Even being sick has its bright side. Laid low by some grim infection the past few
days, I have been offering Mass privately. My two hero-helpers, Fathers McDonell and
McCabe, have been celebrating the morning Masses, allowing me to lie in bed and
groan. I then get to say Mass alone, in
the chapel, later – when I am more able to focus, and avoid infecting anyone.
So I have been catching up on intentions – individuals
or groups for whom I want to bring to bear the full and awesome power of the
Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. Normally,
that intention belongs to the person for whom it was requested and scheduled at
our parish office. That’s what you’re really getting when you stop by “for a
Mass card;” the card is only a token.
I offered one Mass for just the priests on my All Souls list. Lately conversations, events, and
circumstances have conspired to bring a lot of them to mind. I wanted to give them something as a group,
since I cannot even distinguish among them which are my heroes, and which are
my friends.
Like Cardinal Hickey, who accepted me into seminary,
ordained me a priest, and knew and loved the Mass and the Priesthood with an
intimacy and intensity that schooled me to my very soul. Or Msgr. Bernard Gerhardt, who left school to
be a waist gunner in a B-17, then went back to his original plan of seminary
when the war ended. He became a canon
lawyer, and worked quietly at the Tribunal for more than four decades, saying
the earliest Mass at the Cathedral every morning. Or Msgr. W. Louis Quinn, the longtime rector
of Saint Matthew’s, who was ordained just before the end of World War II, and
said Mass, heard confessions, and played golf (better than most!) until just
before he died sixty-five years later. Or Msgr. William Awalt, longtime pastor of
Saint Ann Church on Tenley Circle, with whom I completed my first seminarian parish
assignment. I don’t know if I admired
more his intellect, his sense of humor, or his simple persistence.
Like Father Derek Goerg; I met him when he was a
seminarian, served his ordination, and liked him enough to approach him for
encouragement when I was applying for the seminary. He was so good to me. Healthy when I left for seminary in Rome, he
died of pancreatic cancer before my first trip home, just shy of his fourth
anniversary of ordination.
Like Father Paschal Ferlisi, OSB; a Benedictine monk
living in the rectory of my Alabama parish; it kept him close to the medical
center he needed for his catastrophic kidney failure. When the transplant failed, he lost one hand
and both legs. I would visit with him
when I was home from seminary, and he loved to talk about the liturgy with me. After I was ordained deacon I assisted him at
Mass, and he insisted that we use incense.
He could only poke the thurible in the direction of the chalice with his
prosthetic hand, since the good one was holding his cane. But oh, how he shone with delight as I took
it and did all the rest. He died about
four months after concelebrating my Mass of Thanksgiving after priestly
ordination.
Like Fr. Scott Buchanan, my seminary classmate who
was killed in a car crash three years after ordination. Or young Fr. Michael, who honored me to
preach his first Mass, but just a few years later lost his struggle with savage
depression and killed himself.
So I offered a Requiem Mass for these priests, and
others who have helped me, been examples to me, or just been my friends. To roll their images before my mind’s eye as I
recollect their names during the Eucharistic prayer is a sweet joy, and a gift. I am privileged to pray for these priests as
a priest, offering for them the same Mass they lived for and loved. For in Christ’s saving mercy, even grief has its
bright side.
Monsignor Smith
