In between typing up the notes of Dad's Novitiate years at Emo and then Father Brennan's eulogy, something caught hold in my mind & set me to thinking. The gospel theme that appears in both, and ties the two together in a really profound way that caught me by surprise and, maybe, helped me nail something down about Dad that I never could quite figure out before.
Did you catch what it was?
Fr. Brennan references in his sermon the Gospel reading he had just completed; the story of Mary Magdalene going to the tomb the morning after the Passover ended, only to find the stone rolled away and the tomb empty. After a bit of confusion, she realizes that she is seeing & speaking to the risen Lord, and she calls him, "Rabboni." Fr. Brennan focuses his sermon on that word--a word which my father had put on the 14th Station of the Cross he had made many years before. Teacher. Master.
If you know the story, you know what happens next. Naturally, Mary wants to touch Jesus, but Jesus chastises her & says she cannot touch him. She cannot do this one final thing to verify what her eyes and ears are telling her. She cannot absolutely prove to herself that Jesus is standing right there in front of her by simply reaching out her hand and touching him.
When I first read Dad's description of his Novitiate years, what immediately jumped out at me was his description of how they were required to beat themselves with the flagellum while reciting the de Profundis. It just seemed so --I don't know-- medieval? The shock value of that steals the focus from some of the more subtle details in his story.
But, on reflection, and taken in it's entirety, the overall sentiment Dad conveyed of those years was a profound loneliness. Not only could these young men not visit with their families, they were restricted from even speaking to each other much of the time. And then there is the rule of 'ne tangas.' They were prohibited from even touching. Just exactly as Mary could not touch Jesus. I suppose, in some young men, this lifestyle encouraged a very spiritual & real connection to their faith. In fact, the strict rules were designed, by stripping away the worldly things, to do exactly that. But you can sense in Dad's description of this time in his life that he felt isolated and alone.
Nevertheless, Can you see how the two bookends of this same Gospel story jump out from the reflections of two men, decades apart? Master. Don't touch me. It seems to me to define the fundamental struggle my dad dealt with.
As you all must have easily figured out by now, Dad left the church. And you have probably also realized that, later, he returned to the faith of his childhood. For most of my life, he would claim himself to be agnostic. It wasn't that he disbelieved in God, but he could not find any way to prove God's existence, either. It was that absolute proof that he desired; he wanted to know, with black & white clarity. And he was isolated, he couldn't feel that touch.
I don't think that Dad could ever completely relinquish the deep-seated beliefs that were instilled in him. After all, when he left the Jesuits, he had already spent nearly half his life with them. And the half before that was spent in a deeply religious household. As a child, I attended the Episcopalian church and, when I became an acolyte, I remember Dad sitting me down & having a long discussion with me about what it meant to take Communion, and what it meant to serve on the alter. The one thing that sticks out in my mind after all these years was his warning about how I must never, ever let even a crumb of the Communion bread fall to the floor. He described how, if such a sacrilege were to occur, the floor must be cleansed to ensure every bit of Jesus was cleaned up and not left discarded. Of course, I was never taught transubstantiation in church then, as an Episcopalian, nor later, as a Lutheran. But I can't take Communion without thinking of it.
It was right around the time that he wrote down these memoirs that he decided to return to the church. He asked if I would write a letter of character for him and send it to the Vatican, which I gladly did. I didn't ask him any real questions about why or how or what brought about this change. I didn't understand the ecclesiastical details of how this return to Catholicism was effected. But I do know it must have taken a huge shift of spirit and a huge dose of courage. I was just glad for him, and hoped that it brought him some comfort.
I have found it interesting, as I've grown older, to discover that with each child in our family, despite the happenstance of growing up within the same household, with the same rules & same everything, has had entirely different experiences. None of my siblings attend church, although I believe that they are each spiritual in their own way. And, while we all loved Dad more than words can express, we each had our own way of connecting with him.
I was there when Fr. Brennan shared Communion with Dad that last time, as he described in his Eulogy. Later on--I don't remember if it was that day or the next--he told me how much comfort he had in that. But, later on as well, according to my sister, he claimed he didn't know why he did it because he thought it was all a load of balderdash. I don't doubt my sister's word, I truly don't. I'm sure he said to her what he thought she wanted to hear, and to me, what he thought I wanted to hear. I choose personally to believe that he did find comfort in it. And I truly believe that he, and each of us, will finally understand the mystery of our being and be at peace, at last, when our own days come to a close.
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