The Story of Barrett (Part 3 ... continued)

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The boy who returned to Northampton wasn’t the same one who’d left just two months before.  Melrose changed me.  I remember sitting at the kitchen table after supper one evening while Georgiana related the story of a young girl she claimed to have known who struck her mother in anger.  The girl died several months later.  If my grandmother knew what killed her that information wasn’t part of the story and wasn’t shared with me.  It seems that, when the girl was “waked” (the Catholic custom of displaying the body for three days before the funeral and burial) the arm she used to hit her mother stuck straight up out of the casket, preventing the mortician from closing the lid.  It wasn’t until the parish priest was called and strenuous prayers of entreaty said over the body that the arm finally lowered itself into the casket and the funeral was able to proceed.  I’ve always wondered what body part would have stuck up and blocked the lid if the deceased had been a rapist.

I wasn’t sure I believed the story but I knew why my grandmother would tell it.  I had attacked my mother.  To be sure, the situation had been extreme but everyone knows children should never strike a parent (or by extension, a grandparent) regardless of the provocation.  Everyone but me, of course.  I didn’t and don’t share this particular bit of conventional wisdom.

The old woman had no cause for concern.  The idea of hitting or injuring Patrick or Georgiana would never have occurred to me.   They were sometimes unreasonable and Georgiana could be monumentally irritating but I never had any desire to strike or hurt either one of them.  Melrose notwithstanding, violent physical confrontations were something I feared and avoided whenever possible.   As an aging adult, I can count on the fingers of one hand the total number of fights I’ve been in during my life and none of them were ever serious or life-threatening.  Melrose is unique in being the only conflict I’ve ever had, before or since, that involved a genuine and powerful desire to kill someone.

Melrose didn’t make me a violent child.  It made me an uncaring child.  By the time I was nine years old, I had decided that I loved no one and no one loved me.  I trusted no one and didn’t expect to be trusted.  I felt, and more than once stated, that I was emotionally self-sufficient.  I didn’t need anyone else and didn’t want anyone else.

And on a conscious level, I didn’t feel bad about it.  I didn’t feel abused or neglected.  I felt insulated.

To all outward appearances, I was unchanged from the youngster I had been before Melrose but inside a part of me had stopped functioning.  I went to school each day, I spent time with neighborhood kids when I wasn’t in school.  I made more friends.  I was reasonably obedient and tractable with my grandparents and my teachers.  I had grown past my criminal phase and set no fires, burglarized no houses and didn’t shoplift anything from the corner market.  An outside observer might have thought I was a typical, well-behaved kid.  What that observer wouldn’t have seen was the disdain I felt for most of those friends, teachers, grandparents and almost everyone else around me.

It was probably four or five months later that my grandparents left one afternoon and were gone until early evening leaving me to my own devices at the house.  Georgiana had made a big production out of promising me a “special surprise” if I behaved myself until they returned.  The sun had set and it was getting dark.  I was outside by the driveway when Patrick’s car pulled in and stopped in front of the converted barn that served as a garage.  My grandmother rolled down the front passenger window and called to me. 

“Richard, come see what we brought you.”

I was already walking toward the car when someone staggered out the rear door from the back seat and stood holding on to the roof of the car for support.  It was Margaret, in all her drunken glory.

“I’m home, Richard,” she slurred in a voice that clearly anticipated a happy response.

It was like being kicked in the gut.  I froze where I was and stared at them.  Georgiana had climbed from the front seat of the car and now stood in the driveway her face split by a broad smile.  Patrick stood by the open driver’s door beaming happily.  Margaret swayed and struggled to remain upright as she waited expectantly for me to run into her arms.

I turned away without a word and began walking toward the back yard and the fields of half-grown alfalfa that separated our house from the woods.  By the time I was halfway past the barn I was running.  I didn’t stop until I had crossed the field, jumped the rail fence at the back of Uncle John’s property and entered the small forest where, well out of sight of the house and garage and concealed by the trees, I sank to the ground panting.

My life was a nightmare from which I couldn’t awaken.

I don’t know how long I sat on the ground.  At some point I thought I heard someone calling me.  I ignored them.  I might have been there fifteen minutes; it might have been an hour but in the end, I realized I had no choice.  It was completely dark when I got to my feet and walked slowly back to the house.

Everyone acted as though nothing had happened.  Margaret made one or two attempts to talk to me.  Every time she did, I would walk out of the room without responding.  Eventually she stopped trying.  Patrick and Georgiana acted as if nothing unusual was going on and made no attempt to intervene between Margaret and me.  For the next several weeks I refused to acknowledge my mother’s presence.  For me, she was nothing more than a hateful and vaguely threatening aura that might dissipate if I could deny her existence long enough.

Most childhood wounds eventually scab over and heal.  They may leave scars but, when you’re 9 years old, the pain does fade and the anger diminishes.  For two or three weeks I continued to ignore Margaret and during that time she remained sober and, at odd moments, almost pleasant.  When it became obvious that denying her existence wasn’t going to make her disappear, I finally gave in and began talking to her, or at least, responding to her.  I don’t believe either one of us felt any affection for the other but we did seem to achieve a degree of civility.  After Melrose , neither one of us was ever verbally or physically affectionate but we did treat each other with the kind of courtesy one extends to a disliked guest who must be politely endured until they leave.

And she did eventually leave.  She returned to Albuquerque and then moved to Denver , Colorado .  There were rumors of at least one more marriage during that time but my grandparents never talked about it when I was in the room so my knowledge came from brief snippets of conversation I overheard when they weren’t aware I was within earshot.  As far as I was concerned, she could marry anyone she wished as often as she wished as long as she remained several thousand miles away from me.

I had more important problems to worry about than Margaret’s romantic life.

The problem was, I believed the myths and horror stories that had been drummed into me.  My early teen years were torture and for that I can thank the Catholic brainwashing I had received from my grandparents, the nuns who had taught me in the Catholic schools I had attended, and the Sunday sermons I had endured. The onset of puberty was a validation of my worst fears.  What had been a vague anxiety and feeling of unease was now a certainty.  My fantasies of affectionate encounters with other boys had evolved and now included more than just hair-stroking, hugs and kisses.  I could no longer deny it to myself.  I was a queer.  I was a faggot.   God wouldn’t have any sympathy for a fairy.

Suicide was never an option.  I knew the Catholic Church regarded suicide as a mortal sin but that seemed secondary to my real offense.  I believed that God was fair and if I explained all the reasons I had for ending my life I was sure he would understand.  He might send me to purgatory for awhile but I wouldn’t be thrust into the pit of Hell just for wanting to escape the monsters that controlled my life.  I would be condemned because I was a pervert.  All I could expect was divine revulsion.  All I deserved was damnation. No point in rushing things. I had no wish to plunge into the fires of hell any sooner than I absolutely had to.

Today I realize that if there really were a Hell, the people who should be sent there are the incredibly stupid and gullible parents, priests, ministers and nuns who torture and indoctrinate children with horror stories of fire and brimstone and the evil myths of religion, presented as facts to impressionable and innocent minds.  In the years between 9 and 15, I was one of the tortured victims who actually believed the terrifying nonsense that had been drilled into me.

As a kid, I was surrounded by delusional people who believed all of the “religious” nonsense handed out by the Catholic Church and the bible.  Worse still, I was surrounded by people determined to indoctrinate and brainwash me into believing the same things.  And they were so successful that I was persuaded to make a decision that was to have a profound affect on my life, though not an effect anyone could have forseen. It was a decision that resulted in my becoming the athiest I am today.

I decided to become a priest.

The working of the human mind is an incredibly complex and little understood process. No one ever does anything for just one reason. Even our simplest actions result from a tangle of motives on both the conscious and on the subconscious levels of our minds that we may or may not be aware of when we act. Those who know me today wonder what could have possessed me at age 13 to want to give my life to a god and to an institution I now regard as evil. You would think that a guilt-ridden closet homosexual who trusted no one and disliked almost everyone in his family, a boy who believed he was hell-bound and beyond any hope of salvation, would be an unlikely candidate to believe he was called by god to a priestly vocation.

In fact, it was that very belief and unhappy self image that drove me into the seminary.

Life as a Catholic priest offered an escape from everything that tormented me. My sexual orientation was only a problem if I was sexual. As a seminarian preparing for a life of celibacy I would have a socially acceptable, even commendable reason for my lack of interest in the opposite sex. By renouncing sex altogether, salvation would be attainable. No longer would I be tormented by the omnipresent certainty of eternal damnation. As an avowed asexual, I would have no sexual orientation and no reason to fear god's judgement.

By renouncing the world and embracing a life of poverty, chastity and obedience, I would also be renouncing the Barrett's and the McMorrows. Whatever hardships and sacrifices I would be called upon to endure as a priest would be more than offset by the prospect of escaping the influence and control of the family into which I had been born.

Of course, as a troubled young boy, I was denied these insights. At the time, my conscious motivation was noble and selfless. My calling to the priesthood was, I truly believed, based on a sincere desire to serve god, mankind and the church.

My announcement at the dinner table that I was considering becoming a priest was greeted by Georgiana with excitement and joy. The Irish Catholic tradition provides many unspoken, if generally accepted, benefits to the parents (and grandparents) of young men who enter the priesthood. These benefits include points earned toward their own salvation in the next world as well as bragging rights in this one. My grandmother pounced on the announcement the way a bag lady pounces on a twenty-dollar bill on the sidewalk. She couldn't have been happier if she had won the Irish Sweepstakes. Any lingering doubts I might have had about my decision were quickly swept away by her enthusiastic acceptance of the idea.

As usual, my grandfather had no particular reaction other than a rather disdainful "if you keep questioning everything you're told, you'll never make it through the seminary".

His comment was just one more reason I now realize the old man was smarter than I ever gave him credit for.

The decision might have been made but I knew I had a long way to go if I was ever going to be worthy of becoming Christ's representative on earth. I would have to shift my values and priorities and live according to the religious and spiritual values I had been conditioned to accept. It wasn't enough to stop hating. I had to learn to forgive those who had injured me, including Margaret. The questions that mattered weren't whether my grandfather was ignorant, my grandmother stupid and my mother vicious. What mattered was whether I could be big enough to forgive them and try to love them in spite of these defects. What mattered was whether my words and actions could reflect the ideals of morality and goodness I had learned to believe were the hallmarks of Catholic living.

By the end of my thirteenth year, I had succeeded in transforming my life and was well on my way to becoming an insufferable, judgemental, holier-than-thou prude.

Everything we do has a price but in my case, the price was insignificant. Before "The Conversion" I wasn't on the A-list of popular kids nor was I a C-list reject. After the Conversion (AC) I joined the ranks of the social pariahs whose friends were limited to others of the same class. The demotion, if that's what it was, didn't create problems for me since I never really cared about anyone else anyway. You don't miss what you've never had and I had learned years before that emotional investments in other people were pathways to disaster. There was even a degree of satisfaction and a pleasant feeling of moral superiority when I could feel rejected for my outspoken moralistic views.

There was one loose end I knew I would have to deal with if I was ever to achieve personal salvation. I was going to have to come to terms with my feelings about Margaret. To do this, I made another decision that has to rank as the most stupid choice I have ever made.

I told my grandparents I wanted to be returned to live with my mother.

Within a month, I was on a plane enroute to Albuquerque where Margaret was now living. It was 1958.

Any hope I might have had (if I ever really had any at all) of an improved relationship with my mother was doomed from the beginning and this time it wasn't entirely Margaret's fault. From the moment she met me at the airport, it was clear to both of us that, while we could play the role of mother and son, our performances were stiff and unnatural. With the clarity of hindsight I now wonder if my motive for returning to live with her was less a desire to improve our relationship than it was to exact a kind of revenge. I was outspoken in my disapproval of her drinking, her dating, her morals and even her appearance. She quickly learned she was no longer able to intimidate me and soon grew weary of pretending an affection she didn't feel. I feel no regrets or pangs of conscience. I might have turned into a teenage, moralistic monster from hell but she had created me.

Since I was always critical of the men she would bring to the apartment, she stopped bringing dates to the apartment. When she announced that she was going to get married again I hadn't even met her intended victim and had to ask her what her last name would be.

Her last name would be Flint.

Jack Flint was a pleasant enough fellow who made a determined effort to win me over. He was a lab technician employed at the same hospital where Margaret worked as an RN. Shortly after we met he took me aside and asked me to go for a ride with him in the new MG that was his pride and joy. It was early evening and we left the apartment and headed for Sandia Mountain, leaving Margaret to sip cocktails and await our return.

If Jack's intent was to impress me with his driving as we charged up the winding mountain road he was eminently succesful. At one point after negotiating a hairpin curve at only slightly less than the speed of sound, he shouted gleefully "This is the road that seperates the men from the boys." Only my pride kept me from pointing out that I was still a boy and would be happy to wait here for him if he wanted to drop me off and pick me up on his way back.

It was dark by the time we reached the top of the mountain and got out of the car to look at the lights of Albuquerque spread out below us. Fortunately, the darkness concealed my quaking knees and my green complexion which would have revealed my cowardise to the world. We stood silently on a tourist overlook for a few minutes and then Jack said, "You know your mother and I are going to get married, don't you?"

I said nothing.

"Richard, I know you love your mother and I want you to know that I would never hurt her. You don't have to worry about her."

I couldn't help it. I started laughing which wasn't the response Jack had expected. He looked at me curiously.

"You don't understand," I said when I finally got the giggles under control. "It's not her I'm worried about. It's you!" And then I started laughing again.

It was a conversation stopper. We drove back down the mountain in silence. Neither of us ever spoke of the conversation again.

They were married and divorced within a year but before they seperated, Margaret and I had abandoned any pretense of getting along and I had been shipped back to Northampton to resume life with my grandparents

And two and a half years later, with the Margaret issue as unresolved as ever, I entered Holy Cross Seminary in Dunkirk, New York to begin my journey to the priesthood as a postulant with the Congregation of the Passion (the Passionist Fathers)

The Seminarian

 In September of 1959 I got off the train at the station in Dunkirk and joined a group of three other young students awaiting transportation to Holy Cross.  We barely had time for introductions before we were approached by an energetic young priest that everyone except me (the only freshman in the group) seemed to know.   Father Roberts, I would later learn, was the freshman Science teacher at the school and each student genuflected as he greeted the priest and shook his hand.   Too self-conscious to follow what was obviously the expected form of greeting, I remained standing when he got to me and we shook hands.  Minutes later our luggage was loaded into a station wagon and we were driven the three or four miles to the 100+ acre seminary campus on the shore of Lake Erie in upstate New York.

The Congregation of the Passion was founded in Italy by Paul of the Cross during the early eighteenth century. The first Passionist house was founded in the United States by three priests and a brother in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania In 1852,.  The order is both monastic and contemplative; its members take vows of chastity, poverty and obedience as well as taking a fourth vow to persevere in the order until death under any and all circumstances.  The order is regarded as austere and among the mortifications practiced by members is the habit of going barefoot or wearing sandals, self-flagellation (whipping), fasting as well as daily prayer and meditation.  As students, we were not members of the order but were instead “postulants” or candidates demanding admission and so were not required to perform any physical acts of self-punishment with only a few very minor exceptions.

During the application process for admission to Holy Cross, I had spent a lot of time at the Passionist monastery in West Springfield, Massachusetts and had formed a mental image of what the school and life as a seminarian would be like.   That image, and my expectations were shattered within minutes of my arrival at Holy Cross.  During those first days of orientation before classes would begin, the grounds were filled with arriving students and, in some cases, their families, talking, laughing and getting reacquainted with classmates and faculty.  The mood was festive and welcoming.  Students referred to themselves and each other as “confrater” which literally translates as “with a brother”, a designation in perfect synch with the overall mood of friendship and brotherhood that permeated the school.  Everywhere I went, hands were extended and introductions made … “Hi, I’m confrater Mark.  And you are … ?  Hello confrater, my name is George.  You’re new, aren’t you…?”  I had expected the students to be somber and mostly silent, living lives of meditative reflection as they moved to and from meals, classes and devotions.  Instead, I found myself surrounded by smiling, friendly, teen-age contemporaries who seemed as normal and non-somber as any group I had ever seen. 

Within an hour of my arrival I had unpacked, stowed my belongings in my dormitory locker on the third floor of the main building, changed into a bathing suit and was swimming in Lake Erie with several dozen of my fellow students.

And lest I give the wrong impression, I need to stress that life at Holy Cross after the first couple of days of orientation was challenging and demanding.  As students, we were expected to follow the RULE of St. Paul of the Cross.  Silence was to be maintained for all but four hours of the day.  When the bell rang, summoning us to class, or study hall, or to mass or to afternoon or evening devotions, it was VOX DEI, the “Voice of God”.  You stopped whatever you were doing instantly and obeyed the summons.  When it rang at the end of your two hour recreation period each afternoon, you stopped speaking, often in mid-sentence,  dropped what you were doing (I sacrificed many a game of pool in the rec hall when I was forced to drop the cue stick in the middle of a shot) and began silently moving toward the chapel, or classroom or refectory. 

Infractions of these rules might result in various “penances” the most common being an order to “walk the quadrangle”.  The quadrangle was a wide, paved, semi-triangular walkway that surrounded a statue of Paul of the Cross outside the school gym.

Meals were eaten in silence and we used hand signals to request bread or milk or a platter or bowl.  During the meal, one designated upper classman would read aloud from a “spiritually appropriate” book such as a volume describing the lives of the saints, or the biography of St. Paul of the Cross, or sometimes the Handbook for Passionist Postulants. 

Not only were we to remain silent during certain hours, we were also restricted in who we could speak to.  We were allowed to speak only with fellow students and the faculty of Holy Cross.  We were never allowed to speak with outsiders without first getting special permission.One day in late fall, during our afternoon recreation period a group of us were down by the lake when we heard someone shouting.  A fisherman had been casting his line in a small tributary that fed into Lake Erie and had slipped on some ice.  His leg was broken.  My companions ran back to the school to summon help while I remained behind to give him moral support while we waited for the police or paramedics to arrive.

For this infraction, I was required to “walk the quadrangle” in silence for two hours the following day (thus sacrificing most of my recreation time) and meditate on my violation of the RULE. 

A typical weekday began at 5:30 AM.  The bell would summon us to Prime (part of the Divine Office which I will describe shortly) followed by mass, which would begin at 6:15.  At 6:45 we would go the refectory for a silent breakfast which would be followed by a period of free time during which speaking would be allowed as we gathered books and homework assignments, studied or just relaxed as we awaited the start of classes.

At 8:00 AM the bell would summon us to class.  The curriculum for freshmen included 45 minute class periods in Latin, General Science, a class called Economic Geography, Religion and English. At noontime, classes ended and we would return to the refectory for the main meal of the day, which was also eaten in silence. 

The period after dinner was followed by “our office” (not to be confused with the Divine Office, a series of prayers that members of the clergy are required to recite each day).  “Our office” was what we called our designated maintenance duties.  Each student was assigned an area to clean and keep orderly.  My own “office” was the freshman classroom so after dinner each weekday between 12:30 and 1:00 I could be found back in our classroom sweeping, mopping the floor, emptying the trash or cleaning the blackboards.The period from 1:00 PM until 4:00 PM was our recreation time.  Talking was permitted and we could engage in any activity we wished although there was a certain pressure to engage in team sports with your class (baseball, softball, football, etc.).  The gym was fully equipped and included a racquetball court.  There was a tennis court on the grounds and since we were on the beach, swimming in the lake was a popular activity in the warmer months. 

At about 2:30 a cart would be wheeled outside (or into the gym if the weather was bad)  loaded with snacks, sandwiches and a pitcher of “bug juice” (Kool Aid) for anyone needing a quick pick-me-up.

At 4:00 PM the bell would summon us to study hall and the next hour would be spent silently preparing for the next days classes.  This was followed at 5:00 by Vespers and a period of meditation and prayer in the chapel and then back to the refectory for a light supper at 6:00 PM.

The period from dinner until evening devotions was an open period.  While it wasn’t, officially a recreation period, speaking was permitted and we could spend the time in the rec hall if we wished, or we could study, talk or do just about anything that didn’t involve leaving the building.

At 8:00 PM, the bell would summon us to the chapel for Compline (night prayers before retiring) and then bed at 9:00.

I should explain my references to Prime, Vespers and Compline.

In the Catholic Church, members of religious orders and the clergy have been required since the fourth century to recite portions of the Divine Office at certain times each day.  The Latin prayers are found in a book called a breviary, which the clergy and members of religious orders carry with them.  Beginning in the middle of the night with the recitation  of Matins (sometimes called Vigils or Nocturns),  the religious recite Lauds (at dawn),  Prime (the Early Morning Prayer) at 6:00 AM, Terce or mid-morning prayer at 9:00 AM, Sext or Midday prayer at noon,  None (Mid-afternoon prayer) at 3:00 PM, Vespers or Evening Prayers (“at the lighting of the lamps”) and finally, Compline (Night Prayer) before retiring.

(If you notice, I list eight “hours” of prayer. In 1962 the Second Ecumenical Council of the Vatican which is also known as Vatican II, suppressed Prime which reduced the required number of daily canonical hours of prayer to seven.)

As students who were neither clergy nor members of the order, we recited only three of the Offices each day.

In 1956, Kathryn Hulme, a nurse and former nun who renounced her vows and left the convent wrote an autobiography titled “The Nun’s Story”.  The book became a best seller and in 1959 it was turned into a film starring Audrey Hepburn.  In the summer of 1959, just prior to my entry into the seminary, I read an interview with Ms. Hulme in which she recalled her years as a nursing sister and the personal sense of loss she felt when she left the religious life.  During the interview, she said that if there was a single aspect of her former life that she missed more than any other, it was the time, each day that she had spent in prayer and meditation.   As a somewhat normal teenage boy, my reaction to this disclosure was a combination of disbelief and scorn.  Far from being drawn to prayer and meditation, I saw these as necessary sacrifices I would be forced to make if I was to realize my ambition and become a Catholic Priest.  Praying and meditating were activities you engaged in because you had to, not because you wanted to.

Only later would I look back on my year at Holy Cross and understand what the former nun was talking about.  The hours that we spent in chapel each day that I had expected to be a boring, repetitive “sacrifice” to be endured, proved to be an enriching, joyful experience that would become the single aspect of my life in the seminary that I would miss more than any other.  What would seem to many to be a life of regimentation and restriction as a monastic postulant, I would remember for the rest of my life as the happiest, the most free and most fulfilling year of my rapidly vanishing childhood.

There can certainly be sexual problems at any school with an exclusively male or female population (just as, obviously, there can be problems at a coeducational facility) whether the institution is religious or secular. We all knew without being told why third and fourth year students didn't fraternize with first and second years. The two groups slept in different dormitories, had different class schedules and even different recreation rooms. The subject of homosexuality was never formally addressed by the faculty nor was it ever the subject of much discussion among the students. While there were no open homosexuals among the postulants that I knew (It was 1959. The Gay Liberation Front hadn't really caught on yet in upstate New York) there were certainly a half dozen or more who shared my affectional preferences and a few who would have had trouble finding a closet big enough to hide in were they forced to live in the outside world. It was very much a non-issue with all of us. We were preparing for a life of celibacy and it didn't make much difference if it was gay celebacy or straight celebacy. There is no moral superiority in vowing not to have sex with women over the same vow taken to avoid sex with men.

For the past several years, the Catholic clergy has come under fire for the sexual misdeeds of a statistically insignificant few. Let's set the record straight. The vast majority of the religious and diocesan clergy are honest and ethical and, in many cases, good hearted men and women living a life of sacrifice. Are they deluded? Absolutely. Are the gullible? Is the pope Catholic? Can they, as a group be characterized as sexual perverts? Absolutely NOT. I don't deny that there have been many victims of clerical predators over the past 50 years (and perhaps all through history) but the number of offenders is an incredibly small percentage of the total group. Over half of my grammer and high school years were spent in Catholic schools. I've been an altar boy and a seminarian living in a cloistered, all male, monastic environment and through all of that, I have never experienced or observed any inappropriate speech or conduct by any member of the clergy.

Of course, my father continues to insist that the main reason I was never molested was because I was an uncredibly ugly child. Perhaps that's the case but I never witnessed anyone else being victimized either ... and some of the guys I went to church and hung out with were pretty cute.

It feels odd and out of character to find myself defending any Christian organization. If I saw an angel on our front lawn tomorrow my first impulse would be to heave a brick at it. But I also believe criticism of a church or a religion should be based on the tenetes and beliefs it embraces and the effects those beliefs have on those who accept them. The threat posed by Christianity in general, which encompasses Catholicism, is inherent in its nature. It is a divisive force for evil that, all through history, has brought more harm and pain than benefit to mankind. Having said that, I have to add that I've known many Christians, and many Catholics, both lay and clergy that I respect and admire.

The seminary changed and shaped many of my basic ideas about right and wrong as well as about good and evil. We weren't concerned with the Ten Commandments. Those were givens. As future representatives of Christ on earth, we didn't need to be told not to steal or kill or lie or covet. If we weren't already obeying these basic rules we had no business aspiring to the priesthood. The RULE demanded that we go even further and constantly examine the harm and pain that we caused others whether intentional or not. Each day we were required to examine our conscience and take inventory. How many times had we been brusque or impatient with someone? How often that day had our words caused another to suffer hurt or embarrasment? Had we treated anyone unfairly or harshly? How many opportunities had we missed to help or support or show love for one another? Had we avoided someone who sought our company because we had something else we wanted to do or someone else we wanted to talk to?

And even if we had been diligent in our actions and done everything we could to show charity and love in our dealings with one another, were our motives pure? Were even our good acts free of the self-righteous feelings that mark the sin of pride. Did we feel superior to or better than anyone? Had we passed moral judgement on anyone at the expense of understanding and empathy? It wasn't our job to judge those around us. "Judge not lest ye be judged." We were commanded to love one another and obeying that command didn't make us virtuous. Failing to obey it made us sinful.

For a kid who had grown up caring about no one, these nightly self-assesments brought me a new awareness of my own failings as well as new insights into the needs and feelings of those around me. We were taught that sanctity would always be unattainable. We would all fail. That was the human condition. And, it didn't matter. What mattered was not what we had done or failed to do in the past. The only thing that mattered was what we would do in the future.

Almost against my will, I found myself reaching out to others, not because I wanted something back; not because I was afraid of the fires of hell; not because I hoped to be rewarded in heaven, but simply because I was learning that what goes around comes around; that causing others to feel pain or shame or unhappiness could bounce back and and cause me to to suffer these same feelings. What would begin as a nightly examination of conscience soon became a way of thinking that affected everything we did.

During the year that I spent at Holy Cross I took only a few faltering baby steps on the path to understanding before stopping and again becoming distracted by the world and my own emotional needs and shortcomings. I have not succeeded, then or now, in becoming "a good person" by anyone's definition. The things that I experienced at Holy Cross and during the several years after I left the seminary didn't transform a selfish, immature and self-absorbed adolescent into a paragon of love and compassion. What they did was give me the beginings of understanding and of empathy.

And, if the events of my life in the seminary and the several years that followed didn't turn me into a loving human being, they at least made me a better person than I would otherwise have been.

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