I help you at all?”
Joseph must begin somewhere. “My lord…I read about Pope Saint Calixtus, how he was born a slave. I knowhewasn’t an African, but it made me wonder: Can a colored man become a Priest?”
“Of course. The Church has had a presence in Africa since the time of the Apostles. We have ordained many men there.”
His gaze on his knees, Joseph swallowed his disappointment and nodded. “A black Priest couldn’t serve here.”
Bishop England sighed. “Unfortunately, in this country, people would see only the color of his skin. They wouldn’t respect him.”
Joseph couldn’t ask about becoming a Priest himself, not today, or His Lordship might?—
“If, on the other hand, his parishioners don’tknowof his African heritage; if they believe his grandmother wasSpanish, for example…”
Joseph sucked in a breath and his eyes snapped up.
His Lordship was smiling. Still he glanced across the altar rail at his sister (still busy with her task) before he whispered: “Your father told me, Joseph.”
Joseph’s first reaction was anger at his father, though relief soon replaced it. He no longer had to worry about concealing their secret, and he knew they could trust Bishop England. “A-A man’s blood doesn’t matter to the Church, then?”
His Lordship shook his head. “The Church welcomeseveryone, whatever their origins. That’s why it’s called Catholic—universal, forallmen. You mentioned the Pope who was born a slave. Pope Sixtus V, who finished the dome of St. Peter’s in Rome, was once a swineherd.” Bishop England’s eyes rested on the paper beside him now, his dark brows pulled together. “And do you understand, Joseph, that many people despise the Irish as much as they do blacks? I have heard my countrymen called ‘white negroes,’ even—if you’ll pardon me—‘niggers turned inside out.’ Many Englishmen and Americans view the Irish as a race of savages: filthy, indolent, ignorant, drunken, and helpless.”
Joseph scowled. He’d heard negroes called all those same things.
“Perhaps you’ve seen some of the newspaper drawings. The artists make us look like apes. Even the Irishwomen.” Bishop England’s attention returned to Miss Joanna, who was folding the last soiled altar cloth. She looked like an angel, or at least a saint. “But God doesn’t see us the way men see us. He sees an island of saints. He sees white souls beneath black skins. He sees Popes in slaves and swineherds.”
“But there are men whocan’tbe Priests, aren’t there? No matter how badly they want it? Men like Mr. Künstler?”
His Lordship opened his mouth, hesitated, and then tapped theseat beside him. Joseph obeyed gratefully; his legs were falling asleep from kneeling so long on the bare floor.
“I know Mr. Künstler’s story mustseemlike a tragedy. But he’s found another way to serve.”
He was only a teacher. He wasn’t God’s representative on Earth.
“You must understand, Joseph: training a Priest takes at least a decade. It requires an enormous investment of time and resources. The Church must ensure that as many seminarians as possible will be able to serve for a lifetime. The duties of a Priest are exhausting even for someone in perfect health. An army cannot accept every soldier who wishes to join its ranks. Sometimes, unfortunately, ‘the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.’”
There were many kinds of fleshly weakness. Joseph glanced nervously toward Miss Joanna, who was laying out the new altar linens. Joseph lowered his voice. “Someone could be too wicked to be a Priest, couldn’t he?”
“He could, if he refuses to turn away from his wickedness.”
