Truth, and the Life. “The truth shall make you free,” the Savior told his apostles.
One summer Drew went to Mass every day. He also went to confession every week. The church was refreshingly cool after the hot buzz of a Saturday afternoon in summer. The confessional surrounded him with a comforting intimacy, which itself enticed the truth from him regarding his minor faults and grievances, including his tiny lies.
When he reached eighth grade—the highest level St. Jerome’s parish in Springfield, Iowa, could afford—Drew became chief altar boy, an appointment that enhanced his already palpable sense of responsibility for the sacred trust given to him.
The high point of the liturgical year, and the most challenging for altar boys, was the series of special ceremonies marking Holy Week, the commemoration of Christ’s passion and crucifixion that culminates in the celebration of his resurrection on Easter Sunday.
From the hours of practice and the careful attention given to all the complex details of the lengthy ceremonies, one moment always clung to Drew afterward. In the Good Friday ritual, the pastor and his assistant sang the Passion According to St. John, alternating parts during the dialogues to “play” various roles.
In what seemed to Drew at the time the most solemn stillness of the afternoon, the elderly pastor raised his thin voice to chant Pilate’s querulous question when confronted with Jesus’ claim to represent the truth: Veritas quid est? Truth, what is that?
The cynicism of Pilate’s question represented for Drew the rejection of all that was holy, even though it was necessary in order that Christ could fulfill his destiny and save mankind.
Drew never forgave Pilate or forgot his question. To seek the truth was right and holy; to sneer at it as Pilate did was to invite divine wrath.
Had he been free to make his own decisions, Drew would have gone directly to the seminary from eighth grade to study for the priesthood. But his parents wanted him to stay home through high school. In the secular world of Springfield High School, his childish piety yielded to the more immediate emotional concerns of adolescence.
Although timid, Drew possessed a quick wit and a quiet charm that made him popular. A series of ever more intense infatuations pushed thoughts of the priesthood farther back in his mind. One winter evening in his senior year in particular marked a turning point in his relationship with women and eradicated any desire for celibacy.
But Drew practiced his religion steadily, if more and more perfunctorily, through college.
It was in France that he lost his faith. It was not a dramatic event. Somehow, in that most Catholic of countries—where nearly everyone is baptized into the church but fewer than half the adults practice their religion—going to church became superfluous. Drew slipped into a comfortable agnosticism, shedding his religion like so many other notions from his past that now seemed to him callow and naive.
He realized later, though, that the strong moral sense instilled by his upbringing remained with him. And life for him had to have a deeper meaning than material success. It was not a crusading spirit, or a sense of mission, but a simple need to see more in life than creature comforts.
In the soul-searching that followed his rupture with Christine—three years ago, now—Drew came to see that his professional integrity had become the driving force in his life. All the religious fervor of childhood and the drive of adolescence became focused for him on the single objective of remaining true to his profession. That was his sacred trust.
~
At 5:01, Drew settled into the sleek leather seat in the back of the navy blue Rolls Royce. Samantha, the slim, finely chiseled Scottish girl who chauffeured Sangrat’s Rolls—among what other duties, Drew could not help but wonder—chatted demurely about the rain as the car glided effortlessly through the rush-hour traffic,
One summer Drew went to Mass every day. He also went to confession every week. The church was refreshingly cool after the hot buzz of a Saturday afternoon in summer. The confessional surrounded him with a comforting intimacy, which itself enticed the truth from him regarding his minor faults and grievances, including his tiny lies.
When he reached eighth grade—the highest level St. Jerome’s parish in Springfield, Iowa, could afford—Drew became chief altar boy, an appointment that enhanced his already palpable sense of responsibility for the sacred trust given to him.
The high point of the liturgical year, and the most challenging for altar boys, was the series of special ceremonies marking Holy Week, the commemoration of Christ’s passion and crucifixion that culminates in the celebration of his resurrection on Easter Sunday.
From the hours of practice and the careful attention given to all the complex details of the lengthy ceremonies, one moment always clung to Drew afterward. In the Good Friday ritual, the pastor and his assistant sang the Passion According to St. John, alternating parts during the dialogues to “play” various roles.
In what seemed to Drew at the time the most solemn stillness of the afternoon, the elderly pastor raised his thin voice to chant Pilate’s querulous question when confronted with Jesus’ claim to represent the truth: Veritas quid est? Truth, what is that?
The cynicism of Pilate’s question represented for Drew the rejection of all that was holy, even though it was necessary in order that Christ could fulfill his destiny and save mankind.
Drew never forgave Pilate or forgot his question. To seek the truth was right and holy; to sneer at it as Pilate did was to invite divine wrath.
Had he been free to make his own decisions, Drew would have gone directly to the seminary from eighth grade to study for the priesthood. But his parents wanted him to stay home through high school. In the secular world of Springfield High School, his childish piety yielded to the more immediate emotional concerns of adolescence.
Although timid, Drew possessed a quick wit and a quiet charm that made him popular. A series of ever more intense infatuations pushed thoughts of the priesthood farther back in his mind. One winter evening in his senior year in particular marked a turning point in his relationship with women and eradicated any desire for celibacy.
But Drew practiced his religion steadily, if more and more perfunctorily, through college.
It was in France that he lost his faith. It was not a dramatic event. Somehow, in that most Catholic of countries—where nearly everyone is baptized into the church but fewer than half the adults practice their religion—going to church became superfluous. Drew slipped into a comfortable agnosticism, shedding his religion like so many other notions from his past that now seemed to him callow and naive.
He realized later, though, that the strong moral sense instilled by his upbringing remained with him. And life for him had to have a deeper meaning than material success. It was not a crusading spirit, or a sense of mission, but a simple need to see more in life than creature comforts.
In the soul-searching that followed his rupture with Christine—three years ago, now—Drew came to see that his professional integrity had become the driving force in his life. All the religious fervor of childhood and the drive of adolescence became focused for him on the single objective of remaining true to his profession. That was his sacred trust.
~
At 5:01, Drew settled into the sleek leather seat in the back of the navy blue Rolls Royce. Samantha, the slim, finely chiseled Scottish girl who chauffeured Sangrat’s Rolls—among what other duties, Drew could not help but wonder—chatted demurely about the rain as the car glided effortlessly through the rush-hour traffic,
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