Of Truth and Angels 2

In Belgium generally, and Walloon areas in particular, there were numerous little shrines, field crosses, chapels and so forth.
Some were quite artistic. A few were frankly disappointing, consisting of little more than a cheap plastic bottle from which the holy water of places like Banneaux had been already drained. The bottle was molded in the shape of any number of famous statues of Mary. Other shrines were dedicated to various saints. Preston’s interest was measured. The artwork was pretty and he took seriously the strong feelings people attached to such things.
However, it was plain to Angie that Preston shared little of those feelings. She remarked, “Most non-Catholics aren’t really into it, I know. Besides, it’s not all that popular in the Netherlands. Maybe you know we have a large rebel Catholic community based in Utrecht called Old Catholic Church. They don’t venerate Mary or the Pope so much.”
They were walking past a collection of icons planted firmly alongside a narrow lane, representing the Stations of the Cross. Angie had stopped at each, was quiet for a moment, then moved on. Their conversation came and went between the stations.
Preston noted, “I remember seeing some posters and signs about that in Utrecht. For me, there’s more to it than that. Obviously, Americans have little of the history available here in Europe. Half of these shrines are older than the United States. You’ve still got Roman Roads in places where we’ve marched. On top of that, we have a cultural revulsion to anything that smacks of feudalism and privilege. But in my own case, it’s no longer a simple matter of reflex. I’m not hostile to the veneration of Mary, but I can’t go there because of very strong convictions based on what I’ve learned about spiritual matters.”
Angie responded, “I know you have always been polite about my devotions. Had you asked me a year ago, I would have certainly said I expect men and women to argue. That’s so common here in Europe, like an unwritten law. Americans have big noises about feminist politics, but here those politics have ruled for a long time. You never said, but I know you don’t agree with much of feminism.”
With a half grin, he noted, “And you seem to be okay with it. I’m not much on arguing and debating. I trust in God and simply obey what I know He demands of me. Feminism is wrong because it’s native to Western Civilization, which is also pretty messed up. The whole thing is based on a completely false set of assumptions. I gave up trying to teach people a long time ago. I just walk in the light I have and let God worry about the details. For whatever reason, you have found yourself at home with my choices.”
She nodded with a firm expression of agreement. “Yes. I don’t know what it is, but it seems to work. I can tell when you don’t like something, but you just let it go. It’s like you know I’m going to run into trouble with it, but even if I don’t, maybe it does no good to argue.”
Preston shook his head. “We have too much else to worry about for me to pick at everything I don’t like. But you’ll notice I take full authority on some things and don’t make room for argument. That’s conscious.”
She grinned. “Yeah, but not for me. When you do that, it seems everything in me gets kind of quiet. I never met anyone like you before.” She put an arm around his waist and hugged him.
He responded in kind, grasping her around the shoulder. “For me, it doesn’t matter what you believe about Mary. I don’t care about the theology and mythology, if you will. What bothers me most is the tightly entangled feminism that comes in the package. When devotion to Mary gets in the way of serving her Son, it makes me uncomfortable. I don’t agree with folks who say it’s the same thing. Her Son was a Hebrew man, a very masculine culture. But a masculinity totally different from the European brand or the American brand. When devotion to Mary comes off like heathen idolatry, and especially when it becomes the excuse for perverting what the Bible teaches through these unconscious cultural assumptions about God’s Creation, I get a little unhappy. Since I often can’t explain it without people getting hysterical, I just back off and try to stay on course with my own devotion to God.”
After a few moments, he added, “You do what you have to do to keep a clear conscience. So will I. As long as we can negotiate the differences, we belong together.”
At that, she stopped him and fully embraced him with a firm kiss.
They decided not to antagonize the young priest at Pancratius Kerk over such things, and simply accepted him as a supporter, at least, of the association that employed them. They seldom saw him outside of Sunday worship, but did run into him one evening at the local Pizza Hut.
As they sat together enjoying the uniquely Dutch flavored American franchise offerings of Italian food, the priest made it a point to apologize to Angie for past abuses by the church. She didn’t query how much he knew of her past, but the controversy over revelations that Dutch priests and nuns had abused children was still a warm, if not hot, item in the news. Then he changed to topic.
“I’ve been praying for rain. I’m not so worried about it here in our water-soaked lowlands, but for the Belgian highlands. It would add so much to your next journey.”
Angie and Preston glanced at each other in puzzlement. Was he that much inside the association?
The priest went on. “It’s highly unusual, but I wanted to confer with you about something coming up in the next few weeks.” He paused at the look on their faces. “Yes, I know Gary and Henk. Most of us are constrained in ways you two are not. Perhaps it would amuse you to know what a large number of people in odd places are relying on you for things we’ve often longed to do ourselves, but just could not afford the risks of losing all our advantages.”
Preston offered, “We knew a long time ago not to poke at what’s behind the curtain. We aren’t mercenary about the pay, but as long as everything keeps working out and our few contacts seem happy with the results, we plan to stay at this.”
The priest smiled. “You make this too easy for me. Gary wants to meet with you down near Dinant. As I understand it, you’ll be doing something we believe is more typical of our operations. At the same time, it will add a dimension previously not possible.” He pulled out a pad of sticky notes and peeled off the top sheet. Sticking it down on the table top, he produced a pen from another pocket. Actually, it was a very fine-point pencil, Preston noticed.
After scribbling a bit, the priest pulled it up off the surface of the table and handed it to Angie. “Again, don’t lose heart.” He smiled warmly, then slid out of his seat and left, dodging through the crowd of the busy pizzeria.
On the note was an address in Weillen, Belgium.