Continued from Episode 2 – HERE
Episode 3: St. Odilia and Lavender Liturgy
The drive to Point Blank was uneventful in the same way a minefield is calm if you don’t move. The road out of the city narrowed into cracked asphalt hemmed in by half-dead pines. The area around Libville had a way of changing scenery fast. One minute solemn spires, the next, a brutalist parish worship space with more banners than congregants surrounded by tired clapboard houses sagging under years of bad choices.
St. Odilia’s stood like a warning. Round, faceless, concrete. The kind of place that looked like it had been designed by a disgruntled nun with a grudge against right angles. No bell tower, no crucifix. Just a wind turbine out back and a solar panel above the entrance proclaiming “Creation-Centered Worship Happens Here.”
I stepped through the automatic doors – yes, automatic – and was greeted by the smell of citrus oil, soy wax, and danger.
“Welcome!” mewed a woman in a woven alb who looked like she did her PT at Burger King.
“I’m here to see Fr. Warmflannel,” I said, handing her my card flashing the kind of smile that made ushers in polyester blazers nervous.
“Oh! Father’s leading the Guided Imagery Stations of the Nonviolent Cross, but he’s almost done.” As went into the “worship space” the sound of an out of tune piano waxed and waned as the door drifted closed like the lid of a coffin.
Five minutes later, three people with walkers hobbled out and Warmflannel sashayed in from the nave, eyes fixed with the kind of pastoral concern that usually precedes liturgical abuse. He wore a stole embroidered with doves, sunflowers, and what I sincerely hoped wasn’t a chakra chart.
“Tracer Bullet?” he lisped, card in hand, as if he were announcing a bingo prize. “What a grace-filled …. surprise.” His speech was like a broken jukebox trying to play jazz, and his S’s slippery, sort of wet.
“Let’s call it providence and keep it moving.”
With a toss of his head, he ushered me into his office. It was an open-concept corner nook with a dreamcatcher over the desk and a plush model of the Cosmic Christ on the shelf next to an autographed photo of James Martin. I declined a kombucha and got to the point.
“Word is you’re part of something called C.I.L.I. I’m looking for whoever’s yanking the bishop’s leash.”
His smile flickered like guttering candle. “Ah… the Council for Inclusive Liturgy Innovation. That’s such an old name, really. We prefer ‘Sacramental Synergy Circle’ now.”
“Of course you do.”
He chuckled nervously. “It’s not about power, Trace. Can I call you Trace? We’re just trying to create a liturgy that reflects today’s spiritual ecology. We’re not attacking the bishop. We just… offering accompaniment.”
“Sure. Like the way a wolf accompanies the sheep.”
His expression cooled. “You’re stuck in an old paradigm. We’re Spirit-led.”
I leaned in, voice low. “The Spirit doesn’t use Comic Sans, Padre.”
He looked down. I had him. Not enough for a confession, but close.
“Who’s running this thing, really?” I asked. “You? Hugalot?”
Warmflannel’s eyes darted, like a man glancing at his watch during the sermon. Guilty.
“I can’t say,” he muttered. “But not all of us agree with the… methods. Some of us just want to pray differently.”
“Differently doesn’t mean better.”
I stood. The kombucha still sat untouched on the side table like a disapproving aunt at a family wake, sour and silently judging.
“One last thing,” I said, fedora in hand. “Tell your ‘Circle’ I’m coming.”
I turned and left, stepping into the cold drizzle that always seemed to follow me these days.
Warmflannel knew something. Whether he had the guts to spill it or not was another matter. But my gut said I wasn’t chasing wind here.
Next stop: Bovina.
Fr. Wainwright.
If Warmflannel was the soft edge of the Circle, Wainwright could be the mushy inner edge, assuming he’d grown at least one since the Chrism Mass of ’14.
I lit a Montecristo and pulled my coat tight.
Libville was about to get drafty.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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