On a chilly Sunday morning, an ancient priest fills in for the pastor.
He speaks softly, almost inaudibly at times.
He is careful when he moves and must even take a seat while the Gloria is sung.
Those of us in the back amid wriggling, restless masses must lean forward and focus our entire attention on him during the homily, so we can catch what he is saying above the low rumble that surrounds us.
He speaks of Peter. He pulls stories from here and there, across eight decades, I would guess, including a tale of his own trip to the Sea of Galilee with some other priests. They tried to get a fisherman to take them out in his boat, but he demurred, saying that he only went out at about 5:30 and fished all night – like Peter.
They convinced him, though, and so he took them out. Of course, he did not catch a thing.
The priest skips ahead a bit in the liturgical year and mentions Peter being recognized by his accent at the fire, in the dark, the night before Jesus was crucified.
He tells us that like Peter, all Christians are recognized by how they speak.
And he talks of brother apostles. How at one time in this diocese, there were six sets of priestly brothers. He names them all. He and his own older brother make up one of the sets.
“And now, ” he says softly, almost in wry, resigned wonderment, ”I’m the only one left.”
The slightest pause, and we think about that.
It is not happening or rocking or relevant. No one’s creativity is up for evaluation this day. No one has brought home amazing ideas from a workshop or an awesome brainstorming session at Starbucks.
No. it is just an gathering on a cold morning. There is an altar, a couple of books, bread and wine. There is the lot of us from everywhere, bringing everything in this world with us. An elderly man reminds us that giving ourselves over to Christ was all that really matters in life.
He talks to us about that – a little disjointedly – but that’s what he is talking about.
He is talking about it and in his soft words and careful motions, he is showing us. Living it.
And then he brings Him to us.
From his cool, trembling mortal flesh, he shares Him – the One who had called him and his brothers – shares Him with us, one at a time, one of thousands, of millions more across time and space.
Two thousand years pass, but still, brothers listen, say yes, and cast their nets.
And they come back full.
Beautiful. Thank you.
That was just lovely!
It continually amazes me how retired priests, relieved of the maelstrom of activity that has become the priesthood, preach with such emotion and authenticity. It emphasizes to me how overworked our active priests are and how little time they have just to reflect. It should tell us something about the connection between reflection and homiletics.
Thank you
Either that, or it shows us that practicing the Christian life makes perfect.
Our old priest is just like that, too.
Thanks for this wonderful vignette.
Thanks for a touchingly beautiful and reverent post. I was once a lector for an elderly priest at mass who was helping out at the parish. He had the reputation of vaing been a firebrand in his early days. I remember that people avoided going to confession to him out of fear–and those were the days of long hours of confession and long Saturday lines.
Now, he simply asked me the read off the names mentioned in the intentions as it might be easier for me to pronounce them. Then he shook his head and remarked that the world sadly had become a much worse and often more wicked place than when he was a young priest, and how much a stranger he felt right here in a parish where he had served fifty years ago.
Sometimes you see in the elderly almost their change in appearance as they get even closer to the actuality of their encounter with God.
We lost our senior pastor to retirement last year, and he was one of a pair of clerical brothers too. Very much missed for the same characteristics you so poetically describe…
Upon deeper reflection is not the “I love my career” corporate enterprise sales pitch version of priestly vocation homilies just so much hot air? Rather than appealing to the lofty “spiritual hero” flying on angels wings — a veritable Roman Catholic Icarus — ought we not be lauding the more prosaic navigation skills learnt in the stormy waters of an intact family, the courageous gift of generous parents who enjoy the company of rambunctious boys – the more the merrier!
Thank you; I hope that I will remember the meaning of that priest’s beautiful message: God alone.
Beautiful! Thank You!
Here I sit, yet another old wind-bag – though, probably more fully windy than your substitute apostle – and I would not and cannot add a thing to your written blessing for our eyes.
I can relate to giving wandering lessons. In younger days, I might come off the tangent to ask “now, where was I?” These days, it is more like “Where AM I?”
A ‘Hail Mary’ for your words, in praise of God Who gave you to us, and the words to say to us.
We often have a retired priest (86 or so?) at our 4:30 Mass. He can ramble a bit, but is always admired for his obvious simplicity and reverence as he says Mass. Sometimes (as this past Saturday) he spot on, also taling about vocations and their decline and his life as a priest. He was applauded at the end of his sermon (maybe not quite the thing, but well-deserved nevertheless).
Wow, how touching and beautiful. Thank you.
THIS is why I bookmark this blok on my toolbar.
Well done, good and faithful servant.