Tracer Bullet and the Smoke of Libville. Episode 2: “Gathering Thoughts”

Continued from Part 1 – HERE

Episode 2: Gathering Thoughts

The sound of the priest’s leather-soled wingtips faded down the corridor.

I sat there a minute, letting the silence settle like incense after Benediction – heavy, but vaguely threatening. The rain outside had picked up, hissing against the window like a snake on sacristy floor. I stared at the file Fr. Tommy had left behind. The paper smelled faintly of pipe tobacco ash … and desperation. The names in it would make the gates of an altar rail squeak on its hinges.

Fr. Timmy Warmflannel, holder of the coveted D.Min., who thought “smells and bells” referred to lavender diffusers and wind chimes.

Fr. Wally Wainwright, so spineless he made overcooked spaghetti look firm.

Fr. Blair McBreathy tried “Eucharistic Tai Chi” once during Lent.

And then there was Hugalot. Fr. “Just Call Me Bruce” Hugalot.

Hugalot was dubbed far and wide the liturgical equivalent of an unlicensed fire juggler in a fireworks factory. His Masses were less sacrifice on Calvary and more open mic night at the Unity Barn. I once heard he’d tried to replace the Responsorial Psalm with something he dubbed The People’s Reflective Echo.

Tommy was right. Something was happening in Libville, slouching toward the bishop’s office, whispering in open tones about “unity” and “pastoral reality,” all while kneecapping the last handful of priests who could pronounce “Dominus vobiscum” without choking on it.

A memory was tugging on the back of my mind like Sr. Mary Joseph yanking a schoolboy’s ear.

I poured myself another cup of last week’s coffee.

Then it came to me.

The Council for Inclusive Liturgy Innovation. C.I.L.I. I’d seen their handiwork before. Faux-synodal ambushes. Smiling slogans with knives behind them. “Accompaniment” that always ended with a wreckovated altar.

The first name on the list was Fr. Warmflannel, holed up at St. Odilia in the town of Point Blank, where even the baptismal font caused trauma.

If there were strings to this thing, he might know who was pulling them.  And he was first on the list.

I slipped the file into my coat, checked the iron on my hip, and grabbed my fedora. It was time to head into the rain. Into Libville. Into the smoke.

To Be Continued…