“It’s a children’s song,” Masterson said, “trite and imbecilic, and it may be appropriate for Sunday school or Children’s Chapel, but it has no place in the worship service.”

“It’s a lovely little tune,” Beale rejoined, “and while it may be simplistic, it is liturgically correct and many parishioners, including me, look forward to hearing it during the All Saints’ service.”

Masterson made a sniffing noise. “Music should be left to those who know something about it.”

“Excuse me, but that’s exactly wrong. The Book of Common Prayer says the rector is in charge of the service and the other members of the staff take instruction from him. End of story.” Beale turned back toward Ben. “Could there be a clearer proof of what’s going on at this meeting than this? This dispute has nothing to do with murders. The deaths are just an excuse for excising a rector who has become inconvenient.”

Beale paused, and all at once the air seemed to go out of him, like a punctured balloon. He fell back into his chair, looking tired and unsure. “I know I’ve made mistakes. I know I haven’t handled myself… appropriately in all instances. I’ve done some things that-that I shouldn’;t have done. I know that. And I know I have a foul temper. I’m working to get it under control. Everyone makes mistakes. I’ve learned from mine. I’m confident that if we can just get past all this-this-hate, this unkindness, I can make a success of this. St. Benedict’s has some wonderful people. We could be an outstanding church, the best in the diocese, leaders in outreach. But we can’t do that when we’re still trying to hurt one another. We can’t do that until we’re willing to let the past be the past and join hands to work together.”

The parish hall fell silent. Ben couldn’t tell whether Father Beale’s speech had hit home with any of them or whether they were just too tired to argue.

“Look,” Ben said, his voice almost inaudibly quiet. “I’m a lawyer. I don’t know much about this church stuff, I admit. No one ever comes to a lawyer for moral guidance.”

“You can say that again,” Masterson grumbled.

“But I did grow up in an Episcopal church,” Ben continued. “And I have known Father Beale for a long time-longer than any of you, I think. And I can tell you this. He’s a good man. A very good man. Sure, he’s flawed, just like the rest of us. But he tries to do the right thing. Isn’t that what it’s all about?”

Susan turned her head away. “He may have tried, but he made grave errors. Some of which you… know nothing about.”

“He’s admitted that,” Ben said. “Who among us hasn’t made mistakes? The point is, he wants to make good here. Can’t we let him? Can’t we forgive his errors? Come to think of it, isn’t that what Christianity is all about?”

Ben gazed across the room, trying without much luck to read the faces.

“I’m speaking to you now, not as a lawyer, but as a member of this church. We haven’t passed the point of no return, the place where our differences become utterly irreconcilable. Let’s put an end to this unpleasantness before we do. Let’s give the man another chance. Let’s let him stay at St. Benedict’s and continue God’s work.”

“A noble sentiment,” said a familiar voice from the rear of the hall, “but I’m afraid that isn’t going to be possible.”

Ben knew the speaker even before he turned. Major Mike Morelli, Homicide.

Two uniformed officers stood by the door as Mike calmly crossed the parish hall. To Ben’s dismay, he saw that Mike was walking, not to him, but to Father Beale. “Daniel Beale, it is my very unpleasant duty to take you into custody immediately.”

Beale appeared stricken. “B-but-why?”

Mike’s face remained unexpressive as he gave what Ben knew was the only possible answer. “Sir, I’m afraid I’m under orders to arrest you on the charge of murder. Murder in the first degree.”

The Gospel According to Daniel

It may surprise some to learn that this was not the first instance in my less than illustrious career when I had been incarcerated. For a time, the jailhouse and I were close friends, although those days now seem like distant reflections barely visible through the cracks of memory. But I grew up in the sixties, after all, and I came to view civil disobedience as a moral duty, an imperative no thinking man could deny.

When I first emerged from seminary, I still had that youthful desire to make a difference and the unquestionable certainty that I could. Now I can see my past self with a certain detached irony, but at the time, I marched out into the world with unquenchable enthusiasm, certain I could make the world a better place. I protested against the proposed Black Fox nuclear plant and won; I protested in favor of the passage of the ERA and lost. And both those activities got me thrown in jail.

Of course, in those days there was a certain radical chic to being the liberal activist priest. I was the Oklahoma version, but there were others like me all across the country, many of whom got far more press than I did, a fact which privately never failed to irritate me. We were the New Wave of religious leaders, men and women who were more interested in this world than the next, who found politics and religion inseparable. To me, “Onward Christian Soldiers” was more than a Sunday school song; it was a rallying cry. The Episcopal Fight Song, if you will.

But those days are long past. Nowadays, if you see a man of God mentioned in the papers, it’s because he’s been caught with the choirboys or because he’s bilked his followers out of another million dollars. Too much of the enthusiasm that spilled out of my youthful soul was squelched long ago, suffocated by the weight of the world and the seeming impossibility of bringing about any permanent change. Yes, we can improve our institutions, we can make our society more progressive. But people remain the same. Human nature, it seems, does not improve. The ego of man, the breadth of his folly, is without limitation. No matter how democratic our government, no matter how sophisticated our technology or how advanced our medicine, people remain people-at times noble, but more often petty and selfish and closed-minded.

But I digress. My attorney asked for a record of the case, not a whining jeremiad. The most ironic detail is that, at this point, I still expected the crisis to blow over. I didn’t know what had inspired the police to arrest me, but I never doubted for a moment that they eventually would see the error of their ways. I would be released, all would be forgiven, and I would go on about my holy business.

As I said before, the ego of man, the breadth of his folly, is without limit.

“Morning, Murray.”

Murray Plimpson, startled, jumped up behind his desk and tried to act as if he hadn’t been asleep on the job. “Uh, m-morning, Ben.”

“Is it too soon to see my client?”

“N-no, no. Not at all.” He fumbled in his pockets for his keys. He had looked peaceful a few minutes before, but now looked utterly wretched; Ben began to feel guilty for having disturbed his sleep. Murray was the night/morning shift superintendent for the downtown county lockup and had been for years. All the local criminals came here after they were arrested and remained until they were transferred to more permanent quarters. “You here to see that kid who clobbered his dad?”

“Clear out the cobwebs, Murray. I bounced Eric Biggers yesterday. Suspended sentence.”

“You got that scumbag back on the street with a suspended sentence?” Murray shook his head. “Man, you must be good.”

“It’s a gift.” Ben passed him the file he’d gotten from the desk clerk downstairs. “Actually, I’m here to see Daniel Beale.”

Murray ’s eyes widened a bit, droopy as they were. “You got the killer priest?”

“Accused killer, Murray. He didn’t do it.”