Driscoll's shoes left
footprints. "The older a priest gets--and the more of his
life he gives to God-the more he becomes subject to basic
human frailties. Self-doubt, depression, wavering faith.
The prior house isn't intended to be a home for sick or elderly priests-it's just sort of a rest stop, in between jobs." He pointed to all the chairs and couches filling the
atrium. "That's what all that's for. Our guys can come
here and just sit around, read, meditate."
The way Driscoll talked seemed to humanize the sterile
exterior-referring to priests as "our guys," for instance.
The gesture reminded Venetia of his smile-something
that struggled to be seen.
Statues and busts on pedestals stood intermittently between the bookcases, set back in tall sconces. Venetia examined each one as they walked, and found that she
recognized most before having to look at the nameplates. Thomas Merton, Aquinas, Soren Kierkegaard, St.
Augustine...
"Here's one of my favorites," Father Driscoll said,
touching a granite bust of St. Ignatius of Antioch. "How
can anyone not admire him, even atheists?"
"The earliest progressive Christian philosopher," said
Venetia. "I guess you mean you admire his distinction of
the relationship between body and soul, and being the
first Christian writer to use the name 'Catholic?'"
"I forgot about that part," Driscoll admitted.
Venetia found the faux pas amusing. "What then?"
"His martyrdom. You can't deny the devotion of a man
who smiles as his body is being ravaged by dogs."
"The same for St. Stephen," Venetia said as they moved
to the next bust. "The first Christian martyr."
The next sconce stood vacant.
"Who's supposed to be here?" she asked.
Driscoll wiped off the dust-smudged plaque: FR. AMANo
TFSSORIO.
"The statue was never delivered, believe it or not, but
Tessorio built this recess and even mounted the nameplate
when the prior house was completed. He had a... lofty
ego, I guess you could say."
Venetia stalled over the comment.
"St. John's Priory was Tessorio's last assignment before
the Vatican discharged him," Driscoll added in a manner
that seemed hesitant.
"I had no idea he was discharged. What was the reason?"
"Well, the Catholic record says he was discharged due
to poor health."
What's he hedging? Venetia wondered. "It's curious how
you phrased that, Father. It implies that poor health
wasn't the real reason he was dismissed."
Driscoll nodded through an awkward pause. "The real
reason is he was caught attending a Black Mass in 1966 or
so. He was charged with heresy, banished from the
Church, and died of late-stage syphilis several years later."
Venetia snapped her gaze from the empty recess to the
priest. "You're kidding me."
Did the priest snort a chuckle? "The details may be exaggerated but it's essentially true. For years, Tessorio was
leading a very blasphemous double life."
Venetia was waylaid. "You're telling me that the Vatican's official architect was a Satanist?"
Driscoll led her away from the sconce, past more busts
and statues. "That's putting it a bit harshly. Sometimes
when priests get old, they become cynical and lose faith.
They believe that celibacy to God caused them to miss out
on aspects of their humanity. So they rebel. I don't know
that he was a bonafide Satanist, and I'm not even certain
that there is such a thing. It was probably a case of a
bored, bitter old man who joined a devil club to put some
spice in his last years."
"How ... bizarre."
The priest unconsciously raised a finger. "But there's
no real telling how long Tessorio was secretly participating in such things."
Venetia thought further. No telling how long? A secret double life? "So it might not have just been toward the end of
his life? He could have been doing things like that for-"
"For decades, sure. Who knows? But it hardly matters."
She knew he was right but she was still intrigued. Venetia followed Father Driscoll on his quick tour of the prior
footprints. "The older a priest gets--and the more of his
life he gives to God-the more he becomes subject to basic
human frailties. Self-doubt, depression, wavering faith.
The prior house isn't intended to be a home for sick or elderly priests-it's just sort of a rest stop, in between jobs." He pointed to all the chairs and couches filling the
atrium. "That's what all that's for. Our guys can come
here and just sit around, read, meditate."
The way Driscoll talked seemed to humanize the sterile
exterior-referring to priests as "our guys," for instance.
The gesture reminded Venetia of his smile-something
that struggled to be seen.
Statues and busts on pedestals stood intermittently between the bookcases, set back in tall sconces. Venetia examined each one as they walked, and found that she
recognized most before having to look at the nameplates. Thomas Merton, Aquinas, Soren Kierkegaard, St.
Augustine...
"Here's one of my favorites," Father Driscoll said,
touching a granite bust of St. Ignatius of Antioch. "How
can anyone not admire him, even atheists?"
"The earliest progressive Christian philosopher," said
Venetia. "I guess you mean you admire his distinction of
the relationship between body and soul, and being the
first Christian writer to use the name 'Catholic?'"
"I forgot about that part," Driscoll admitted.
Venetia found the faux pas amusing. "What then?"
"His martyrdom. You can't deny the devotion of a man
who smiles as his body is being ravaged by dogs."
"The same for St. Stephen," Venetia said as they moved
to the next bust. "The first Christian martyr."
The next sconce stood vacant.
"Who's supposed to be here?" she asked.
Driscoll wiped off the dust-smudged plaque: FR. AMANo
TFSSORIO.
"The statue was never delivered, believe it or not, but
Tessorio built this recess and even mounted the nameplate
when the prior house was completed. He had a... lofty
ego, I guess you could say."
Venetia stalled over the comment.
"St. John's Priory was Tessorio's last assignment before
the Vatican discharged him," Driscoll added in a manner
that seemed hesitant.
"I had no idea he was discharged. What was the reason?"
"Well, the Catholic record says he was discharged due
to poor health."
What's he hedging? Venetia wondered. "It's curious how
you phrased that, Father. It implies that poor health
wasn't the real reason he was dismissed."
Driscoll nodded through an awkward pause. "The real
reason is he was caught attending a Black Mass in 1966 or
so. He was charged with heresy, banished from the
Church, and died of late-stage syphilis several years later."
Venetia snapped her gaze from the empty recess to the
priest. "You're kidding me."
Did the priest snort a chuckle? "The details may be exaggerated but it's essentially true. For years, Tessorio was
leading a very blasphemous double life."
Venetia was waylaid. "You're telling me that the Vatican's official architect was a Satanist?"
Driscoll led her away from the sconce, past more busts
and statues. "That's putting it a bit harshly. Sometimes
when priests get old, they become cynical and lose faith.
They believe that celibacy to God caused them to miss out
on aspects of their humanity. So they rebel. I don't know
that he was a bonafide Satanist, and I'm not even certain
that there is such a thing. It was probably a case of a
bored, bitter old man who joined a devil club to put some
spice in his last years."
"How ... bizarre."
The priest unconsciously raised a finger. "But there's
no real telling how long Tessorio was secretly participating in such things."
Venetia thought further. No telling how long? A secret double life? "So it might not have just been toward the end of
his life? He could have been doing things like that for-"
"For decades, sure. Who knows? But it hardly matters."
She knew he was right but she was still intrigued. Venetia followed Father Driscoll on his quick tour of the prior
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