Strangers

remains… well, mysterious."
        Stefan nodded, squeezed Brendan's shoulder, returned to his chair behind the desk, sat down, and closed his eyes for a moment, thinking.
        "All right, Brendan, your inability to identify the cause of your collapsed faith indicates it's not an intellectual problem, so no amount of inspirational reading will help. If it's a psychological problem, the roots lie in your subconscious, awaiting revelation."
        When he opened his eyes, Stefan saw that his curate was intrigued by the suggestion that his own inner mind was simply malfunctioning. Which meant God hadn't failed Brendan, after all: Brendan had failed God. Personal responsibility was far easier to deal with than the thought that God was unreal or had turned His back.
        Stefan said, "As you may know, the Illinois Provincial of the Society of Jesus is Lee Kellog. But you may not know that he oversees two psychiatrists, both Jesuits themselves, who deal with the mental and emotional problems of priests within our order. I could arrange for you to begin analysis with one of those psychiatrists."
        "Would you?" Brendan asked, leaning forward in his chair.
        "Yes. Eventually. But not right away. If you begin analysis, the Provincial will refer your name to the province's Prefect of Discipline, who will begin to pick through your actions of the past year to see if you've violated any of your vows."
        "But I never-"
        "I know you never," Stefan said reassuringly. "But the Prefect of Discipline's job is to be suspicious. The worst thing is… even if your analysis leads to a cure, the Prefect will scrutinize you for years to come, to guard against a lapse into unpriestly conduct. Which would limit your prospects. And until your current problem, Father, you struck me as a priest who'd go far - monsignor, perhaps higher."
        "Oh, no. Certainly not. Not me," Brendan said self-deprecatingly.
        "Yes, you. And if you beat this problem, you could still go far. But once you're on the Prefect's danger list, you'll always be suspect. At best you'll wind up no better than me, a simple parish priest."
        A smile flickered at the corners of Brendan's mouth. "It would be an honor - and a life well spent - to be, as you say, no better than you."
        "But you can go farther and be of great service to the Church. And I'm determined you'll have that chance. So I want you to give me until Christmas to help you find a way out of this hole. No more pep talks. No debates about the nature of good and evil. Instead, I'll apply some of my own theories about psychological disorders. You'll get amateur treatment from me, but give it a chance. Just until Christmas. Then, if your distress is still as great, if we're no nearer an answer, I'll put you in the hands of a Jesuit psychiatrist. Deal?"
        Brendan nodded. "Deal."
        "Terrific!" Father Wycazik said, sitting up straight, rubbing his hands together briskly, as if about to chop wood or perform some other invigorating exercise. "That gives us more than three weeks. For the first week, you'll put away your ecclesiastical suits, dress in ordinary clothes, and report to Dr. James McMurtry at St. Joseph's Hospital for Children. He'll see that you're assigned to the hospital staff."
        "As chaplain?"
        "As an orderly - emptying bedpans, changing bedclothes, whatever is required. Only Dr. McMurtry will know you're a priest."
        Brendan blinked. "But what's the point of this?"
        "You'll figure it out before the week is up," Stefan said happily. "And when you understand why I sent you to the hospital, you'll have one important key to help you unlock your psyche, a key that'll open doors and give you a look inside yourself, and maybe then you'll see the cause of your loss of faith-and overcome it."
        Brendan looked doubtful.
        Father Wycazik said, "You promised me three weeks."
        "All right." Brendan unconsciously fingered his Roman collar and seemed disturbed by the thought of removing it, which was a good sign.
        "You'll move out of the rectory until Christmas. I'll give you funds to pay for meals and an inexpensive hotel room. You'll work and live in the real world, beyond the shelter of the ecclesiastic life. Now, change clothes, pack your suitcases, and report back to me. Meanwhile, I'll call Dr. McMurtry and make the necessary arrangements."
        Brendan sighed, got up, went