People I Love, Number 14 REAL, GOOD PRIESTS

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People I Love : Number 14

                     REAL, GOOD PRIESTS

“But before the gardener came the rat bit off its own tail and ran off.” Father George pointed to the wooden porch behind which he’d seen the tail of a rat.  He’d stepped on it and called to the gardener to catch the rat on the other side. Being a city bred First Grader I gazed in admiration at this priest who was clever enough to step on the tail of a living rat. Our family had taken a Sunday afternoon ride to the country town in Michigan where my Dad’s Uncle, Father George Esper, was Pastor. I believe it was while I listened to Father George’s story about stepping on the rat’s tail that I felt the first stirrings of vocation to the priesthood. A year later Father Bob Sheridan MM spoke to write their address and the reason why. I wrote in block letters: I LIKE IT. For years Father Bob sent me Christmas letters from hid mission in the Philippines, which I never answered.

Father George continues to influence my years at St. Al’s school. My grandmother, Fr. George’s Sister, lived on Calhoun across from the school and my Mother used Grandma as a free baby sitter, making me and my two younger brothers wait at Grandma’s until she picked us up two hours after school left out. Grandma regarded her three priest brothers with a great respect, Fathers Peter and Mike, who were twins, and Father George whom I knew best. Father Mike I don’t remember and all I recall of Father Pete is seeing him laid out in his casket, dressed in the priestly vestments. Father George later because a Monsignor and wore purple sox when he acted as Arch-priest for my First Solemn Mass. He visited Grandma often and left behind the sweet small of aromatic pipe tobacco, which I associated with the small of incense used at Benediction.

When I turned 18 and neared graduation from the Jesuit U. of D, High School I considered joining the US Marines, heroes of the War in the Pacific, and joining Maryknoll later. My Mother suggested, “Why don’t you discuss it with the Maryknoll vocation director?” At the Maryknoll House on Dexter in Detroit I met Father Jim McCormack, a very decisive man. “Father,” I told him, “I’m thinking of maybe joining Maryknoll.” “Fine, Son.” Father Jim beamed. “Here’s the application form. Get a recommendation from your Pastor, and we’ll tell you where and when to report.” The which discussion took about three minutes.

A cousin of ours, Monsignor Bill Schulte, was Pastor, was Pastor of St. Al’s at the time. I knew him well enough. When he first arrived in the Parish he’d dropped into my Dad’s Greenhouse on Manor Avenue and ordered one red rose sent to the Rectory every Friday. He kept it before a picture of his Mother. He’d lost his parents at an early age and was raised by another cousins, Father Peter Ternes, who was for many years Pastor in Marine City, Michigan, Every Friday I delivered the weekly Church flowers to the convent and the one red rose to the Rectory. Still I felt a bit wary about approaching him because I had just sold him a mongrel pup that looked like a beagle hound for seven dollars, telling him it was a “thoroughbred,” Hr thought I was mispronouncing “thoroughbred,” which is what I wanted him to think. Surprisingly, the dog turned out to be a good hunter.

When I told Monsignor Schulte I had decided to become a Maryknoll priest he roared. “Decided? Nonsense! You go to the seminary and find out what it’s all about and then you decide. If you don’t like it come home against Come back on March 19^th. I want to date your recommendation on the Feast of St. Joseph.” Monsignor Schedule’s wisdom guaranteed my psychological freedom of choice during my years as a seminarian, and I repeat his words to every young person I send off to the seminary or convent from my Parish in Korea. I’m glad hr lived to attend my First Solemn Mass at St. Al’s Church.

By 1958 I’d obtained a Doctorate in Theory in Roma and taught Theology at the Maryknoll Seminary long enough to realize how ignorant I was. To pick up some practical experience I arranged to be summer assistant at St. Louis the King Polish Parish in Detroit, at the corner of 7 Mile and Mt. Elliot. Father John Raczynski, the Pastor, hung a sign “English Only” on my confessional and tested me before he really accepted me. “The day I arrived he poured me a shot of whiskey, and commended: “Have a drink!” He proceeded to knock off three shots in rapid succession. “My God,” I thought. “Do I have an alcoholic Pastor?” I drank very slowly. Fortunately. After a while Father John looked at me. “You! You appreciate good whisky. Help yourself to the liquor cabinet anytime, but take only the whisky on the left side. That’s the good stuff imported from Poland. That stuff on the right is cheep stuff for people who only want a lot.” I’d passed my first test. But there were others. When I counseled people in the office I heard the Pastor’s footsteps stop outside the door while he listened in. Then one evening at dinner he pointed to me, “You! You’re all right, You are kind to the people.” I’d passed another test.

At St. Louis the King’s I gained the experience I was hoping for. I was on duty alone when a young couple came to the door. “We’d like to arrange for marriage.” “Fine,” I said. “What’s your problem?” No problem. Just two five young Catholics coming to arrange their marriage. I, with a Doctorate in Theology, didn’t know where to begin. I seated them in the office and made a dash to the telephone in the next room. Father John Blaska, my classmate at St. Alphonsus’ had some years of parish experience already. “Look for an “A’ Form in the office for the bride and groom. Have their parents fill out the “B’ Form,” he instructed me. I’ve often related this incident to my seminarian students at Maryknoll and later in Korea. “When you’re ordained you’re highly educated, but still ignorant. Don’t pretend you know. Ask!”

Full acceptance came later. One day my Dad’s Uncles, Frs. Peter, Mike, and George came up in the conversation. “The Espers!” Father Raczynski exclaimed. “They were fine priests! Father Mike was my first Pastor. He was a regular priest. Why one Forty Hours’ I saw him lose $1,500 in one of pocket! You come from a family of good priests!”

My Dad later explained. “The Espers were great card players, especially the priest. In those days every Parish held an annual Forty Hours Adoration. Former priest of the Parish and friends of the Pastor came to the closing ceremonies, and then the clergy retired to the Rectory and played cards until the wee hours of the morning. They played for high stakes, but since the same group generally played together and were all of the same ability, at the end of the year no one had lost very much. Except maybe the priest who lost his summer cottage in May and wasn’t allowed to win it back until September!” In the four rectories I’ve built in Korea, I’ve designed space for the Korean priests who follow me to play Hoa Tu. Their favorite card game. As the saying goes: “Priests who play (casrds) together, stay together.” When I recall the real, good priests who’ve influenced my life, I’m sure there’s a special place reserved in heaven for the clergy to play cards.