For years he’d prayed to have these urges expunged from him, for God to fix what must’ve been a mistake.

Then, after the first time he acted on them, the prayers shifted. Now he prayed that he wouldn’t get caught, that the boys wouldn’t tell anyone what he’d done.

God heard those prayers more than He heard his original ones.

But, the priesthood had ways of handling priests with problems and proclivities like his. When he was discovered, he was quietly shuffled away. Lost, like a slip of paper into the belly of a bureaucratic beast.

He found himself in Memphis when it was all over, preaching to a congregation that was a mix of blacks and hispanics. They also had him in counseling, a rehearsed and awkward affair where everyone’s best was done to talk around what had happened.

And for a while, his prayers went back to what they used to be. To be free of these ear-piercing urges.

But after a while, they assigned him to help with the youth outreach program. Everyday became a struggle, one that he could feel himself losing.

He knew it would not be long before his prayers would change again.

Memphis Note
When the Catholic sex abuse scandal swept across the church, Memphis was not spared. A Dominican priest (his order, not nationality) was charged with sexually assaulting a 14 year old boy in the suburbs of the city. His was moved to Saint Louis after the assault, and this was not his first reassignment for his sexual conduct. The diocese of Memphis settled the civil case for $2 million dollars.

“Father? Is everything alright?” The young nun said as stepped into the rectory, the lantern in her hand flicking ghostly shadows against the walls. “I heard screaming.”

She gasped as he eyes adjusted to the dark. Sprawled across the floor was an unconscious man and dirty satchel with documents spilling out of it. There was blood. So much blood.

“He fainted as I was pulling the bullet out.” Said the priest, slumped against the wall. His voice quivered as he spoke, and even in the low light, his skin stood out as ashen.

“I think he’s a soldier. A spy, guessing from what’s in his pack.” The priest was talking very fast, stammering. “One of ours. One of theirs, I mean. Oh, mercy, what does it matter.”

He looked up at the nun, tears welling in his eye, the wounded soldier’s blood streaked across his face.

“The gospel says to give comfort to all men, but they will surely kill this man, and us with him as collaborators. What are we to do?”

“For him? All we can.” She knelt beside him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “And let the rest fall to the hands of the Lord.”

Memphis Note
During the Union occupation of Memphis, the religious establishment faced a sharp watch from the occupying forces. There were concerns that religious leaders would try to foment discontent and funnel to aid the Confederate guerillas in the area.

There were three certainties in Father McClarey’s life that were as immutable as his faith in the lord and savior.

First, that the Lucchesi twins would be the first trouble makers sent to him when school was in session. Next, that the hemlines of girl’s skirts rose at a rate directly proportional to the loudness of their music. And finally, that with in a week of the first cold night after summer, the Irish Travelers would return.

One November morning he would look up from his pulpit and there would be a slash of dark hair through his congregation, the telltale sign that the Travelers had come home.

They would suddenly be everywhere all at once. In his classrooms and at his masses, like it was nothing out of the ordinary to inject themselves back into his world now that their summer work had dried up.

He wasn’t deaf to the whispers that they were nothing more than conmen and grifters, out to pauperize everyone they came across. But, he wasn’t here to judge them. While the Irish Travelers were home, they were his flock to watch over.

At least until the summer returned and the Irish Travelers disappeared again.

Memphis Note
The Irish Travelers are often incorrectly called gypsies. But they are not. They lead a similar lifestyle, constantly moving on the edges of society, but are not Roma. Like their name suggests, they’re from Ireland. In Memphis, we’ve got our very own group of Travelers. They call themselves the Mississippi Travelers, and at peak, had over three hundred families in their group here.