…cum enim gratia non tollat naturam sed perficiat. 

(…for grace does not take away nature but perfects it.) – St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae

Fr. Ed Ryan approached the remote picnic pavilion at the appointed time. The cool, overcast weather added to the lonely ambience of the empty park. As he maneuvered his large frame onto the bench of one of the picnic tables, his eye was drawn to a movement in the far corner, near the woods. A rippling blur marked the presence of a figure. Fr. Ed took a deep breath.

“Hello, Astyanax. You weren’t joking about having some privacy. That was a nice little hike,” Fr. Ed said, too loudly, mostly to calm himself. Although he was fairly certain the creature did not know about his police report, his conscience bothered him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that obeying the Bishop’s directive was in some way a betrayal.

The creature rose from concealment, silently moving his massive form with smooth grace. He squatted to the side of the table and pushed back the hood of his camouflage cloak, fully revealing himself for the first time.

Seeing the grendel unconcealed for the first time was a shock. Fr. Ed had seen pictures and knew the creatures roamed the nearby mountains but this was different. He did his best to maintain the calm neutrality of his training.

Astyanax regarded Fr. Ed impassively, yellow eyes unwavering, the prominent canines curving over the upper lip, dark hair pulled back revealing tall, pointed ears. Without preamble, he began.

“When last we spoke, you mentioned a process. What does it involve, and how long does it take?”

Fr. Ed placed his shaking hands on the table and took a deep breath, then launched into the little used introductory speech he learned in seminary.

“As we started to discuss, the Rites of Christian Initiation for Adults progress through several stages to prepare an interested person for receiving the sacraments of the Catholic Church. This requires study, reflection, and prayer, and generally takes about a year. However, depending on the preparation and effort of the candidate, it could be shorter. But before we discuss those specifics, we need to talk about why you seek this.”

Astyanax made a low rumbling sound and shook his head impatiently. Fr. Ed’s heart galloped. He swallowed and waited.

“Have you travelled to the mountains in the north?” Astyanax asked.

Fr. Ed hesitated. He was very familiar with the surrounding wild terrain from his travels ministering to the far-flung parishes of the sprawling diocese. He loved the outdoors, but it was also a reminder of his exile and why.

“Sometimes,” he finally responded. He thought he saw shadows playing on the creature’s face, then realized it was actually the shifting coloration of this living weapon’s skin, mimicking the ambient light. 

“You’ve seen the mountains of snow, the dying frozen rivers glowing blue in the highest valleys, the milky blue lakes, the living lights writhing in the winter night sky?”

“I, uh, yes. I’ve seen some of these things.”

“On our travels, my people, we live in the world, under the turning sky, warmed by the sun, watching the wandering lights at night and the stars far above, sparkling like the gem-flecked stone of our caves. We live on the abundance of the forests and streams and fields. We share with the other creatures, all living, dying, feeding, and, in turn, fed upon. The rhythm of the seasons, the coming and going, birth and death, one thing tied to and leading to another. There is a pattern, a deep, hidden order that is far greater; the movement of the herds, the fish in the streams, the flowers in the meadows, the buzzing insects. It is all woven together.”

Fr. Ed was moved by the unexpectedly profound feeling of these beautiful images.

Astyanax continued. “Is God responsible for all this, all creation?”

“Yes, of course,” he answered quickly.

“So, I am part of God’s creation, am I not?”

Fr. Ed cleared his throat and shifted on the bench. “Well, perhaps not strictly speaking. You were created by man; a man, Dr. Abrams.”

Made, not begotten, Fr. Ed heard the Bishop say.

“But Dr. Abrams did not give birth to me. I have a mother. I was born of a female of my kind. Yes, it was in a laboratory, the work of evil people, but the circumstances of my birth should not define my nature. Is that not the case of the people of Israel, enslaved in Egypt, then liberated by Moses?”

“Yes, well…”  Fr. Ed was baffled by the creature’s unexpected biblical knowledge and the implication that it identified with the trials of the Israelites.

As if reading his thoughts, Astyanax continued.

“Our Abba, Dr. Abrams, instructed us in many things other than the ways of evading the machines and killing enemies. We read and discussed ancient wisdom that taught us of the world, creation, our history, and our destiny. As in The Book, we believe we are like the people of Israel, oppressed and enslaved, then set free, to work toward a greater purpose.”

Fr. Ed hesitated, now feeling completely overwhelmed. He knew he couldn’t make any decisions here without again consulting the Bishop.

“And what is that purpose?”

Astyanax huffed. “That is a topic of some debate. Some of the Elders believe our purpose is to assist the groupmind, as we owe them a debt of honor for their assistance in our liberation; others feel strongly we only need find our way in the world apart from the alloioi, the humans, just as our namesake did, or tried to do. But all agree that we are not merely weapons of destruction, devoid of dignity.”

The reference to a namesake caught Fr. Ed’s attention.

“Can I ask you a question about that?”

Astyanax lifted his chin.

“Why do you call yourself a grendel?”

“I did not choose it. One of our Elders must have, before I was born. We are taught that Grendel of ancient lore was considered a monster and feared by the humans, and though he was an instrument of war, he tried to live honorably. They treated him with disrespect and violence, and still he persisted.” Astyanax paused. “And the humans murdered his mother. It seems apt.”

“So, what are your beliefs?”

“I believe our purpose is to seek God, the ultimate Creator. The alloioi did not create the world. The books and stories say a Creator is responsible for everything, including us. I have journeyed to the frozen desolation in the north, traversed the towering jagged spine of the earth to revel in the contest ‘twixt wind, rock, and snow, then sojourned in gentle sun softened meadows and food filled forests, drinking from the murmuring streams under whispering trees. Some say that all of creation is good, since it is part of God, and that all good seeks the Creator. I believe this is true.”

Fr. Ed swallowed. The traumas of the seminary came flooding back, all his academic struggles, the counselors and tutors, the failing grades, and repeated classes. One academic counseling session stood out.

“I just want to take care of people, to be a shepherd of God. What do I care about pneumatology and eschatology?” That admission was a mistake. Endless meetings with his various Formation Advisors ensued, nearly getting him bounced from the Seminary on more than one occasion. The constant refrain still echoed. 

“Wanting the priesthood isn’t enough, Edward. You must prove yourself, be prepared, demonstrate your readiness. Remember the parable of the wedding feast in Matthew. Many are called, but few are chosen.”

That lesson always bothered him, and the fact that the Bishop cited the Luke version in their conversation, when the Matthew version was the one used to discipline him back in seminary was a perfect example of the source of his doubts. Why would Jesus talk about kicking someone out of the feast just because they weren’t wearing the right clothing? That didn’t sound like the Jesus he knew. In moments of doubt, he wrestled with the impertinent suspicion someone was putting words in Jesus’s mouth. The explanations he was taught seemed plausible and superficially reasonable, but still it rankled. And one version being used to exhort inclusiveness, while the other was cited for exclusivity seemed inconsistent at best. It seemed another instance of the arcane theology getting in the way of his natural impulse to help people. But he submitted, did his best, and mastered it sufficiently to get through.

What he remembered of Aquinas seemed relevant here, but he didn’t feel competent to argue it. It’s man’s rational nature that distinguishes the human soul from the rest of creation, the ability for man to choose and care for itself, and to seek God. He looked at the grey creature with its yellow eyes and fangs.

Clearly Astyanax is rational, and says he seeks God. A word popped into his mind: synderesis, the essence of the soul that seeks unity with God. He is a living being, not a machine, not a product of the ubiquitous artificially intelligent software ethicists and moral philosophers endlessly argued about these days. The Church’s current struggles with older, more basic questions about who could belong, become a priest, even which rituals were permissible remained unresolved. The squabbling seemed endless, constantly threatening schism, and in Fr. Ed’s mind, another distraction from the real work. The Bishop often complained in private of the headaches mediating disputes. Fr. Ed was grateful to have avoided that responsibility, until now.

Fr. Ed refocused on his predicament. “You said some of your kind want to live apart from the alloy… the humans. Is that because you see yourselves as something other than human?” Fr. Ed felt a twinge of guilt attempting to obstruct the creature’s pursuit of God. 

This is a question you and I cannot decide, or even engage with. Do nothing to invite scandal. Deflect. Defer. If necessary, deny, the Bishop had admonished.

“Some humans consider us something apart. They call us monsters, seek to destroy us. But others do not. Some, members of your own faith. They say we are as human as any other, only created, not spontaneous. They argue just as any naturally produced variation, one arising from accidents of birth or heredity, that we deserve the same rights and protections as those humans do.”

Fr. Ed had no rebuttal. “So why the Catholic Church? Why this spiritual path, and not others? You appear to have read or learned of other traditions. Why choose Catholicism?”

Astyanax stared at him. “Because of you.”

Fr. Ed tried to conceal his surprise. “Me?”

“The humans we trade with in the north, across the border, concealed from the watchers and the machines, some of them speak of you, your church. I learned of you from them, and I sought you out. I’ve been watching you for a while.”

Fr. Ed recalled his conversation with Johnny Q., then realized this might tie back to Mickey Thorsten somehow, evoking an additional element of unease. Mickey and all his hidden agendas and complicated relationships seemed always to surface in unwanted ways. What other awkward obligations would this come with?

Despite the Bishop’s remarks about his social circles, Fr. Ed knew his ministry along the border helping victims of human trafficking was important work. That inevitably lead to dealings with fugitives, outlaws, and pariahs. His reputation and good standing in that community was cemented after an incident delivering diapers and food to the children of gang members in the middle of an armed standoff. His obvious concern for the well-being of all eventually earned him acceptance in the kinds of places many other social services workers were hesitant to visit.

Fr. Ed always felt more comfortable in the rundown housing and dank biker bars up north than in the plush mansions and manicured gardens Mickey Thorsten favored. Everything was simpler on the border, expectations clear cut, needs unambiguous. With Mickey, it was never obvious what was expected, when he’d be asked to do something awkward, mix with people he didn’t understand. Yet that’s what the Bishop often wanted. Now this complication. Was Mickey’s unseen hand somewhere behind this creature’s arrival?

Astyanax continued. “Is not the Church’s teaching that all life is sacred? Even the smallest? Some of those who seek to kill us, they also seek to kill other humans who violate this principle. Does the Church only protect some life? What of the rest of creation?”

“Well, human life is sacred…”

“Are we not human spawn? Dr. Abrams’ family is our own, sharing the same substance and origin. Some even call us Abrams’ monster children. How much human is enough?”

“There is a difference in the Church’s eyes between natural descendants and products of genetic technologies like those used to create your people. The Church has always forbidden artificial reproduction.”

“What of the people today who have injury or defect corrected using this science? Does the cure render them less human? Are they monsters? Are they defective?”

“Well, that’s….” Fr. Ed sputtered. Astyanax waved his taloned hand dismissively.

“Doesn’t my asking for the sacrament prove I am worthy to receive it?”

“Um, I must say…”  Fr. Ed’s voice trailed off as he saw Astyanax cock his head, then hold up a taloned finger gesturing Fr. Ed to silence. The grendel’s ears swiveled and twitched, listening intently. He lifted two fingers to his mouth and emitted a burst of chirping whistles, waited, then repeated the sequence. He paused. Fr. Ed heard faint barking in the distance. Astyanax whistled again.

“My time is short. What is our next step?”

“Well, what I was going to say is that you make good arguments, and I certainly can see your reasoning…”

Astyanax held up a hand again.

“I will not be dissuaded, Father. This is my choice and my desire. I hold firm to it. Whatever permissions you must seek, do so. I will commit to whatever is necessary, but the time may be uncertain.”

As he said that, they both turned toward the barking drawing closer. A dog loped out of the brush. Astyanax rose and greeted the dog with arms wide, gathering it in a hug. The dog whimpered and licked his face, panting. Astyanax pulled out a water jug, opened it, and let the dog drink from the upturned mouth, splattering water. Astyanax then took a swig. 

Astyanax continued speaking in a strange tongue, and the dog appeared to respond. The back and forth repeated, a conversation. The dog barked, moved about, raising and lowering its head, almost dancing in response. Astyanax gestured at Fr. Ed, and the dog fixed Ed with an intense gaze, lifting its snout and barking. Astyanax spoke to the dog a few more times then turned to Fr. Ed.

“Vesta thinks you know her language.” The dog looked back at Fr. Ed with unnerving attention, then approached him, sniffed his hand, then licked it. The dog’s confident scrutiny was unnerving. Astyanax gestured, and the dog retreated.

“I must go. I am summoned to other duties. We will meet again when I return.”

“Well, I…”   

Astyanax stood, revealing his full stature. Fr. Ed looked up and felt the familiar gut clenching from his football days, lining up across from an opponent twice his size. Beneath the cloak he glimpsed a black harness festooned with military gear. The grendel’s appearance radiated menace despite the nature of their conversation.

“Do as you must. I will attend to my obligations, then we will resume.” Astyanax wrapped himself in the cloak, merging into the background, then disappeared into the woods, the dog at his side.

Fr. Ed heaved a deep sigh, picking at the gray splintered table, lost in thought.

He wondered at the conflict between his natural impulse to help this person, this creature, his shared feeling of synderesis, and his revulsion and fear at the prospect of incurring its wrath. How would he explain this complication to the Bishop? With everything else going on in the world, and especially within the Church, how would he articulate and defend his feeling, his intuitions, about how to proceed? He was unsure of what he dreaded more: explaining to Astyanax why he couldn’t baptize him, or advocating to the Bishop why he should. 

Many are called, but few are chosen.

Which was this: the calling, or the choosing?

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