Chapter 45
“Brother Armagh,” said Father Moore, coming from behind the altar and walking briskly down the aisle with his hand extended, black robes flowing behind him. “Welcome to Saint Mary’s!”
Armagh took Father Moore’s hand and was surprised at the strength of his grip. “Very pleased to meet you, Father Moore,” he said, wincing as his hand was vigorously shaken.
“It isn’t often that we get a visitor from the Holy See. Come with me into the sacristy—-we have much to talk about,” said Moore. “I understand you dropped in a few days ago and met a dear friend of mine—-Brother Gregory.”
“We had a most enjoyable chat. The skiing monk. Very impressive.”
“Oh yes. He’s quite a figure,” said Moore. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you myself, but I’m glad you made his acquaintance.”
“I am too.” Armagh followed Moore through a low door into the sacristy.
“I’m so pleased you called,” said Moore as they seated themselves. “I’m quite isolated here, and your visit is an event for me and my modest little parish.”
“It’s always a pleasure to meet a fellow religious,” Armagh said, “especially while traveling in foreign lands.”
“I understand you’re here on vacation, visiting family.” His voice was unexpectedly resonant, with a curious penetrating effect. “And please, let us be informal. Call me Timothy.”
“And I’m Niall,” said Armagh, adjusting himself in the hard wooden seat. He felt uncomfortable lying, especially to a fellow religious, but those were his orders. “The beauty of God’s creation is certainly on display here.”
“We are a little corner of heaven here in Burns,” said Moore, “a refuge of sorts from the depravity of the world. Although even here, we see the moral decay creeping in, where anything goes. Same--sex marriage, gender flipping, mass contraception, abortion on demand.”
“To be sure,” said Armagh vaguely. Even though Brother Gregory had warned him, he was a little put off by Moore’s sudden detour into vehemence. During Armagh’s prison ministry in Chicago, his views on sin, damnation, and judgment had moderated considerably. “We are all sinners,” he murmured.
“Indeed,” said Moore. “For the wages of sin is death!”
“Right,” said Armagh, looking for a way to lead the conversation out of the moral briar patch. “I must say, it’s lovely for me to get out of Rome and fill my lungs with some fresh mountain air. What brought you out here, Timothy?”
“The desire to bring the discipline of faith to a lost place. Even though Burns is mostly Catholic, there was no parish priest here for over a decade.”
“You have done good service here, then.”
“Oh yes,” said Moore, “but there is much more to do. Much more. There’s no discipline of faith anymore; it’s all relative. We’ve lost the country, and we need to bring it back.”
Armagh’s unease swelled into annoyance at this insistent refrain, and he said, flippantly and with sarcasm, “Yes, let us bring back the Holy Brotherhood!”
“Absolutely!” said Moore, with a disturbing note of conviction in his resonant voice.
Armagh realized his Irish sense of irony about the medieval Spanish religious police had gone over the head of this tiny priest, but before he could continue, Moore rushed on.
“The Inquisition provided the discipline that a sinful society needed to stay in line. As you surely know, the Inquisition is a much misunderstood phenomenon. It was motivated not by harshness but by kindness. Something the Holy Brotherhood understood at the time.”
“Kindness,” murmured Armagh, on edge.
Moore was unstoppable. “Not that I approve of their methods, of course. Not at all. But to save a soul from the eternal fires of hell, one must agree, is the ultimate act of kindness—-and that’s what the Inquisition was all about.”
Armagh recalled what Brother Gregory had said about Father Moore being a bit “old--fashioned” in his views.
He had no intention of getting into doctrinal disputes with this priest and tried to steer the course of the conversation in another direction.
“Yes, of course,” he said, nodding and smiling. “Quite right. Now—-”
“Inquisitionis—-it means ‘inquiry.’ Asking questions. Making sure people aren’t misunderstanding the doctrine.
In service of ensuring their entry into eternal life.
” Moore leaned forward and touched Armagh’s knee with his finger, his minty confidential breath washing over him.
In a lowered voice, he said, “Niall, I have a little collection I’d like to show you.
I don’t normally share this with others.
But you of all people will appreciate this, and it isn’t often I get a visitor from the Holy See.
It’s so refreshing to have a man of God like you to converse with about the Faith. Come with me.”
Armagh felt a twinge of despair as he followed the insistent little priest out of the sacristy, down the nave to a locked door, down a set of stairs to the basement, through another locked door, down yet again into the catacombs, through a third locked door, and finally into a windowless stone room. Moore hit the lights.
Armagh was surprised to see a rather extraordinary collection of ecclesiastical treasures arrayed along the stone walls—-framed documents, antique vestments, chalices, reliquaries, and other Catholic items. This must be the “odd collection” Brother Gregory mentioned.
“Welcome to my little museum,” Moore said, his voice effervescent with pride.
“Documenting the Inquisition—-the real Inquisition, not the caricature of it you see in the popular imagination. The real Inquisition was established by the Pope Sixtus V as the Suprema Congregatio Sanctae Romanae et Universalis Inquisitionis. How’s your Latin, Niall? ”
“Fair enough,” said Armagh.
“Then you know that translates as the Supreme Sacred Congregation of the Roman and Universal Inquisition. In 1908, it was renamed the Supreme Sacred Congregation of the Holy Office, then it was retitled the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. Finally, only a few years ago, it was renamed the Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith. But of course, you know all this.”
“Yes, of course,” said Armagh. He had met many tiresome religious like this country priest in his life, but he couldn’t help but find himself genuinely intrigued by the collection.
It wasn’t odd at all—-it was in fact quite splendid.
As he looked around, he realized there were some truly spectacular things in here and was amazed to find them in such a backwater—-including antique crucifixes, a medieval chalice, some lovely old surplices, silver thuribles, a gem--encrusted aspergillum, and a magnificent ciborium decorated with gold thread.
Incongruously, in a far dark corner were stacked some antique contraptions and devices made of iron and wood.
Moore went on relentlessly, “We’re working to reestablish the Tridentine Mass, and we have other projects as well.” Moore paused, eyeing Armagh. “My friends and I are always looking for more support, now that we have a new pope, especially from those of our conviction.”
“Very nice,” Armagh said. He was not a fan of the Tridentine Mass, the traditional Latin mass that had been retired decades ago. Father Moore was mistaken about his convictions. However, he didn’t see any use in correcting the priest.
“There are some high points in the collection,” said Moore.
“Here, for example”—-he indicated a framed document with heavy wax seals and ribbons—-“is the first printed Index Librorum Prohibitorum, the index of banned books, issued in 1582. And this”—-he pointed to another document—-“is a heretical manifesto by a miller named Domenico Scandella, who wrote in here that God was created from chaos. He was investigated by the Inquisition.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was burned at the stake by Pope Clement in 1599. But he recanted just before the fire was lit. So you see, Niall, while we certainly can’t approve of the cruelty of it, the important thing is that he’s now in the kingdom of heaven.
This is what I mean about the kindness of the Inquisition.
It may sound strange, and even contradictory, but the truth is this: If Domenico hadn’t been disciplined by the Inquisition, he would have persisted in his heresy, and right now, he’d be suffering eternal damnation. ”
“I see.” Armagh had a very different view but did not care to express it. This priest had gone from annoying to creepy.
“That,” said Moore as Armagh’s gaze fell on a gem--encrusted, miniature gold spire with a glass window, “is a reliquary from France that once held a foot bone from Saint Lidwina—-the skating saint.”
The skating saint. “Quite lovely,” said Armagh. “But I’m afraid—-”
“And this,” said Moore, “is my most valuable item: a letter from Giordano Bruno in which he denies the divinity of the Virgin. You know who he was, of course.”
Armagh did know: Bruno was an infamous heretic burned at the stake. But Armagh had had enough. “Thank you so very much, Timothy, for this thought--provoking tour of your museum. But I fear I must be getting back to my hotel.”
“Of course, of course. Such a pleasure to show my little museum to someone who can appreciate it.”
Armagh hurried outside. Back on the main street of Burns, Armagh took a deep breath of the summer air.
He was relieved to get out of the stuffy little room and away from the voluble priest and his hobbyhorse.
As soon as he could get the relic from the police, he was going to take his leave.
While the mountains were beautiful, he was beginning to long for the cool, silent, stone--scented corridors of the basilica, the candles flickering in the chapels, and above all, his morning prayers to the holy relic of Saint John the Baptist, Forerunner of Christ, restored to its former state.