Sal's Reflections

It was a beautiful October day in Rome and I was reading a newspaper at my favorite café in the Piazza Navona. My schedule appeared to be finally coming together and I was enjoying the melodious sounds of the tourists and the fountains. On my way back to the college I ran into some American tourists and gave them a quick two hour tour of the area.It was very comforting to hear the accents and enthusiasm of my native citizens as they took in the beauty and charm of this wondrous city.

Once back at the college I was reading some mail from the states when I was buzzed by the switch board operator. There were no phones in our rooms so I walked down to the main area and picked up the receiver. The Italian operator said’You have a call from the America. “Pleasantly surprised I waited until a voice came on and said” Hello Sal this is Tom Daly “My immediate reaction was that Tom a priest from Holy Trinity was coming to visit Rome, but then I could tell from his voice that something was amiss. I thought one of my parents had died, and wondered why my sister or brother had not notified me. Tom in a voice tinged with great sadness said”I have terrible news .Jack was killed in an accident last night.”My initial reaction was that I was dreaming, and soon the dawn would wipe away this nightmare but in my heart I knew this was not a dream. I could say nothing but “I will be on the next plane Tom.”

I had been no stranger to the world of death. There were the awful moments when I told others that a loved one had been killed, and there were those times when I held the hand of one who was drawing their last breath, but this was somehow different. I had wept with family members and touched the searing pain of loss but this was as though my soul had been obliterated. Jack was only twenty nine and I could not conceive that he was dead. Going through the motions of packing denial provided some respite. He was dead while I was in Rome, but when I arrived in Westfield he was injured but still alive. The tricks of the mind attempted to heal the pain of my soul.

I had quit smoking cigarettes but on the plane borrowing a cigarette I fell back fully into the habit. The trip back to Kennedy seemed to go on forever but fortunately I was so emotionally drained that I slept for a good portion of the flight.

We had many visitors at the college and it was not rare for a member of the hierarchy either from the states or Italy to say Mass and then have dinner with the student priests. On one occasion we had an Italian Bishop who was diminutive in size but exceptionally warm and friendly. He spoke English to some degree,but there were certain words that were well intentioned but sounded differently when the Bishop pronounced them.

After dinner he stood up at the head table and wished to give his blessing not only to us but to our families and the world at large. At one point his intention was to convey peace to those assembled as well as our mothers, fathers, brothers sisters and the entire world. The word peace was difficult for him to pronounce and he gleefully began his blessing by in a loud voice saying.”Piss on you,Piss on your mother, piss on your father and piss on your family,piss on everybody. Needless to say the blood was running down our cheeks as we did not wish to offend this kind soul who was wishing peace on everyone but after he left his singular blessing was shared by many of us as we encountered each other for days to come.

Another momentous occasion occurred the following week when a group of us attended a public audience by the pope in Saint Peter’s basilica. In the middle of the pope’s words there was a commotion in the back of the basilica and the police rushed in and with a great show of force carried a man outside. The story was that in the middle of the crowd the man had exposed himself and was apparently. trying to press against a young woman. The woman screamed and initially other pilgrims intervened and held him until the police arrived. We later learned through the grapevine that his defense in the magistrate’s court was that he was so taken by the Holy Father’s words that he could not breathe. In an effort to stop from fainting he loosened his pants and his private part just slipped out. After the entire court howled at this ingenious defense the magistrate levied a very severe sentence.

Leaving Westfield was difficult because I had been so happy there, especially the last three years. There were so many wonderful persons in the parish, and I was leaving with a heart filled with gratitude. Among the most special gifts had been my friendships with Gene McCoy and Jack Murphy. Gene took me under his wing and Jack became my best friend. Two different personalities but both were selfless and committed to the full concept of service.

Part of the Rome assignment was joyful in the knowledge that as an eleven year old boy my father had come from Italy to a strange land where he would thrive and raise a family. Now his son was returning to Italy under completely different circumstances. I had been in Rome a few times prior and had this sense that I had been there in a former life. The graduate house for the American college was only a block from the Trevi fountain and in a most central historic point of the city.The house was filled with priests from all over the states, and it was not long before I had friends and felt adjusted to life in Rome.

One major challenge faced me almost immediately. The program that I was to attend for some reasons was cancelled and here I was in Rome without a course of studies.I did not fancy pursuing a degree solely in Theology and fortunately had received some scholarship money to study with Viktor Frankl in 1971. My initial plan was to take courses at the Angelicum ,the Dominican graduate school ,and then transfer to the University of Vienna in February.

Daily life before classes began was phenomenal because we were footloose and fancy free.The day began with a great breakfast provided by the Swiss nuns at the college and then the walk to San Eustacchio for the best cappuccino in the city.Those who had been in the city prior to our arrival provided key information about every aspect of Roman life.I soon learned that the schedules and hours of operation mean little in Italy. One day I went to the post office and approached the window to mail a letter to the states. The post office was to be opened for the next twenty minutes. The clerk pulled down the shudder as I approached. I thought perhaps he had lost track of the time. Politely knocking on the window I said in Italian” there are twenty minutes before closing.” The shudder opened and the clerk gave me the bird and slammed it shut again. Welcome to Rome!!!!!!!

In January 1970 a priest friend from my Masters program had just returned from the Gregorian University in Rome. He advised me that he thought I would be an excellent candidate for a Doctoral program which was to begin in September 1970. The program was a combination of psychiatry and pastoral counseling. The four year content and classes were to be held in Rome and each summer would be at a psychiatric clinic in Chicago. It sounded intriguing, but I was so fulfilled in Westfield and the thought of leaving this wonderful parish was filled with anguish. However, being a member of the Priest’s personnel board I knew that we had just recommended to the archbishop that all priests should be transferred after five years. The intent was to keep ministry fresh and challenging by having all the clergy minister in totally new environments. This was my fifth year in the parish so to some degree the choice came down to another parish or graduate work. Also there was the difficulty of leaving jack Murphy who had become in three years a brother that I totally trusted. We were a seamless team and spent hours planning and devising ways to improve the lives of all of our parishioners.

In February the zany “Murph “ who never ceased to amaze me with his take on any issue proved once again that he was one of a kind. It was the feast of Saint Blaize and the church was filled to capacity. Saint Blaize was the patron saint of protecting others from any ailment of the throat. The reason that the church was filled was that in the northeast sore throats abound . The service consisted of a priest placing two unlit candles on a person’s throat and appealing to Saint Blaize with a particular prayer. The process was the people would kneel at the communion rail and starting from each end Jack and I would bless their throats. As we were about to meet in the middle I was saying the proper prayer but I heard Jack in a whispering voice saying.”May the bunny rabbit bless your throat.” I looked at him with some degree of disbelief. He just shrugged his shoulders and said”I never learned this prayer.”

There are moments that occur in parish life that stick with you forever. Two in particular have remained in our hearts and minds. One evening Jack and I were sorting clothes for the annual clothing drive. Everyone but the two of us had left and finally I had to leave to cover the rectory. Jack continued to sort out the clothes when a young woman came into the room and called his name. As he turned to greet her she lit a match and her entire body exploded into flames. She had doused herself with gasoline. Jack reacted immediately and threw a blanket over her but she was severely burned. She had a history of mental difficulties and came from a wonderful family that had tried day in and day out to reverse the constant effects of her illness.

The effects of the incident were dramatic and she literally hung to life by a thread. We visited the hospital every night after hours, and it was soul draining to see her on an apparatus where they changed the angle every two hours. Her family was magnificent, and despite the emotional pain was there in the hospital day and night. She finally succumbed after two weeks.

Another one that lingers is the memory of two brothers coming home from their brother’s wedding. Somehow the car went out of control and they were both killed instantly. It is difficult to imagine adjusting your mind from the joy of a wedding to the realization that two of your sons are dead. It was a most difficult time to stand by the family through this ordeal. The irony for me was that I had a few weeks earlier had a delightful conversation with the older brother. He was so vibrant, full of questions about faith and life. When he left I mused that he would be one that would positively impact the lives of others.

The summer at Holy Trinity was a time when we had some visiting help at the rectory so Jack and I could meet each other on vacation. He left first and I met him in Athens. We were to spend three days in Athens with another priest buddy and then off to Rome for five days.

The first Murphy episode happened one morning in Athens when we arrived at the pier too late to catch the boat to Hydra. As we arrived at the boat slip we were disappointed to see the ship a good distance off in the harbor.Jack told one of the fishermen on the pier”we want to get on that boat”. The fisherman repairing his net said “that is impossible.”Jack never batted an eye and took out some Greek currency and handed it to him. “Follow me” he said, “nothing is impossible.” We jumped into his vessel and with great speed he took off after the cruise liner. Ringing his bell and shouting in Greek he conveyed that the boat needed to stop for two passengers. Jack told me to put on my sun glasses and went up the ladder. Half way up he turned and said don’t come up until I send for you. The fisherman and I waited until Jack reappeared. We were ushered to a private deck because he had gone to the captain and said”I cannot tell you who I am escorting but he is a very prominent person and we must have a private deck. The word must have spread throughout the boat because all through the trip people were leaning over the rail and taking our picture.

The second Murphy happening was at the Casino Valadier which was the one of the most wonderful restaurants in Rome. We had not secured a reservation and the concierge at our modest hotel informed us that it would literally be impossible to get one on short notice. This estimate only triggered a further challenge to my mad friend. We went that evening to the restaurant and he entered and with great speed made his way to the attending person and asked for a reservation by name. Informed that there was no such reservation he asked to see the manager .Jack with a straight face informed the manager that the American Consulate had made the reservation months before and his guest was the son in law of the then President Richard Nixon. Miraculously the reservation was found by the manager and somehow we were escorted to a table. Once again the Wizard had performed a miracle

A parish is made up of persons all along the political and religious spectrum .There are those who were excited by Vatican ll and others who thought that any change in the church was some form of betrayal. This was also true of every aspect of Catholic practice and doctrine. There were tugs at personal conscience and it was not so much that people were ignoring tradition, but rather exploring their faith through the eyes of the belief that the church was a living evolving organism.
There were many times that Jack and I were caught in these tensions and it was critical that we not only be respectful of different views we needed to listen to the hearts and souls of all. Some of the parishioners thought that we had lost our moral compass, and there was more than an occasional angry phone call to the pastor about our behavior.

There were those who believed that guitars on the altar were tantamount to heresy. In their view we were catering to the youth without giving them the sense of wonder and majesty of the sacred rites. They loved the tradition of the Latin Mass and felt that having the Mass said in English took away from the solemnity and beauty of the ritual. On the other hand there were others who so strongly believed in a female priesthood that they could not listen to the traditional reasons for a male clergy. Add to these the tensions surrounding patriotism and protests against the Vietnam War and a host of other societal issues and you realize it was far from a boring time to be in Westfield.

.Birth control had come raging upon the scene, and there were disagreements about the morality of the pill even among prominent theologians. I was not careless about the traditional prohibition but anyone who listened to the stories week after week of the marital issues that the policy created would have difficulty not believing there were grey areas.

The climate was in our minds a tremendous time especially for the young to be involved in respectful dialogue about their beliefs and values. It was more and more apparent to us that a blind adherence without discussion and a degree of openness would push the youth further from the church. Some argued that this was a compromise that would weaken their bond with the church. We found that argument plausible but not persuasive ,and so we tried to give both sides and clearly lay out current church teaching without ignoring their concerns and criticisms. We stressed that the more you invest in the exploration of your faith the more rewarding faith becomes. If there was no doubt then faith would be so easy but the willingness to challenge and seek was a wonderful way not to diminish the church but rather to make it more vibrant.

It is true that bad things often happen to good people and tragic occurrences make their way to the rectory doorstep on a regular basis. One that comes to mind is that on a blazing hot day in August I received a call from the Westfield police informing me that a twenty two year old woman had been killed instantly on the New York Thruway. She lost control of her car and went off the roadway and the car apparently turned over and over crushing her to death. When the officers pried open the car doors they also found a dead cat. They made the assumption that somehow the cat either jumped on her lap or somehow distracted her and she lost control of the car. I did not know it then but she was on her way to meet her parents in Westfield and they were going to Martha’s Vineyard for a weeks’ vacation.

Approaching the home of her parents I could feel the knot in my stomach. There are few griefs in this world that compare with the loss of a child, especially a sudden death. It was blazing hot and as I rang the doorbell the woman’s mother answered and was actually pleased to see me. She initially thought that this was perhaps a census visitation. The perception vanished almost immediately as I conveyed what had happened. Like all parents she said “are you sure? Maybe it is a mistake, I spoke to her this morning”. Denial has such power in moments ice this because the mind and heart are overwhelmed.

We sat in the living room awaiting the arrival of the father who would soon be home from his position in New York. His train home was to coincide with the arrival of his daughter, and once refreshed they would start on their much anticipated vacation. The mother keep staring out the window and spotting her husband raced to the front door. He was coming up the walk with his jacket over his arms and was smiling at his wife. She blurted out” Janie has been killed in an accident.” He literally collapsed on the lawn and when he gained his composure he repeated the same questions that his wife had offered “are you sure? maybe it was a mistake.  “There are no words that make the pain go away but family and friends share the burden by their presence and love.