When I was 21, I got my first teaching job and moved out on my own for the first time. There was only one small Catholic Church in my new, very rural, town, and it wasn't long before Fr. Mike came up to ask about me and how I came there. He introduced me to all the people standing nearby who had stayed to chat with each other after Mass. I will always be thankful for that warm welcome. In the 3 years I spent there, I saw that warmth bring others back into the sacraments, or into them for the first time.
Fr. Mike had no sense of embarrassment, which was part of what made him put others so at ease. If you were socially nervous about making a fool of yourself, he would quickly make a fool of himself first and dissipate your worries. He was the loudest one in the room, told the worst jokes, and laughed the most about them. He would ramble on about his cats and forget what he was going to say or where he was going next. I don't know that he was ever on time for anything. Daily Masses were especially bad. The 9:00 Massgoers would often see him at 9:15, shuffling through the attached rectory door in his socks, peeking around the Church and happily greeting everyone by name. Then he would head back into the sacristy announcing, "Well, since you're all here, let's go to Church." One time I remember that he came in proudly showing off his latest thrift store find: a post-it-note yellow pullover with a cat playing bingo - the letters "BINGO!" printed loudly underneath.
Fr. Mike had been a priest for a long time, but St. Mary's was his first assignment as pastor of a parish. Before that, he'd spent 30 years as a chaplain for the children's hospital. I always wondered if his goofy persona came from years of cheering up sick children, or if he received that placement because he was so much like a child himself. It was probably a mixture of both. My dad worked in the same hospital, and was familiar with him, describing Fr. Mike as "a big clown." At the time, "big" was as apt a descriptor as "clown," but by the time I met him, he had gone on an intense, triple-digit weight-loss journey. As jolly as he was, and as much as he loved food, he swore off all pasta, bread, and candy permanently (among other things), with no exceptions or cheat days. His motivation? He wanted to be healthy to serve the Church as long as possible. His intention was never to retire, to "die with his boots on." He knew the need for priestly ministry and he took on the weight loss battle as a spiritual battle for his flock.
While I loved Fr. Mike's friendliness and all-out commitment to the people he served, when silliness, informality, and disorganization interrupted the Sacred Liturgy, it was a difficult experience for me. I didn't feel that the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass was rightly reverenced. Serving on the worship commission added a whole new layer of discomfort. Now I was called upon by my conscience to speak up about these and more issues while still trying to respect my pastor and show him deference. This was an important growing experience, but just as important (if not more) was a single, short moment when the Spirit broke through my heart during one of Fr. Mike's homilies.
The homily was about the Israelites and their demeanor toward God's presence in the Ark of the Covenant. Fr. Mike showed how they came to see the Ark as a kind of magical, good luck charm that would protect them from defeat no matter what. He warned us of the danger of seeing the Eucharist this way. It was a simple message, but exactly what I needed to hear at that point in my life, and I realized what I had already known but not acted out in reality: that I need to listen and learn from those with whom I disagree. He may not have done things in the way I believed they should be done, but that didn't justify dismissiveness. No matter my qualms, I needed the good guidance he offered so sacrificially.
At the end of my time at St. Mary's, Fr. Mike was very supportive in writing a reference letter for the convent. When the letter was lost and I needed another, he rewrote it graciously. When I came back from the convent in confusion and near despair, he agreed to counsel me. Upon arrival for our meeting, he wasn't there. I assumed he was coming late, so I waited until I was sure he'd simply forgotten. He was the same scatterbrained priest, but the priest whose weekly ministry of Penance and the Eucharist had been a waterfall of grace more meaningful than I could begin to understand in this life. And I am so very grateful that, through the weaknesses he offered to Jesus, Fr. Mike powerfully encouraged, challenged, taught, and guided that 21-year-old he welcomed to St. Mary's Church.
