Old Roman Catholic Church in North America -- New Perspectives, Issue 1

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And now, from the Most Reverend Raphael J. Adams,

The Last Word

From the Most Reverend Raphael J. Adams, M.S.

A few good poets (and lots of hack and undergrad sophomore Eng. Comp. Students) compare the seasons of the year to the transitional stages of our lives. They suggest that the vigorous new growth of verdant springtime parallels the budding promise of infancy and childhood. The full flower of the torrid, tempestuous summertime mirrors adolescence and young adulthood. In the autumn of the middle years, one (hopefully) harvests the fruits of one's labors, yet sometimes shivers with the chill winds presaging the first frost. Then the days grow noticeably shorter; and finally, cold winter reflects the hoary season of old age, senescence and death. It is great poetic imagery. Perhaps it was once true. However, these days, it seems much too contrived. While the occasional exception may prove the rule, a whopping big pile of exceptions nullifies it. I've seen too much contradictory evidence to be verbally wooed by pastoral imagery into a deluded sense that "all's right with the world;" or to believe that life providentially (deterministically?) reflects the great plan evident in the orderly cycles of nature. I've known too many children born into barren soil leeched dry of promise, yet doing their inadequate best to take root and thrive in that stony ground. I have seen too many tempest-tossed young adults-frustrated, confused and fugue-frozen by the unforeseen consequences of bad decisions and dumb mistakes. There are way too many middle-aged boomers whose hard labor's fruits have been plundered by corporate carpetbaggers and the new American robber barons. And I know too many power-walking, weight-lifting, water-skiing, roller-blading, tennis-playing, casino-crawling, Winnebago-caravaning septuagenarians and even octogenarians to accept the suggestion of inevitable universal senescence and decline. While some old people do leave life with a whimper, and increasing number explode out of it with reverberating bang. The truth is that there are as many life-course metaphors as there are life-courses-as there are people living their disparate lives.

The closest thing I've found to a generally applicable poetic aphorism came to me by way of Grace Slick (of Jefferson Airplane fame) when she crooned her lilting, yet staccato assertion that "life is change-how it differs from the rocks." This metaphor is sufficiently vague to allow for universality of application. While its stark simplicity conveys and obvious truth, it suffers from the common weakness of all generic statements: it is a generic statement. It does not do much to equip us to deal effectively with change- (if I may use one of my favorite metaphors) to dance with it. So it is incumbent upon each of us then, to write his own poetry, to find, borrow or plagiarize his own set of metaphors to put his life into perspective Æ to find words and images which help to objectify experiences and to impose order on the sequence of events to harmonize them and make meaning from them. Given the complexity of human existence, with all of its varied aspects, multiple metaphors are necessary to even being to make sense of it. For a certain privileged and fortunate subset of searching and confused humanity, a compilation of life's essential metaphors has been provided by the Master of metaphors. These still serve as the best model and guide for personal metaphor construction.

Among my personal metaphors it the "whom do you know?" metaphor. It is a "stage-theory" construct, a developmental-sequence metaphor. It assumes an evolving social context, a shifting and repeatedly reconstructed web of interpersonal relationships characteristic of sequential life stages. In my early childhood, most of the people I knew were older than I, some of them very much older. A couple of them even died of old age. When I entered grammar school, everything changed. While I still knew older people, most of the people I knew were my own age. This is my grammar school, high school, and early college years. As time progressed, I came to know more and more people who were younger than I was. I was, after all, a university professor. But there was another reason: suddenly there were a lot more younger people in my circle of acquaintances that there had been Æ nieces, nephews, younger cousins and the children of friends. Now I'm approaching the life stage I call the "Freddy phase." In the Freddy phase the realization sinks in that one knows almost as many dead people as live ones. The Freddy phase is named after the late Bishop Fredrick L. Pyman. It was Bishop Pyman who taught me that this day would come, at least if I lived long enough. God knows, Freddy certainly lived long enough to see it; and to see beyond it. I think it was the late Father Donald Currie who told me that the story which inspired me to name this life -stage after Freddy (Donald's status of being "late" is yet one more example of what I'm talking about). As the story goes, Freddy was informed about the death of an old colleague, and was asked if he would like to attend the funeral. After a long pause, Freddy smiled his enigmatic smile and responded that his departed friend would not have expected him to attend. A few years earlier, the two of them had entered into an agreement to stop attending the funerals of contemporaries. "There would have been precious little time left over to do anything else." I began the Freddy phase in 1994. I have labeled '94 the "Davidic year." Oddly, my circle of friend once included six Davids. One was a decade older. The others were my age or younger. Only one is alive now. Four of them died in '94, from heart attack, heart failure, or aneurism. One died this last June, from lymphoma. I am definitely in the Freddy phase.

This was not the only lesson Freddy taught me about aging, or even the most important one. There were plenty of others. In a way, Freddy is still teaching me things. Some of the things he said or did fortunately left a lasting impression. The same is true concerning a number of my bellowed elders. I remember some situations or events clearly, because they spoke to me so insistently that I could not fail to grasp their meaning. A statement or an action intentionally played out was so obviously on target that it was almost revelatory in nature. I remember other interactions or observations because of their opposite effect. I was sometimes aware that something important was said or done, but the meaning escaped me entirely or was lurking just beyond my comprehension. I was certain that something significant had happened. I was just not exactly sure about what it was. I remember these interactions because they were somehow unexpected, out of place, apparently uncalled for, or just odd. I remember the nonsequiturs, the inherent contradictions, the apparent logic gaps. I understand now, however, that the gaps were in my perception rather than in the events themselves. I half understood it then. I knew something had happened, and that I had missed it. Whatever "it" was, I just had not gotten it.

One of those "it" moments involved Freddy. It was, of course, quite some time ago; but recent random rifling through the archives sparked the recollection of the incident. While perusing a photograph album in search of something totally unrelated, I came across a picture of Freddy and me, sitting side by side (I think in the chancel of All Saints). In the snapshot, we appear to be a study in contrasts. He was the oldest member of the Council. I was the youngest. Five decades separated us in age. I was thirty-something and he was eighty-something. The unanticipated encounter with the photo made the long ago moment present in a nearly tangible way. It evoked an emotional reaction and triggered a host of associations and memories. It reminded me of the "it" moment.

One the day of the Freddy "it" event, the council had finished meeting and concluded business. Everyone was headed home. I was planning to drive the four hours home later in the day, so that I could go with Bishop Facione and Father Currie to take Bishop Pyman to the airport. Before running the gauntlet of airport terminal chaos, ticket confirmation and baggage check, I knelt on the concrete floor of the parking garage and asked Bishop Pyman for his blessing. He put his hand on my head and pronounced the blessing. His hand remained on my head for a long time before he finally removed it. When I stood and looked into his face-into his eyes-I saw an expression that I had not seen there before, and that I could not name. And I saw his tears. "Bishop," I asked, "are you alright?" "Yes, Son" he replied, "I'm fine." I knew something had happened, but I didn't know what.

A similar "it" phenomenon involved the late Bishop James Rogers. Bishop Rogers was the second oldest member of the Council, the junior of our two "lions in winter." Jim took the Apostle's admonition to "lay hands lightly on no man" quite literally. His laying on of hands was not a superficial symbolic tape. He layed hands forcefully. When he invoked the Spirit, he prayed with his hands as well as his heart. But he did something else as well. From time to time, as the liturgy progressed, he wiped away a tear.

Recently, I experienced the same "it" phenomenon again; but with a curious turn. I was on the other end of "it". Indeed, I was "it." I was the perpetrator of the enigma. It happened quite unexpectedly. I was sitting with the "purple people" in the sanctuary of Our Lady of Good Hope, having participated in the ordination of two men to the priesthood. The newly ordained priests were seated at the sanctuary step, at the open gate of the communion rail. Family, friends and parishioners were approaching each for his blessing. I was seated to the side with my brother bishops, blubbering like a baby. In truth, I was not sobbing uncontrollably, or in any way making a spectacle of myself. I maintained suitable decorum; but a tear or two did well up and spill over. I glanced across the sanctuary where Archbishop H. was seated. I think he had something in his eye. I realize now that the proclivity to become teary at random moments is another characteristic of the Freddy phase. But the moments are not really random; the just appears that way to the uninitiated.

The outpouring of emotion I experienced that day began entirely as an affective, feeling response to what was going on. It slowly formed itself into the conscious awareness that I had once felt what each newly ordained priest was feeling. Indeed, I was feeling it all over again. But more than this was happening. I was feeling what each was feeling now along with him. His present and my past coincided. At that moment, each was who I once had been. I was the man each might yet become. I was the young man Jim and Freddy had long ago been. They were the men I could become. They are long gone to glory now, but my brothers and I remain. Separated by decades, in certain moments we are all immanently present to one another. In the inexplicable "it" moments, past, present and future seem to transcend temporal barriers in some preeminent eternal "now" moment of insight inspired by the Spirit. Promises made, promises give, and promises kept confirm us collectively in our succeeding generations as the children of promise, the children of the covenant. I saw my brother priests and bishops present in the church, but I felt and acknowledged other as being present as well Æ at least to me: Freddy and Jim, Robert, Drew, Donald, and Dan and other besides Æ all those sons of the promise.

Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who has promised is faithful.

And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds.

(Hebrews 10: 23-24)