Love By its First Name Page 25

  He decided to go to the Trappist monastery. He needed to just spend some quiet time and try to get his head on straight. Although he had spent a lot of quiet and alone time in Paris, he had deliberately avoided deeper contemplation of himself, his priesthood, and his faith. It was more than a “perhaps” that he thought he needed to quit distracting himself with busy-ness and take a deeper look. Because he really did not want to, was a good reason to do it.

  On Christmas Day it would be highly unlikely the monastery’s guest rooms would be full but, because it would be quite late when he arrived, he called to make sure he was welcome. He was.

  It was ten in the evening as he drove up the country road lined with four-foot snow banks on each side. He had visited the Prince of Peace Abbey when he was in the seminary, some fifteen or so years earlier. At the time he had been quite taken by the writings of Thomas Merton and wanted to experience at least a weekend at a Trappist monastery. Ringing the doorbell, he was quickly greeted by a thin, serene-looking middle-aged monk dressed in the traditional white habit covered in front and back with a black, head-to-foot scapular. He felt he could literally inhale the peace and quiet even though nearly every bone in his body ached as he followed the silent monk down the hall to his room. The only decoration on the walls was a plain wooden cross. Jerry had forgotten how austere the place was.

  The monk informed him that Matins would be chanted at two a.m., if he cared to join them. Jerry was sure that he would not. Maybe, he told himself, he would be more rested and able on Thursday night. The monks called their rooms ‘cells,’ and the guests used the same, a six-by-ten foot room with only a small cot, table, and chair. It made his bedroom in Paris look luxurious. It took him only about ten minutes to fall asleep on the uncomfortable cot.

  In the morning, he borrowed a cassock from the monks as he had not brought one for his trip to Omaha. He guessed he was not the first as the monk handed him a black cassock similar to his own back in Paris. He was surprised as he entered the chapel to chant the office of Prime, that it was less than half full about two-thirds the number of fifteen years earlier. He guessed that the Trappists were having the same problem with religious vocations as the rest of the Church world. Even with the relatively small group of monks, the chanting was magnificent and Jerry found himself feeling lighter than he had in months. Or years? A period of silent meditation followed Prime and then the celebration of Mass by three of the monks.

  After wandering around the abbey’s snow-cleared walks and pathways many times and often visiting the chapel, Jerry decided to make an appointment with the monk who was appointed spiritual director for guests. Maybe the priest could help him sort out his jumbled thoughts. Every time he attempted to pray or meditate, his thoughts tumbled around like clothes in a clothes dryer—the family, Kathy, Bishop Mazurski, Rebecca, the parish, the nature of God, faith, death and back again. What was most maddening and disturbing were the recurring images of Rebecca or Kathy in some kind of pose that he found provocative. Both women had been careful to be modest around him but he could “see” Kathy in shorts with her legs curled up under her as she sat on the couch. Or Rebecca, sitting at her glass-topped table and her robe slipping in a way that revealed her knee and part of her thigh. Or simply either of them smiling and teasing him as they did in the hospital or with Alice Peterson.

  The time for meeting the spiritual director was set for Friday morning at nine. Jerry chided himself for feeling like Thursday would never end and wanting and needing to do something other than think, pray, chant, and silently walk around. How did the monks stand it? Was he that far removed from the kind of spirituality they seemed to practice with such serenity? Several times he looked at one of the monks to see if he was unhappy or dissatisfied with the life at the abbey. He saw smiles and serenity. That was all. Was it simply that these men had more faith than he did? When he visited the monastery years ago, he remembered having a similar question but just thought that they were taking the contemplative path while he was taking the “active” path of a parish priest. At the time, he believed his faith and commitment would match the most devout monk. Just wishful or boastful thinking? He wondered. Well, he definitely had taken the active path. Had he let that path lead him away from the Catholic faith and into doubt? He was sure that he hadn’t yet fallen into despair, the complete hopelessness that kept a person from reaching God. Or had he?

  On Friday morning, Jerry walked down the hall to the counseling room. Heading toward him was a thin, pleasant-looking, gray-haired man dressed in the white and black habit. Jerry guessed that he was in his mid-sixties. As they met at the door, the priest held out his hand and said, “I’m Father Augustine. You must be Father Gerard Haloran.”

  Jerry took his surprisingly calloused hand and remembered that the Trappists, from the Abbot down, spent many hours a week doing manual work. “Yes, I’m Father Jerry. I’m happy to meet you, Father Augustine.”

  The door was open to a small office, about the same size as the cell where he slept.

  Father Augustine motioned toward one of the two hard-backed chairs next to a table with only a Bible as ornament. “Well, Father Jerry, let me first say that everything you say to me is confidential, just as if we were in the confessional. Also, I would like to ask that you keep confidential everything I say to you. Okay?”

  “Definitely!” Jerry was relieved that the priest had so quickly said this. He, himself, had never asked anyone to keep his remarks confidential and wished he had, for at least on two occasions he had told penitents that birth control was a matter of their own consciences and they in turn told Bishop Mazurski. Both times he had been called in on the Bishop’s carpet. Each time he remained silent and listened to the Bishop’s harangue.

  Jerry wanted to ask the priest about his own background and theology before saying what was troubling him, but decided to just take a kind of leap of faith. He guessed that part of the reason for his ‘faith’ was Father Augustine’s eyes, which reminded him of Father Groel, the pastor of the small parish in Henning, Nebraska. They also reminded him of the eyes of Father Teilhard de Chardin, who had written many books that had been his inspiration for years. “I suppose, Father Augustine, that you do not read the daily papers?”

  Father Augustine smiled and shook his head. “Have you made the news lately?”

  “I guess last May would be ‘lately,’ wouldn’t it?” Father Augustine nodded and Jerry went on to tell him all the events of his life since May, starting with Melanie Kurtz’s confession and subsequent suicide. The monk did not say a word but Jerry could tell that he was listening carefully. Father Augustine made such wonderfully compassionate contact with his eyes. He didn’t even flicker when Jerry mentioned Melanie’s confession. Jerry hoped that he himself demonstrated such good listening skills when others were attempting to unburden themselves to him. He continued to tell him of Wayne Cameron’s burden of shame over his homosexuality. Jerry was quiet a moment and then leaned forward and said, “After the girl’s suicide and Father Wayne’s confession, I found myself fed up with the seemingly thousands of confessions about masturbation and birth control and, well, the Church’s entire position on sex. So, three weeks after I was shot, I gave a sermon contradicting the Church on masturbation, birth control, homosexuality, and abortion.” Jerry leaned back in the chair and looked defiantly at Father Augustine.

  The monk simply asked, “And what was your Bishop’s reaction?”

  Jerry could not detect any kind of astonishment, surprise, or condemnation from the old man’s face. He chuckled self-consciously and answered, “He asked me to give a sermon taking back all that I had said. I refused. When he said that he would expel me from the priesthood, I told him that I would sue the Church.”

  With this, Father Augustine did raise an eyebrow and quietly said, “Please go on.”

  “I knew a lawsuit wouldn’t work because it had been tried before. But I had received a great deal of publicity about the so-called saving of the abortion doctor. I k
new a press conference would be well attended. Bishop Mazurski is publicity-shy so he assigned me to a very small parish in western Kansas with the agreement that I would not teach or preach anything about sex nor talk with the media about the sermon.”

  “So you have been at the small parish for several months and are, what is it?— disappointed, dissatisfied, dispirited? Please tell me.”

  “No. Honestly, I really enjoy the small parish. I do get lonely at times but the people there have been great.” Jerry went on to tell of his work, of Alice Peterson, Kathy Olson,

  Julie and Angela Kurtz’s escape and his trip to St. Louis, Rebecca’s article, and his second run-in with the Bishop.

  Father Augustine looked at his left arm, still kept in a sling except when he needed it for some brief task. “And what happened to your arm?”

  “And that’s another long story but I’ll keep it short.” Jerry told him of Ralph Kurtz’s unexpected arrival at Paris, his death, and Jerry’s own gunshot wound. Lastly, he told the monk of the Christmas Day fiasco with his family. He did not mention his attempt to call Rebecca in San Francisco. He did share his too-frequent uncomfortable feelings when hewas around Kathy and Rebecca. He was sure that would be the area that Father Augustine would pick up on and ask him about.

  And, so he was surprised when the priest said, “Please tell me more about your family. But first, I must use the bathroom. At eighty-two, that is a more frequent exercise.” He chuckled a bit as he left the room.

  Jerry nearly fell off the chair. Eighty-two! Surely he’s jesting. “I’ll take a break, too.” As they walked down the hall, he asked, “Are you really eighty-two, Father?”

  The older priest, five inches shorter than Jerry, looked up and said, “I’m afraid so.”

  When they returned to the room, Father Augustine again asked Jerry to tell him more about the family. Jerry told him about his father’s drinking, the poverty, and lack of education among all the family members. When he described the death of his father, the monk leaned forward with increased interest. “And after your father died, who became the breadwinner of the family? Did your older brothers and sisters help out?”

  “No, they were struggling, too. I was fourteen and my dad had taught me a lot of carpentry and handyman skills. The townspeople gave me a lot of work, so I guess you could say I was the breadwinner. When I was sixteen, we moved to Aberdeen, Kansas, where we lived with my older sister for a while, and then when I graduated from high school. I bought a house from the construction company I was working for.”

  Father Augustine asked, “You mean after you worked a few years?”

  “No, only one month after graduation, I was eighteen. I had worked for the company since I was sixteen—they let me build cabinets and all after school. Usually I worked about thirty hours a week.”

  “When did you decide to become a priest?”

  “Right after my father died. We had a wonderful priest there in Henning. Uh, ah, Father Augustine, you remind me of him.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m wondering, Father Jerry, you worked to take care of your mother and two sisters, bought a house for them. How did they treat you? I mean, you were a son and brother, but acted more like a father.”

  Jerry was completely surprised at his emotional reaction to the monk’s question.

  His eyes filled with tears and he looked away. He found himself on the verge of bawling. As best he could, he choked back the tears and blurted out, “Oh, shit! Ah, sorry Father.” He glanced over at the priest.

  Father Augustine grinned. “My, my, I’ve never heard that word in my entire life. Father Jerry, I’m going to venture a guess. One of the reasons you find the attention, I’m going to call it ‘love’, you have received from the two women, Kathy and Rebecca, is because it’s so much more expressive, accepting, and well, even wonderful than anything you ever received from your family, and you really don’t know what to do with it. Or I should say, ‘with them.’ Is that making any sense to you?”

  Jerry’s jaw dropped. That’s it! He thought. It explains so much. It wasn’t just lust that attracted him to them. It was their compassion, patience, caring, things he never got from his own family. “Father Augustine, how do you know all this? I’ve never thought of it that way, but yes, it’s true. You know, I think I became a priest to get some of that love. I worked hard to get it, but I still felt empty. Like I had a big hollow place inside me, a hollow place I’ve had since I was a boy.” Jerry looked at the floor and then out the small window. “You know, Father, I thought God would fill that hollow place but, well, I still feel hollow. I’ve always felt it. Maybe it’s smaller now but it’s still there. It’s not just since I’ve been sort of isolated in that small town of Paris. But I have always escaped into work, into activity, all of my life. Since that girl’s suicide, I’ve let myself feel, for the first time. Feel everything. Take Kathy Olson, for instance. She says that she has always loved me.” Jerry immediately turned red when he uttered these words and stopped what he was saying.

  “You needn’t feel ashamed for feeling anything, Father. Sometimes it is the actions that follow the feelings that we need to be ashamed of. Anyway, please continue.”

  Jerry wondered how this man had become so wise. “Kathy Olson says that she always loved me, but that I ignored her or never took her seriously. I do know that I was afraid of the lustful feelings that would sometimes come over me when I thought of her. I have to admit that I never thought of her love as being something that could help me.”

  “As you know, my son, our wonderful religion has often been more than a little misogynistic. It is a wonder that the faithful Catholics have managed to enjoy deep intimate love after all the fear so many priests have instilled in them. And with that, I’m afraid, not only of women but of sex, too. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have felt compelled to give that sermon and you would not have been exiled because of it.”

  Jerry smiled. He couldn’t believe this man. What an unexpected surprise!

  “May I ask, Father, why you are smiling?” Father Augustine asked.

  “I wandered around the monastery nearly all day yesterday before making the appointment to see you. I was afraid I would find some stuffy old monk who would have no idea what I was talking about.”

  Father Augustine smiled back at him. “I am an old monk”

  “But you’re not stuffy, and you understand. Please tell me, Father Augustine, where did you get all this uh…worldly wisdom?”

  “All wisdom is worldly and all wisdom is of God, if it is true wisdom. I suppose some of my understanding of your predicament comes from my own experience. It may help you to know that I was married for twenty-six years to a wonderful woman before I became a Trappist twenty-eight years ago.”

  Jerry suddenly remembered reading about a Trappist who had been widowed and then entered the order. “And you have four children, if I remember correctly.”

  “That is correct. And tomorrow is a banner day. My two sons, two daughters, and their spouses, my seven grandchildren, and three great grandchildren will visit me here at the abbey.” The monk smiled radiantly as if seeing the family in his mind.

  Jerry thought he could detect tears in Father Augustine’s eyes. “How often do they get to visit?”

  “Twice a year. One day in the summer and always on Saturday after Christmas.”

  “I suppose you miss them all?” Jerry thought of the warm Peterson family gatherings in Paris.

  “Oh, yes. But I am with them in spirit or perhaps, I should capitalize the ‘S’ in ‘Spirit.’ I somehow believe that I am closer to each of them than if I had stayed on the outside. Father Jerry, I would like to move back to you. I am a better monk because I have had this rich family life and this deep love of a woman. Not all men need that to become deeply loving and spiritual. I would like for you to contemplate this thought. You, if you choose, may become a better priest because of your experience of love of the two women you have told me about. Or perhaps you will find t
hat you need to experience the daily love that marriage can bring in order to find the spiritual fulfillment you need. About that hollow place, that is part of your history. It may not go away. But it definitely will not go away if you continue to escape into work. God can fill it, but only if you let Him. Nor will the love of a woman fill that hollow place. It would be unfair to expect any woman, no matter how compassionate and loving, to fill such a void. Please let that hollow place, present or absent, become less burdensome and help you to understand others in a more compassionate way.”

  “Father, I hate to admit this, but I’m more worried about my ability to love deeply and intimately than I am about leaving the priesthood, although that bothers me a great deal, too.”

  “You doubt your ability to love intimately because you never received that kind of love and trust as a child. You can learn, however, if that turns out to be your choice. You must be open to learning how to love. It is not an automatic thing.”

  “I would like to ask a personal question. You need not answer it if you do not want to.” Father Augustine nodded and Jerry went on, “Father, were you ever bothered by, uh, sexual thoughts after you entered the order?”

  The old priest seemed offended as he said, “I resent that!” He then chuckled. “What do you mean ‘was I ever’ in the past tense? No, I am not bothered by them…” He used the quotes gesture when he said ‘bothered.’ “I just accept them as being human, natural. For example, last summer one of my granddaughters brought a friend of hers along for our meeting. The friend was in her late twenties, I’d guess. Anyway, she was a real knockout. Do they still use that word for a beautiful woman?”