In Our Lifetime…: The Ordination of the First Catholic Woman Priest

© 2012 by Jeanne Pieper. 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 book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/11/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4685-7450-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-7449-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012905814

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Contents

PREFACE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

EPILOGUE

To my husband, Jim Pieper, with love and appreciation for his

50 years of support of my many projects.

To my twin, Sister Joanna Marie Bramble, CSJ, for sharing her life experiences with me and for her help with this book.

PREFACE

IN OUR LIFETIME

October 11, 2012 will be the 50th anniversary of the beginning of Vatican Two, (the Second Vatican Council), which addressed the relationship between the Roman Catholic Church and the modern world. That was a very exciting time to be a Catholic, particularly for women.

Many (if not all) of us believed that the Ordination of Women to the priesthood would certainly be discussed at the Council and was around the corner. That is why this novel was originally titled IN OUR LIFETIME. The first draft was written many years ago, when it never once occurred to me, or to most of us active women in the pews, that in 2007 the Holy See would issue a decree saying that the attempted ordination of women would result in automatic excommunication for the women and priests trying to ordain them, and in 2010 would reaffirm that the ordination of women would be a grave sin. (Actually the attempt to ordain women, because they maintain it is impossible for a woman to ever be a priest.) The Leadership Conference of Women Religious (LCWR) has been the subject of a doctrinal assessment by the Vatican Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith since 2009. The investigation found a prevalence of certain radical feminist themes, including women’s ordination, incompatible with the Catholic faith, present in some of the organization’s programs and presentations.

Therefore, it is with much regret that I change the title of this novel to "NOT IN OUR LIFETIME".

CHAPTER ONE

When John O’Malley, Auxiliary Bishop of San Francisco, hung up the phone, he couldn’t remember what he had said to Sister Maureen, or even how he had ended the conversation. He sat almost motionless in the big stuffed green leather chair in his bedroom and wrote Mary Anne’s name over and over on the pad of paper on his desk, unknowing, unseeing, almost unfeeling, as he fought to keep an avalanche of emotion from overtaking him.

Sister Maureen’s words hung in the air, brought through the telephone, that instrument that reminded him of so much sorrow. He had heard of both his parents’ deaths that way. Now Mary Anne was dying.

A week, perhaps… . two more at the most, Maureen had said.

That much he did remember. And that she needed him.

He closed his eyes, rocked back in his chair. Why hadn’t she called him before? Even more, why hadn’t he called her at least occasionally, just to see how she was doing?

He knew the answer. They had agreed not to. It was just too difficult.

He said the words over and over. Mary Anne is dying, he repeated numerous times. They would not penetrate. He saw her face as it looked the first time he had seen it. As it would always look if he could allow himself to acknowledge the part of him she would always claim: her bright blue eyes, so large and solemn which could change in a flash to mischievous and fun loving… . her long brown hair, braided with ribbons, so young and innocent, and then loose and blowing in the wind like a halo about her head.

Sister Maureen had to be wrong. Everything about Mary Anne spelled life. There were no worlds she could not, would not conquer. One summer seen through her laughing eyes had opened up an entire new world to him. What other wonders had she found over the last 50 plus years? Surely her special gift for finding joyful surprises under the plainest of rocks had not ended when she entered the convent.

The dike that held back the emotion too powerful to allow started to crack. Tears rolled down his cheeks, the sobs began. He felt cheated now, just as he had felt cheated before… whenever he had been able to tear his brain away with its preoccupation about what the Vatican might say or do to him because he had only twice in his life… . well, maybe a few more times than that, but rarely… . not worried about rules and appearances and what people would think or say. He started to curse having been forced to miss what she could have shared with him, but the hand of discipline inside him restrained him, as it always had.

Fighting to regain control, he rose and walked to the dresser beside his bed. He pulled out the bottom drawer and reached far back into a corner, under his fishing jacket, and beneath his thermal underwear for skiing and his lucky hat, and pulled out the old photo album that was hidden there.

He knew he hadn’t looked at that album more than once in the almost twenty years he had been a Bishop. It had probably been twenty five years since he had been alone with Mary Anne for more than just a few minutes. Then, not being alone together again had been their conscious decision. It was just too dangerous. Now, it would soon be an irrevocable one.

O’Malley looked around the room. It was painted a soft and restful green. He had decorated the walls with photographs: bright green rolling hillsides filled with gurgling streams and splashing waterfalls; a close-up of a grinning shepherd boy with his flock; a quiet cobblestone street with a girl leading a Shetland pony that was almost completely concealed by an unruly load of hay. From the corner window, when the fog forgot to come in, he could just see the Pacific Ocean, about a half mile down the hill to the West of the Rectory.

But now, no matter where O’Malley looked, he could only see Mary Anne’s face, smiling at him. For once even his leprechaun collection—tiny elf-like cloth dolls and ceramic figures which sat precariously on the edge of the bookshelf or peered out from behind some leaf in the planter—did not distract him.

He could feel Mary Anne’s presence in his room, her soft warm smile, her voice chattering on full of great new plans. He wanted to reach out and pull her closer to him, to kiss her soft and sensuous mouth, to feel her heart beat faster and faster as his hands made her body come even more alive with love.

Ironic, wasn’t it! In death she was doing what he had fought to prevent her from doing to him in life. Now he felt as helpless as a falling leaf in a hurricane. Drawn by a magnet too powerful to resist, O’Malley lay down on his bed and opened the photo album that suddenly obsessed him and watched the faded photos come to life before him.

There he was, 18 years old, straight off the boat from Ireland, ready to spend the summer as a tourist before entering St. John’s Seminary in Camarillo, California. And there was his copy of the ticket for the airplane that had taken him from New York to Los Angeles, the first airplane he had ever ridden in. And there were his aunt and uncle and myriad of cousins at the family reunion they had held to greet him. And there was Mary Anne, standing with Beth, his favorite cousin, her best friend.

He had never met a girl like her in Ireland, one he felt so instantly comfortable with. Perhaps because she was just 17, the same age as his closest sister. Perhaps because here at last was a girl who was safe—one as committed to her vocation as he was to his.

Mary Anne’s going in the convent in September, his cousin, Beth, had informed him when they met. And he had met Mary Anne’s eyes and saw her gaze was direct and confident, excited and happy, not embarrassed or shy.

And they had talked that night… . God, how they had talked, all about the same things and for once both understanding what the other was saying—and not saying—what passions and desires lay underneath each casual word. Both had wanted to be a missionary… . to comfort and teach the poor in some far off exotic land, to suffer deprivations, to offer their lives and their sacrifices to their God. Both had been turned down in their quest to be sent to the Jungles of Africa because they could not pass the rigorous physical required.

Giving up the romantic part of their dream of sacrifice had upset them. But God’s voice would not be quiet, Mary Anne explained, her eyes starting to fill, as hard as I tried to turn it off. She grinned and shrugged her shoulders. So here I am. What else could I do?

John knew exactly what she was talking about. They had no choice and it was exciting! They had their proof that they were truly special. Their conversation ran into the night and she was the last guest to leave. He walked her home. Mary Anne, it turned out, lived next door to his cousins. They spent another half hour talking on her front door step.

When he stumbled down the stairs to breakfast the next morning, she was already there, carrying on an animated conversation with his aunt, helping his youngest cousin braid her hair, tying on special bows she had brought over just for her.

Fine priest you’ll make, sleepy head! she teased, Daily Mass is at 7 and it’s after 9 a.m. I came over to get you, but your aunt wouldn’t wake you.

John grinned, strangely unperturbed by her forwardness and criticism.

So what do you want to do first? she continued. I’ve got a whole list of tourist places to take you. This summer’s our last big chance to be of this world! She flirted wickedly.

He laughed and didn’t take her seriously. Later he found out he should have.

She had already made a list of things she had to do before entering the convent, and was busy adding must dos for him. He started to read it and burst out laughing. . . . . learn to ski? That’s a little difficult in the middle of summer in Southern California! Ride a roller coaster—stay out dancing all night—learn to drive a car! You’re not dying or going off to some desert island, just entering the convent. It was his turn to tease.

But he stopped quickly, embarrassed, hoping he hadn’t offended her. In truth, her life would be forever changed, certainly far more than his, by her decision. Hot, heavy, black clothes of the Middle Ages awaited her. If nuns swam—he had no idea if they ever did—it must only be in private, never at the beach. She was right. Skiing would be out of the question… . as was driving a car or going on a roller coaster or trying on formals at some exclusive dress shop near the Ambassador Hotel.

He covered up his embarrassment at his initial lack of comprehension over what going in the convent would mean to her by starting to read the list she was preparing for him:

"Boat riding in Westlake Park

Beach combing in Santa Monica

Fishing in Big Bear Lake

Hiking to Switzer Falls in the Angeles Crest Mountains"

I’ll think of more as we go along she informed him. She took both his hands and danced him around the kitchen. Her eyes sparkled. The pressure of her fingers was soft, yet strong. It’s going to be so much fun! Here I thought I had to do all these things by myself and now you’re here and it’s your last summer also.

He didn’t break her bubble by telling her that as a priest he would be able to do most of the things on her list afterwards as well. Well, when do we start? he laughed. What do you have planned today? I was going to help my Aunt clean up after last night’s party.

His aunt smiled and pushed them both out of the kitchen. Mary Anne’s right. You’re here as a tourist, not a house boy, she laughed. I can think of no one I’d trust a handsome Irishman like you to, she teased, But Mary Anne’s used to fighting off the boys and she can take care of herself.

They started with a walk around the neighborhood. Just to get you orientated, she said. His aunt was right, he soon found out. Everyone who knew Mary Anne, many of them boys, were all equally concerned that she have the best summer of her life.

Each week they checked off another item or two on Mary Anne’s list. Other friends tagged along less and less frequently. Their conversations got deeper and deeper, often at the strangest times.

Having once conquered her fear of roller coasters, Mary Anne dragged him on the trolley car to Ocean Park again and again. One day in particular, the hurley burly of the pier, the stuffed animals to win, and the smell of fish and chips reminded him of similar carnivals in Ireland. He felt a stab of homesickness. Yeats’ poem popped into his mind and he said the words aloud:

"When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,

Folk dance like a wave of the sea,

My cousin is priest of Kilvarnet

My brother in Moharabuiee.

I passed my brother and cousin;

They read in their books of prayer;

I read in my book of songs

I bought at the Sligo fair."

She grinned and answered him:

"When we come at the end of time

To Peter sitting in state,

He will smile on three old spirits

But call me first through the gate."

He stared in disbelief.

You thought I was just an illiterate Yankee, didn’t you, she laughed. I did my senior term paper on Yeats.

He recited a line from another poem:

"A bloody and a sudden end, gunshot or a noose,

For death who takes what man would keep,

leaves what man would lose."

She answered him:

"He might have had my sister, my cousins by the score.

But nothing satisfied the fool, but my dear Mary Moore."

And again they found another level of understanding.

All too soon, summer was almost over. Mary Anne had purchased her strange black clothes, black slippers and bathrobe, men’s t-shirts and old ladies’ underpants.

Are you buying these shoes for your grandmother? The shoe salesman had asked her. And she had told him with a straight face that she was going to Ireland with her cousin and wanted to dress like the women there.

He had visited the seminary in Camarillo and had been assigned a room. His parents had sent him a check to cover his expenses. It was larger than they had originally promised, their letter proudly explained, because business was improving after the war like they had hoped.

Yet, for John O’Malley, in only two months time, Ireland had become a lifetime away.

Near the end of August they were running on the beach after having explored the fishing fleet dock at San Pedro. She ran ahead, up some rocks, scampering higher so the waves wouldn’t reach her. He followed as best he could, not as fleet of foot, and she let down a hand and pulled him up beside her.

My parents are going to Big Bear Lake for the weekend… . my last family vacation. Would you like to come too? Mary Anne asked, out of the blue, strangely shy for the first time.

When?

This weekend.

Won’t your parents be upset? he asked. I mean, with an outsider along. Don’t they want you all to themselves?

Oh they don’t care. She tossed her head and was suddenly her normal, effervescent self. They like me to have my friends along, and besides, I can use you. The last thing I need is some heavy, teary scene to develop. My mother’s not that cheerful about me throwing my life away, she confided. And she especially doesn’t like the fact that I won’t be able to come home for visits.

Never? he asked, shocked. The only reason he couldn’t go home was lack of money for a ticket.

Well at least not until I’m professed, then, after that, probably only a day or two each year.

How long does that take?

After all their conversations he was strangely ignorant about the mechanics of the convent.

At least three years. Depends upon how fast they can brainwash me.

You? It will never happen. I can just see the Mistress of Novices once you get your hands on her. It will take her more than four years just to recover.

They laughed and she hugged him. He pulled away. How could she be so unaware of what she did to him physically? But she was already climbing higher on the rocks. An innocent nymph among the sea anemones, he thought, and wanted to sit down and compose a poem about her.

You’re not afraid to come to Big Bear with me, are you? she teased over her shoulder. Afraid that someone in the seminary will find out and get the wrong idea?

Of course not! His response was automatic and vehement, but inside himself he admitted she was right. More and more people—his uncle and his cousins especially, and even the few other seminarians he had met—were questioning his friendship with Mary Anne. They couldn’t believe they weren’t more than friends, that they shared something other than physical attraction.

We’ve never even kissed or necked, honest! he had assured his cousin.

Well, you’re dumber than I was at your age, then. His uncle had laughed and began to tell him about all the priests he had heard of who kept nuns on the side.

John was shocked at his words and made him stop and admit the stories were all made up.

Well most of them, anyway, his cousin Tom teased.

John had wanted to hit him then. He felt like his honor—and especially Mary Anne’s—was being attacked, but he knew that they would think he was making a big deal out of nothing and the teasing would start in earnest. But inside he seethed, and began to go over and over his behavior with Mary Anne, to see if they were doing anything he was ashamed of… . and finding nothing, he put the whole conversation out of his head… . or at least tried to.

Of course I’m not afraid to go to Big Bear with you, he lied. After all, it’s one of the few things we haven’t checked off on our list.

Good! We’ll be staying at my Dad’s boss’ cabin. Beth and Tom will know what to take. They both came with us last summer.

He felt a little let down that this was public property… . disappointed that he was not the first… . that she’d invited other people (his cousins) before, but relieved in a sense that going to Big Bear was an everyday occurrence.

Big Bear turned out to be everything she said it was. The tall lush pines and oaks reminded him of pictures he had seen of Switzerland. The Lake was bigger than he had expected and he caught his first trout, which her mom fried up for breakfast along with the rest of the fish her Dad and brother had caught. Most of the time they were all five together.

Me thinks the maid doth protest too much, her mom whispered to him once as Mary Anne continued to play a game of I’ll never have to do this again, laughing each time she came up with a new last time.

After this week, I’ll never wear these shorts again, she said when she came downstairs after breakfast ready for the arrow hunt she had promised to take him on.

All he could think of was what the rest of the world would miss with her shapely legs hidden under a long black serge gown, but he kept his mouth shut and hid what he was thinking, something he was finding himself doing more and more frequently these days.

Their hike was short because Mary Anne’s arrow trail led past a riding stable and she made him join her for another first time/last time adventure, one more experience to check off her list.

When they got back to the cabin, they found a note. Tired of waiting, gone to the lake, back after lunch, it said.

The cabin seemed strangely quiet—different—with her family gone.

What do you want to do now? Mary Anne asked. Shall we go to the lake and find them?

Maybe later, John’s reply was hesitant, vague.

What’s on your mind? She caught his uneasiness immediately, and giggled. You’re blushing!

Stop that! He hit her arm affectionately and continued, almost stammering. It’s just that I’ve got a going away present for you. It’s upstairs. I’ve been waiting for the right time to give it to you.

She was already half the way up the stairs to the room he shared with her brother when he finished his sentence.

I hope you like it! It isn’t much, he said, following her.

She sat on his bed as he reached into his suit case and brought it out. It was wrapped in black crape paper.

She laughed at his joke and opened it.

It’s one thing I’m sure they’ll let you keep in the convent.

It was a book of Yeats’ poems. Thanks for a summer I’ll never forget, he had written inside. He had wanted to write her a poem, but suddenly embarrassed, originality had escaped him.

She opened it at random and began to read:

"When you are old and gray and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep."

He sat down beside her and read the next verse.

"How many loved your moments of glad grace

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you

and loved the sorrows of your changing face."

Then it was her turn. She did not respond. Surprised, he turned to see why she was suddenly silent. Alternating verses of Yeats was the standing pattern of their poetry readings. She never needed to be prompted before.

She was looking at him, not at the book.

Go on, he said. Your turn, he explained in a casual voice. But his heart began to pound so loudly he was sure she could hear it and he felt his breathing grow heavy, his body stiffen.

There’s only one thing left on my list I’ve never done. I didn’t even write it down, she whispered.

Mine too, his eyes said, but he would not let himself say it out loud. His mind raced… . so this is what they mean by an occasion of sin! It dawned on him and he suddenly understood so many things that textbooks and professors had tried—and would try to explain—but never as well as the look in her eye, the smell of her body, the warmth of her next to him.

He knew he should leave, but he suddenly didn’t care about shoulds and ought tos. He kissed her then, and she responded, fully.

It isn’t a sin, she urged him on. I love you.

It won’t change anything. He whispered, but his hands were pulling her shirt up over her head as he spoke.

I know, she whispered. It will be our own special first and last, unhooking her bra and letting it fall on the bed behind her.

He could not take her eyes off the beauty of her body, the shape of her firm, white breasts, nor could he touch her.

Don’t worry. My period should start tomorrow, she reassured him. "God arranged it… . he wanted us to love each other like