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Homily at St. Regis
When I was a kid, priesthood looked like a fairly easy way of life. You lived in a house with a few other guys. Some lady did your laundry, cleaned your room, and prepared your meals. You didn’t have to wonder how to dress. You had your own car and your own garage. You said mass every day, but once you learned it, it never changed. You gave a sermon on Sundays, and people listened to you no matter how boring it was. They kept coming back for more, no matter how boring it was. You said prayers. You taught kids at school. You went to cemeteries. You performed weddings. That was about it, and because you did these things, everyone treated you like a god. They respected you, admired you, and hoped their children would become like you. It seemed like a pretty good deal to me. Priesthood is not like that. It’s better than that. Priesthood is not like living in a castle. It’s like living in a hospital, where you are acutely aware of the fragile human condition, including your own, where miracles happen, where families gather, yet where you are never far from the end of life. When I became pastor of St. Regis, I reconnected with my childhood dream of priesthood. My dream, I learned, was not to have a cushy life, but to be in relationship with people, especially at times that were important to them. People contact a priest when they become engaged, when a child is born, when illness strikes, and when death seems imminent. But even more important is the time priest and people spend together here, on Sundays, at the Eucharist, giving thanks to God for life and salvation. During my years at St. Regis, you showed me the complexity of human life. You also taught me where I fit, both as a kind of teacher to explain why things are the way they are, and as a kind of lawyer, to bring the unfair events of life to a higher court, where we hoped God would change things for the better. The parish priest is designed to be a Good Samaritan. He happens upon people traveling down the road of life, people who have fallen victim to those who robbed them of their inner peace, stripped them of their ability to trust, and went off leaving them half-dead from grief. A priest should fix that. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he can’t. Sometimes he won’t. In the parable of the Good Samaritan, one of those who pass by on the opposite side of the victim – one of those who does not help is a priest. A lot of us priests don’t do our job very well. We ignore rather than help. We say things that hurt people deeply. We manage large staffs and budgets without experience. Some priests have sinned against children, the very sort of tender life we intend to protect. Sometimes we make the wedding day more stressful than it already is, and sometimes we leave families in deeper grief after a funeral. We make mistakes, and we are sorry for the hurts we cause. St. Gregory the Great told his priests that God made them imperfect to keep them from being proud. God made imperfect priests, so that, Gregory says, “since they are not strong enough to overcome in what is last and lowest, they may not dare to glory in their chief performances.” Sometimes, though, the priest resembles someone else in this parable – not the Good Samaritan, not the priest. Sometimes he resembles the victim, robbed of his pedestal, stripped of his moral voice, beat up by the media, and left half-dead by a new generation. A priest needs a Good Samaritan to help him on the road. A priest needs you. I’m grateful to you for coming out to celebrate 25 years with me. God knows, there are plenty of people who spend 25 years in the same job and don’t get so much as fresh flowers for their desk that day. But I’m especially grateful to you for being my Good Samaritan, for pouring over my wounds the oil and wine of your faith and friendship, for bandaging me with love, for lifting me high on the transport of your strong shoulders, and for caring for me with your coins, your homes and your mercy. We need priests, but we also need people who can sustain priests. We need you. My 25 years have been like a dream. I thank God for you.
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