Thursday, April 02, 2015

Veni Sancte Spiritus



Thirteen of us, young men, mid-twenties and a few older, lay on the cold marble floor in the sanctuary of the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception in Albany, N.Y. The ceremony of ordination concluded eight years of study that prepared us for the priesthood. The choir in chant called on every saint that ever lived, and some that didn’t to “pray for us” and the angels “to intercede for us”. We all needed a lot of help to do what we were going to do. All those who ever were saintly in life would have our backs. We were not alone. Priests from within a hundred miles came and laid their hands on our heads as a sign that the Holy Spirit would guide us in some way to do a good job. One by one they came. Some pressed hard to ensure that the Spirit was there. Others not so hard. The Spirit smelled, some times like Aqua Velva, and others like he needed a bath. It had boney fingers and stubby ones. I learned that it takes all kinds to make up a Spirit. The choir struck up the 9th century hymn, Veni Sancte Spiritus, “Come Holy Spirit”. Finally we participated in our first mass with all those priests, and Bishop Edward Maginn as chief priest.

We were proud of the journey through the years in the seminary. The church was different from the time we first began to study. The second Vatican Council had occurred . Pope John 23rd had opened the doors to the fresh currents that flowed into religious circles- the use of the vernacular in rites and ceremonies instead of Latin, increased tolerance for other religions, active participation of the congregation in liturgy and parish governance, lifestyle changes for priests and religious. Perhaps a softening stand on contraception. This group of newly ordained became the vanguard to initiate the changes on the local level. We had nothing to do with the changes that were handed down. We looked forward to those in leadership positions to guide us.

Little did we know about the politics of change. We did not appreciate the depths of the old roots. Like playing follow the leader, we accepted celibacy as part of the terms of our service. “Promitto” “I promise” we responded when asked in Latin if we would be faithful and obedient to the Bishop and his successors.

Why wouldn’t we accept celibacy? We all had lifelong schooling that taught this as an excellent way to serve God. We had anticipated this commitment, had warded off temptations to abandon the pursuit of the priesthood, and here we were. There were many talks given about the value of celibacy in order to dedicate oneself to God’s work.

The first conversation I had with a spiritual director in minor seminary- the first two years in college after high school- I was asked “ Why don’t you want to get married?” My programmed response was “Because I want to be a priest and do God’s work.” I was so sure at the time. The director then said “ Wouldn’t you like to have a nice house in the suburbs...wife...kids… barbecuing on the patio?” I guess he didn’t know much about my small city background far from the suburbs. Our family of seven lived in a two story brick house in a residential neighborhood, with a small fenced in yard. I never dreamed about the suburbs. I had never been there. We only had a family car for the last three years of my high school career. Besides, that lifestyle did not fit in with the life of poverty that Jesus led. “No…,” I responded, “I hadn’t really thought much about that.” “It can be a great life,” he suggested. I thought..If that’s so great, why aren’t you there?... and then said “I would rather be a priest.” With this answer, I was cleared to go on. “You will do okay,” as he affirmed my desire.

Through the eight years of study, I managed to stay focused on my goal. Shortly before the eighth year began, I was called into the office of one of the priests at the Theological College in Washington, D.C. where I had been studying, for what was known as a “canonical examination”. This was an interview to determine my general thoughts and intentions about being a priest, and about celibacy in particular. The Church was in a state of flux. Vatican 2 had raised hopes for change in so many areas of church practice. The law of celibacy for priests was different. An effort was made by officials to assure that no one was entering the priesthood under the delusion or condition that the law would be changed. I honestly assured the examiner that my acceptance of celibacy was unconditional, and I was ready for the commitment.

Within a few months, I was ordained a deacon, and a year later, I spoke the word “Promitto” as Bishop Maginn held my hands within his in the ceremony of ordination.

“Veni Sancte Spiritus” echoed in my mind,
Come father of the poor, come giver of gifts, come light of hearts
The best Comforter, delightful guest of the mind, sweet relief.
The spirit descended and I was ready.

Wednesday, April 01, 2015

The House




The frustrated anxious realtor brought us to the last house of the day. “This house has been on the market a while,” she said. “I haven’t seen it yet, but it’s old.”


The aroma of baked ham, drizzling fat mingled with pineapple and cloves inhaled us into the unpretentious little house that we had passed so many times on our way to Chatham. A half mile up the road from where we were living in one of the oldest houses in Austerlitz, Dorothy and Howard Twiss were sitting in the brightly lit living room warmed  by a  glowing fire. “It’s cozy in here,” Dorothy said. “Put the baby down here while you tour.” Phyllis put Dan down on the couch next to Dorothy. Dorothy reached out and patted him a bit. “You’ll be alright. Mommy will be right back.” It was safe and warm.


“Take your time, look around; check out the upstairs,” Howard urged. “We don’t get up there much anymore.” The steep stairs brought us to three dark cob webbed laced bedrooms. There were lots of beds. “We used to take in borders,” Howard exclaimed. “It helped pay the taxes.” The upstairs hallway was tiled, but seemed to have a bulge. The bedroom doors were original and sported original 18th century hardware. The ceilings had cracks, but it was warm up there. I spied a hatch to the attic.


“We seal that off in the winter,” Howard said. “In the summer, there is a fan to cool the attic.”
“Is the space usable?” I asked.


“Well... there are no floorboards up there.” he sheepishly replied. “I needed money to put in the furnace, so I sold them to pay for it.”


We tromped down the stairs. Dan was beginning to stir. While Phyllis picked him up I studied the woodwork in the living room. It was similar to what was in the house where we were living, 1788. The plaster was cracked in a few places. The floor there was shiny, well cared for,and  ancient.


“A little  linseed oil once a year is all I do to keep them nice,” Dorothy offered.


Beautiful!!“ Phyllis told her.


Dozens of little window panes magically filtered the early moonlight, distorted through the molten glass that had drooped over hundreds of years.


“The house was built around 1790,” Dorothy informed us as we continued to wander.


The kitchen, where the roast was baking had a new linoleum floor. “We wanted it to be easy to take care of….just use mop n’ glo“ Howard boasted. “The floor’s a little uneven, but it will last a long time.”


So’s the ceiling, and it probably won’t last long at all. I thought to myself.


There was a slight uphill rise toward the chimney. “There used to be a fireplace that took up this whole wall,” Howard explained. “The floor is built over the stones where it was… that’s why it’s so uneven. The Mercer’s before us took it out so they could have a bigger kitchen.We had a wood stove here before we got the furnace.”


I opened the door to the pantry. The handwrought hinges creaked. “It gets cold in there,’ Howard said. “Cans freeze in there. We try to keep the heat in the kitchen.” I quickly closed the door. Dan was restless in his mother’s arms.


“He’s hungry. Can I nurse him in the living room?” Phyllis asked.


“Sure she can,” Dorothy shouted from the other room. “Come in here and relax.”


Dan had his first of many meals in that house.


“That small bedroom upstairs is warm and quiet. Good for the baby.” Howard said.


While Phyllis took care of Dan, Howard showed me the other living room that was set up as a bedroom. “This room used to be a post office. Maybe it was used before that as a store.” he said.


“How do you know?” I asked.


“The floor was really a mess when we moved in,” he explained. I put in new floorboards and then the rug to keep it warm.”


It was warm. There was a picture window facing the back of the house. “We used to take that window out during the summer,” he said. “We had cows here at one time… scared the heck out of us one day when one of ‘em stuck her head inside and mmmooooed.”


Dan was content, and back to sleep. Phyllis said, “We love it.”


“I guess we’ll get back to you,” I said. “we want to look around outside in the daylight.”


“Come any time,” Howard said. “There are five acres, and another 39 up the hill. You can buy it all if you want.”


We were excited. “Make an offer!”  the realtor suggested. “They are asking $35,000, but are anxious to move south where they have family.”


The next day, we went back. Despite the snow, we looked around outside. The garage housed Howard’s elongated 1967 Pontiac. The wall had been bumped out to accommodate that. There  was also a 1938 Rototiller that Howard had used to plant a potato garden. “It’s one of the first ones built by Frazer!” he remarked. “I’m going to leave that here if you don’t mind. When it warms up in a month, I’ll show you how to start it.” He wanted the tiller to have a new life, that he knew he could not give it. A younger man, a younger couple, children can bring life to the cold, tired landscape.The stream flowed rapidly between the ice sculptured banks toward the south. There was a small hill, apple trees, and blueberry bushes poked through the snow. Visions of sledding, pies and more pies danced in our mind.


The asking price was $35,000. We offered $25,000, and we finally agreed on $30,000 for the house and 5 acres.


As the winter snow diminished, we toured the old cobbler shop behind the house. It housed fire wood, and old tools. There was a tumble down turkey coop, a little tool shed, and a ramp that ended in  mid air where the entrance to the barn once stood.  Parts of the barn were stacked, rotting around the back of the ramp. Much of the barn had been taken away, sold to pay taxes and put a new roof on the house. “When the roof goes, the house goes” Howard advised.


The snow had covered a lot of problems: piles of debris from the barn, little hills of garbage here and there, old wagon parts rotted into the ground, wire fences along the boundaries, lying where their posts had died, now rotting, and a junked 1960 Rambler .


In mid-March, the spring sun encouraged crocus and other bulbs to peek up, and the outline of Dorothy’s gardens were revealed. Periwinkle poked out around the foundation. A bed of rudbeckia was outlining itself near the driveway. Howard dragged out the tired old Rototiller, and gave me lessons. “It’s pretty heavy, but you let it do the work… It just goes along...wear boots… sometimes you hafta’ help it out,” he explained as he ran the tiller again and again over the Rudbeckia. He let me start it. I too made a pass over the RudbecKia. “It won’t hurt the flowers,” he assured me. “They’re tough, and the tiller isn’t going too deep. Ground’s still frozen.”


We walked around a little. He opened the tool shed. “I’m leaving you these mowers… they run...I used ‘em last year. They need fresh gas,”he advised, “but they’re all you need..” The treasures were not impressive.I was not brought up with engines of any kind, and suddenly I was inheriting a barnful of yesterdays toys.


Wherever I went, outside or inside I saw work. Phyllis also saw work, but concentrated on the beauty, the setting, the antiquity, the possibility.


On April 1st, Fools’ Day, we had the closing. We checked hourly from 11:00 a.m. until 2:p.m. and by 2, the Twisses had gone south. They left a studio couch in the living room. By 3:00 , we had moved enough things in so we could be comfortable, including the crib for Dan and a changing table. With firewood, courtesy of Howard and Dorothy, I started a fire in the fireplace. Phyllis prepared shipwreck in an electric frying pan also left by the Twisses.  While the baby slept,we were warm and together by the fire. In our new space, there was no "spaces". We were all babies.

Resurrection required?

I have been thinking memoir almost around the clock lately. Then, Holy Week arrives. I continue to be  intrigued by the story of Jesus, his life, teachings, cruel and inhuman death and improbable resurrection. The stories about Jesus written over time by the"evangelists" portray a very good person, betrayed, disgraced, and crucified. We would know little about Jesus if it weren't for the writings that we have come to know as the gospels, and the new testament. He would have been a footnote in history along with the other messianic figures and rabble rousers that came on the scene to oppose the domination of the Jewish land by the harsh Roman Empire. That harshness is evidenced by the method of execution for the worst revolutionaries who challenged the rule of the Caesars, including Jesus. This humble teacher was considered a threat. He had to go.

If you follow the story in the gospel of the author called Mark, there are parables, events, miracles, and relationships. He ends it with the story about Jesus being seen by the women in his life, some disciples that are not too well known and finally by the apostles who traveled with him most of the time.

Remember Jesus. It’s a memoir.  It's similar to what I'm writing. Different in that the author of Mark tells the story in the third person. A memoir is usually in the first person. Perhaps the epistles of Paul are more akin to the first person memoir.

The stories of Jesus are compelling adventures of a great teacher, who attracted a faint hearted band of followers. The teachings stand on their own as timeless truth, lessons to live by. The parables attach new meaning to scenes from everyday life.

The tragedy of the crucifixion of this good person would be a sad and brutal ending for any story. The short resurrection ending helps us forget the tragedy and revert back to the teachings. A story of goodness requires a happy ending. A resurrection. Not only did this provide a wonderful ending to the sad story, but it made a great spin into a belief system for generations.

New endings are written every day as people encounter and survive tragedies.  New beginnings are required for the survivors. A personal resurrection.

As I write more and more of my memoir, I realize the need for a resurrection narrative of my own. I know it is there, and it’s real. What do I write? How do I write it?