Read Online Vatican Waltz by Roland Merullo - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Roland Merullo
Ads: Link
speaking to me in a kind of liturgical poetry, the new meanings opening up like a cracked walnut, the sweet rich flesh there nourishing me again after all those hungry months with Father Gerencia.
I liked the Paulist Center, too, because it kept its doors open during the week. Father Welch didn’t quite have Father Alberto’s passion and sense of humor. He didn’t have anything close to his abilities as a speaker. He didn’t walk down the aisle waving his arms and getting his parishioners excited or angry. And he didn’t force anyone to sit quietly for five minutes at a time contemplating the nature of the modern Jesus. But he was my kind of priest.
So I began going regularly to his Masses, and to confession there, too. Little by little, in the confessional, I found myself speaking about my moments of silent prayer. “It’s more than a conversation with God,” I heard myself say, the sticky filaments snapping one after the next as the new woman inside me awoke, stretched, and stood up. “Not that I feel I
am
God—I’m not crazy, Father, and I don’t think I’m conceited—but that God really is alive in me. The only thing is, that word—
God
—it doesn’t fit anymore and hasn’t for a long time. I grew up thinking of God as a big man in the sky or Jesus on the cross, but this God is more a kind of loving energy, and I feel it not just in myself but in everything and everyone. Does that sound ridiculous?”
At first Father Welch didn’t offer any opinion. He didn’t ask many questions about my prayer life, the way Father Alberto had, and didn’t seem particularly curious or helpful. After two or three conversations in the confessional, though, he invited me to meet with him in his office. We sat there in the small, cluttered upstairs room, and he asked what my upbringing had been like, which people I’d been close to, exactly what happened to me in prayer, how that had changed over the years, what I thought was the origin of those moments and visions. He asked if I’d ever been in therapy, and I said that I had not. He asked if there was any mental illness in my family, and I said that other than my father’s love of gambling at the dog track and my grandmother’s somewhat compulsive cleanliness, I didn’t think so. He laughed at that, and from then on the conversations were easier for both of us.
Every Thursday afternoon I met with him in his office and we talked about the same things I’d discussed with Father Alberto—though in a slightly more intellectual way. The lives of various saints, their experiences and challenges, the ways one’s own ego, mental difficulties, or stress could cause one to have the kinds of experiences I was having. We talked about temptations to be wary of—feeling special, superior, judging others, even wanting the experiences to go on and on instead of accepting them as precious gifts, given according to God’s timing and purpose.
“In your case,” he said, “it’s highly unlikely that these moments are caused by stress, unless you were particularly stressed out as a four-year-old. The issue about becoming a priest, though, is a little bit different. I’ve had a few people in my counseling sessions who’ve spoken about a prayer life that was somewhat similar to yours, but no one had the experiences with as much intensity, and no one had them over such a long time, and none of the women felt they were being called to the priesthood. I don’t sense any kind of ulterior motive here. You certainly don’t seem like the kind of person who wants attention. You don’t seem particularly angry at the Church or anything or anyone else—with the possible exception of your monsignor. The only question, as far as I can see, is how to act on this. How long to wait for God to give you that answer.”
I sat there listening. I had come to trust him, and although I didn’t feel as close to him as I’d once felt to Father Alberto—he was more formal, better educated,
I liked the Paulist Center, too, because it kept its doors open during the week. Father Welch didn’t quite have Father Alberto’s passion and sense of humor. He didn’t have anything close to his abilities as a speaker. He didn’t walk down the aisle waving his arms and getting his parishioners excited or angry. And he didn’t force anyone to sit quietly for five minutes at a time contemplating the nature of the modern Jesus. But he was my kind of priest.
So I began going regularly to his Masses, and to confession there, too. Little by little, in the confessional, I found myself speaking about my moments of silent prayer. “It’s more than a conversation with God,” I heard myself say, the sticky filaments snapping one after the next as the new woman inside me awoke, stretched, and stood up. “Not that I feel I
am
God—I’m not crazy, Father, and I don’t think I’m conceited—but that God really is alive in me. The only thing is, that word—
God
—it doesn’t fit anymore and hasn’t for a long time. I grew up thinking of God as a big man in the sky or Jesus on the cross, but this God is more a kind of loving energy, and I feel it not just in myself but in everything and everyone. Does that sound ridiculous?”
At first Father Welch didn’t offer any opinion. He didn’t ask many questions about my prayer life, the way Father Alberto had, and didn’t seem particularly curious or helpful. After two or three conversations in the confessional, though, he invited me to meet with him in his office. We sat there in the small, cluttered upstairs room, and he asked what my upbringing had been like, which people I’d been close to, exactly what happened to me in prayer, how that had changed over the years, what I thought was the origin of those moments and visions. He asked if I’d ever been in therapy, and I said that I had not. He asked if there was any mental illness in my family, and I said that other than my father’s love of gambling at the dog track and my grandmother’s somewhat compulsive cleanliness, I didn’t think so. He laughed at that, and from then on the conversations were easier for both of us.
Every Thursday afternoon I met with him in his office and we talked about the same things I’d discussed with Father Alberto—though in a slightly more intellectual way. The lives of various saints, their experiences and challenges, the ways one’s own ego, mental difficulties, or stress could cause one to have the kinds of experiences I was having. We talked about temptations to be wary of—feeling special, superior, judging others, even wanting the experiences to go on and on instead of accepting them as precious gifts, given according to God’s timing and purpose.
“In your case,” he said, “it’s highly unlikely that these moments are caused by stress, unless you were particularly stressed out as a four-year-old. The issue about becoming a priest, though, is a little bit different. I’ve had a few people in my counseling sessions who’ve spoken about a prayer life that was somewhat similar to yours, but no one had the experiences with as much intensity, and no one had them over such a long time, and none of the women felt they were being called to the priesthood. I don’t sense any kind of ulterior motive here. You certainly don’t seem like the kind of person who wants attention. You don’t seem particularly angry at the Church or anything or anyone else—with the possible exception of your monsignor. The only question, as far as I can see, is how to act on this. How long to wait for God to give you that answer.”
I sat there listening. I had come to trust him, and although I didn’t feel as close to him as I’d once felt to Father Alberto—he was more formal, better educated,
Similar Books
