The old world image of the parish priest as someone who you saw on the street and not just behind the alter, someone who came in to your home and laughed, who brought you books that didn’t have anything to do with religion but most of all someone who your parents respected and turned to for guidence when they wrestled with bone-headed dogma, manifested itself in “Bill” Shannon, as my parents called him. A life long academic as well as a counselor, he championed the work of the in-house rebel and Trappist monk Thomas Merton who showed how we can practice true contemplation in everyday life.
Father Shannon died over the weekend, the day after the old feast day of Saint Paul of the Cross, the Italian mystic and my namesake because I was born on that day. I say “old” feast day because the last pope named so many new saints, more than all of the popes in history combined, that he had to rearrange the calendar to work in his new rotation. I still have the relic of Saint Paul, a tiny charred chip of something, that Father Shannon bought for me on a trip to Italy. When late night conversations turn to religion I dig it out and proudly show it off. I understand he truly believed the church could change so he worked within toward that effort. I hope he was right.
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Oh Paul. I suddenly realize you are an old soul. Sounds like we had some similar history. Unfortunately my take on those long ago moments is far less charitable than yours.