Moving forward together

This past weekend certainly wasn’t an easy one for anyone at the parish I serve, Saint Huberts. We received some tough news about the pastor and him moving on due to an unforeseen situation which was difficult to say the least. For me, I had mentally prepared for a light weekend – he would be doing a talk on stewardship, I’d have the morning Masses on Sunday but not have to preach, and could enjoy a parish German dinner and polka band here Saturday night, and have the Sunday afternoon and evening free for Vikings followed by a nap (though sometimes lately the nap overlaps the game depending upon how they are playing). Well, life has a funny way of changing things.

I found out Friday afternoon about what was going on, and initially I was (and still am) a bit in disbelief and confused. But I believe that problems have to be confronted, and wishing problems away doesn’t make them disappear, so I tried my best to make the most of a rough situation.

I told Mike that he would be in my prayers and had my support, and he told me how sorry he was to put this on me, and I really believe him. I think he is more concerned about how his sudden departure is affecting the parish, because he does try to put others first and is a guy with a big heart. I think he’ll get the help and care he needs and move on.

But moving on is of course something we have to do as a parish – so I tried to help the first steps to take place this weekend. I wrote out my homily and thoughts, and had no idea what to expect. I was worried about phone calls of anger, or e-mails of “I’m leaving the parish,” or even confused people not knowing what to expect. In the past 50 years, we’ve all as a universal Church seen tough times and at times seen people try to ignore a problem, and that never ends well. I was also, admittedly, a little fearful about some anger being directed at me as I would be the go-to guy for venting and frustration.

Despite that, I knew already my fears were trying to be calmed. I’d gotten numerous e-mails and calls from priests for support. One even got me on the horn and said the archbishop called him, told him to give me a call and offer his help for covering Masses. The time for Mass approached, and Fr. Peter Laird came out to give me support. He was my moral theology prof in seminary (hence I quote him from time to time in homilies, because he was a very good one at that, the kind who challenged you and made you use your mind) and now he’s vicar general, a fancy word basically meaning the right-hand man of the bishop who works for the bishop in his office as a diocese leader. He came and spoke after each Mass, and even offered to take Mass if I couldn’t get through it. But I knew I needed to celebrate each Mass, because I just had to say something. I really care about the people I serve, and they knew me – with all due respect to Fr. Laird, I think the people needed to hear something from me that addressed what was going on.

Like I said, my heart was racing but I somehow got through it and afterwards, have been overwhelmed by people’s kindness and support. Person after person told me they were in my corner, and were there to help me. No angry e-mails, no “I’m leaving the parish,” none of that – just support. And I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me, because that’s what people do at this parish – they help one another not just when you need someone to make a turkey at the Harvest Festival or to volunteer, but when you need someone to rely on emotionally for support to get through tough times. This weekend reminded me how lucky I am as a priest and of the inherent goodness that’s in people.

I thought I’d post the text of my homily, and also express in my blog my gratitude to the people who are helping me and helping one another through this rough time in the parish. From the staff I work with to the people I serve, this place is really special because we see and do things together, and for that I know we will make it through this.

Here’s the text of my homily, and to everyone for your prayers and support, thank you so much from the bottom of my heart. Know you have mine as well.

God bless,

Fr. Paul

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The first year of my priesthood, 2007, had gone pretty well as I approached the end of the year. I had gotten to know a number of the people in the parish, gotten to know the kids in the school, and felt really accepted. Preaching was still then, as it is now, a series of ups and downs, but I hadn’t really had any problems – things had gone very smoothly with the functioning of the parish, and with weddings and funerals. All in all, it was smooth sailing.

But things changed in November of that year. It was Thanksg iving weekend, and I was enjoying the day after Turkey Day at my parents house, awaiting a meal of left-overs and taking it easy. It was then I got a phone call. On the line was a parishioner whom I had never met. They explained to me that their daughter had been ill with cancer, and was now beginning to lose the battle, and asked if I could go to their home to visit and anoint her. I told them I would be on my way shortly, and got into my car not really knowing what to expect. I’d been called to the hospital before, but never for someone so young.

I made my way to their home, and walked in and found family and friends sitting on the couch. I looked to my right and saw the stairs to the basement, and after welcoming me Leslie’s mom went down to help her come up. I was sitting on the couch, when I looked up and saw a young woman being helped up the stairs with a backpack that contained an IV. She had lost most of her hair, and looked quite thin, and she looked at me and said hello in a quiet voice. Her eyes looked tired and worn out – like someone who had fought a fight, but knew that they were losing it. I can’t remember what I said to the family that day, other than to offer my prayers and support, and I anointed Leslie and we prayed together for her and the family. And I left, not knowing if I had helped as much as I had hoped I would.

I headed back home not knowing what to think, and thinking about the young woman I had just seen the rest of the day. She was someone who should have been in the prime of her life, enjoying an extended holiday weekend. These kinds of things aren’t supposed to happen until the end of our life – she had so many years ahead of her. And so that night in my prayer, I asked God for a miracle. She had in fact beaten the cancer from her body; but the treatments had battered her system so much that there was internal bleeding which the doctors could not stop. I begged God to intervene; to help that bleeding to stop so that she could recover. But that did not happen.

Monday morning, I got a phone call once again, and this time it was to inform me that Leslie had passed on Sunday. I met with the family, and got stories from her life and prepared to celebrate her funeral later that week.

When the day of the funeral came, the church was full. Most of her class from Orono High School was there, and you’d think it was a Sunday morning Mass. They had set up screens with pictures set to music that highlighted her life, and I was waiting in the narthex. An usher tried to make conversation with me, but I just had to excuse myself and go down some hallway. I began to tear up as emotions started flooding me – confusion, anger, grief and sadness. But I knew I had to keep it together. I was the one the people were looking to for a little guidance. I was the one who had to somehow make sense of a tragic situation, because I knew if I were in the pew I’d be looking for answers and trying to make sense of the tragic loss that I had been through.

I regained my composure, and the opening hymn began. I made my way down the aisle, and Mass proceeded well, and then it was my turn to speak. I had a homily prepared that I read word for word from the ambo, and as I said, this wasn’t my first funeral. Most funeral homilies go pretty smoothly; I talk about the resurrection and hope, and the person’s life, and try to comfort the family and friends. But this one was different. Even though I hadn’t journeyed with Leslie through her cancer battle, the emotions began to come at me strong and hard as I preached. I got to the last page of the homily, and began to lose it. And so I wrapped it up, and took some deep breaths on my way back to the chair, and was able to regain the composure to get through the rest of the Mass and the burial.

That day changed me. Like I said, I experienced all kinds of emotions that day, and in the days that followed I had more days like that – phone calls from the police to someone who has taken their own life; an infant who died; the anointing of another woman in her early 20s facing a cancer battle like Leslies. And days like that truly test your faith.

I’m not the first person to go through days like that. We all do. I look at Jesus, and two moments in my life that I reflect on quite a bit are the agony in the garden and the Passion. There was obviously the physical pain, but what strikes me is the emotional. In the garden, he begins to sweat blood, begging the Father to take the cup away from Him if it is the Fathers will, but also saying He will follow the will of the Father whatever it might be. And on the cross, He cries out the Psalm, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” expressing his anguish, confusion, but ultimate trust in the Father.  But ultimately, Jesus did trust in the Father and He was not abandoned by Him.

After He arose, He established the Church to be a visible sign of God in the world – and He told Peter that the gates of hell would never prevail against the Church. But at various times, they have certainly blown quite hard when you look at all we have been through as a Church, and as individuals. There is just no getting around the fact that for every Christian, more than one Good Friday may have to be lived through.

This weekend, we together journey through a Good Friday. Yesterday on my day off, I got a phone call from Fr. Mike explaining the situation, he apologized to me. I’ve known him since 2006, when I was assigned to Saint Hubert’s as a transitional deacon. I found it to be such a great experience of learning what to expect when I was ordained a priest, and the parish to be so great that I hoped that I would be allowed to go back the following summer. That didn’t happen, and my first assignment ended up being great at Holy Name, but when 2 years had passed there and I knew that I would likely be reassigned. With the new archbishop wanting us to get two terms as an associate, I essentially requested to be sent to Saint Huberts, as I knew the pastor and the people, and it seemed like the perfect fit. And my hopes were realized. I didn’t want to leave Holy Name, but at the same time I knew I was going to a great place.

I’ve been here a year and a half, and I will tell you this is still a great place. I’ve been welcomed, treated well by the people, and it is great serving this parish. Fr. Mike was great to work with, and in my time here he continued to give me support, mentorship and guidance. He was good to talk to about anything, and I know he cared about the parish. When I got the information about what had happened, like I said I told him to figure things out, and that he would be in my prayers. But I also, much like that day I got the call from Leslie’s parents, had all sorts of emotions: shock, confusion, sadness, and frustration and even some anger.

That’s something that I’ll continue to sort out. I wish I could get up here and wave a magic wand and make everything better – but just as every mom and dad realizes that they can’t protect their children from pain, we all know that actions have consequences. And I think there are two ways you can deal with something: you can ignore it, and pretend it isn’t there, or you can face it and try to move forward and heal. And my hope is that we do the latter.

Nothing I can say up here will change what has happened – all I can try to do is to speak from my heart. And my hope is that you listen to your hearts. That you grapple with whatever you might be going through. As I said before, one time a deacon at the seminary in a reflection shared how late one night he went into the reservation chapel where the tabernacle was and literally had it out with God – yelling at Jesus, why is this happening, why am I going through this. It was one of the most powerful homilies I ever heard, because it was real. God is a pretty big fellow – He can handle anger (just read through Job) but I don’t think He much cares for silence. It’s OK to question God. It’s OK to have doubts – even Jesus did. But Jesus knew that He was not abandoned by the Father, and my hope is that we know that as well. Take the time you need to talk about this with your families and friends. Take the time to bring it to prayer, and know that healing is a process that can take a long time.

But my hope too is that you know we heal together. As I left my parents house earlier this morning, my dad said something that really hit me: one person isn’t the Church. We are the Church. And how right he is. Priests are human – we have our shortcomings. And when one makes a mistake that people know about, it can damage the institution. I was in seminary during the crisis of cases that hit in 2001, and have certainly heard my share of jokes and snide comments over the years, though most people support the priesthood. But the thing that concerns me the most? It’s the silence. It’s the people who might be thinking something, but not say it. The people that might look at a priest as someone they could talk to about a struggle, or something they were battling, or look to for help but now not say anything because they wonder if that person can be trusted. Trust is something you have to earn. I’ve been at this just over 3 years, and I try my best, but I know some things are beyond my control. But what I hope you know is that, speaking as a priest and as a part of Saint Hubert’s, is that you can count on me and the staff. People here care about each other. If one person hurts, the entire parish is in one way hurting, and now we are all hurting very deeply. I’m not going to have all of the answers, I’m not going to be able to fix everything, but one thing I want you to know is that I am here for you, as are Deacons Jim and Tim and our entire staff. You have been nothing but welcoming to me as I’ve been here since last summer, and while I might struggle with remembering names sometime, I have to tell you being here is part of what makes priesthood such a blessing. I’m with people through good times and bad; I get to work with a great staff, and get to do the fun things like play kickball at recess, meet couples getting married, and get constant prayers and support from the people. And I hope you know that from the bottom of my heart, I am so thankful to you for what you have done for me – and I will try my best to help us heal as a community.

As we move forward, I’m sure there will be many questions of where do we go from here. I don’t have all of the answers yet. I will be meeting with staff and with officials from the Archdiocese to get further direction. One thing I can tell you is that Father Kevin Magner will be helping out. I got to know him when I was at Holy Name, as he was pastor of our neighboring parish Saint Anne’s. He’s in between assignments currently, and the archbishop asked him to help fill Masses. I will also say that I’ve gotten phone calls from the diocese of support, and many priest friends have also called asking me if there’s anything I need and expressing their support as well. The one thing that I can say to you with certainty is that we will get through this, because that’s what we do. When we hurt, we come together and help one another through the storm. We don’t ignore something, or hope it magically goes away – we face it, we deal with it, and we help one another heal.

My hope is that you keep yourselves and also Fr. Mike in your prayers, and that you know that the staff will be here to support you in any way we can, as will our Archdiocese. I don’t understand why there are such tragedies in the world such as cancer, or why sometimes people make decisions that hurt themselves and other people – and I will have more Good Fridays on my horizon as well as I grapple with the realities of pain, suffering and loss. Many days, I think of the prayer of the man whose son was dying in Mark 9:24: “Lord, I do believe, help my unbelief.” And He does in so many ways – be it in prayer, or in someone coming along like my mom or a random note from a parishioner that reminds me that people do care about me. There are a whole lot of things I won’t have figured out until I leave this earth, but one thing that I do is I trust. I trust that my Lord stands by me, and will never abandon me, no matter how strong the storms of life may blow. My hope is that you have that same trust as well – and know that our God and our Church that He gave us stand by us. Trusting in that, may we move forward on the journey, helping one another and never forgetting God’s love is the one constant that will never change, no matter how deep the darkness that we may have to go through may seem. God bless you, and know that you are in my heart and prayers every day. Good Friday was not the end of the story; Easter Sunday was, for we are a people of hope. And as we journey together through this, may that hope guide us and sustain us.

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