Vocations Lost and Found

By Joseph Wakelee-Lynch

I remember the long, dark basement of his house. His father was an electrician, maybe an engineer, and old televisions, repairable radios, and musty boxes lined the unfinished walls. Some days down there we took target practice with his dad's BB gun, because you could get a good 25 yards away from the target, a pile of tied-up newspaper.

This day, and others, my best friend, Billy, and I, both in the fourth grade, maybe fifth, stood up a small table at the far end of his row-home's basement . . . Then we began the words, he standing at table, me kneeling at his side. I preferred my friend to be the priest of our Masses.

This day, and others, my best friend, Billy, and I, both in the fourth grade, maybe fifth, stood up a small table at the far end of his row-home's basement. After covering it with a sheet, he put a cup of water and a small plate with a piece of white bread on top. Then we began the words, he standing at table, me kneeling at his side. I preferred my friend to be the priest of our Masses. Although I liked playing the game, I worried that it might be sacrilegious, especially at the point when we pretended to consecrate the elements.

I grew up in the 1960s in a mostly Irish Catholic neighborhood in Philadelphia, and I hoped to be a priest someday. There were a couple of guys in my parish who became priests and were a year or two older than my oldest brother. Because they were so much older than my brother, I never actually saw them, and knowing them only by reputation seemed to make them even more noble, not to mention blessed. Among some of my friends, they were just as famous as the neighborhood guy who made the high school basketball team -- no mean feat, because our high school team was always a power.

My family was pretty well-known in the neighborhood, some 10 square blocks, because my dad was a doctor there. He and my mom grew up there themselves, and they decided my dad's practice should be there, near their friends and family. Because they were known, we kids were, too. I'd walk to the playground after school and pass adults, standing halfway out of their screen door, who would say to me, "Oh, you're going to be a priest someday, Joe, I just know you're going to be a priest." I didn't mind it too much, either.

My mom and dad had five boys and two girls. The girls were at either end of the family: one was the oldest; the other, the youngest. The first child in my family became a nun, and with five boys to follow her, my parents, or at least my Mom, thought they'd land a priest, too. As each of my brothers got to the age of 17 or 18 without asking where the diocesan seminary was, though, I felt that I was becoming seen as my mother's best chance. I wouldn't have argued much then if I had thought about it, because my friend and I didn't just pretend we were priests. We were making plans to become the first American-born saints.

My parents, unfortunately, have not lived to see this, but they are about to land a priest. Not the one they probably pictured because it's not going to be me, but my wife. She is scheduled for ordination in about two months in the Episcopal Church.

My parents, I believe, would've ended up pretty pleased by this development. With seven kids, they had proved they were willing to accept God's surprises. I'm pretty pleased, too. But my wife won't be the kind of priest I was picturing back when that vocation was my deepest ambition.

The priests at my parish, I thought, had mysterious powers, certainly when saying Mass on Sundays . . . My wife's knowledge, after three years of seminary, isn't so terribly mysterious. I've read some of her books myself, and I've even talked theology over a beer with some of her professors.

First of all, my wife doesn't seem all that powerful. The priests at my parish, I thought, had mysterious powers, certainly when saying Mass on Sundays. And if they didn't always have the ability to change things, they did have secret, deeper understanding and knowledge. That could be learned, but only by the priests, no one else. My wife's knowledge, after three years of seminary, isn't so terribly mysterious. I've read some of her books myself, and I've even talked theology over a beer with some of her professors. Her path of access to God -- prayer -- also looks a lot like my own, although she uses hers more often than I do.

My wife doesn't strike me as very distant or exotic in a way that's a little beyond my comprehension. Priests at my parish lived in their own big house, with lush red carpeting that started right at the front door and thick, sculpted banisters the color of dark chocolate. The pastor I liked the most smoked a cigar the odor of which was so rich and powerful that I could close my eyes and tell you which houses on our block he visited and which he passed by.

Needless to say, my wife doesn't smoke a cigar at all, and our home is no redoubt. My wife is generally pretty accessible, not distant at all. People can talk to her, and most of them seem to do it pretty easily. I think our house, like my house as a boy, will get nighttime emergency phone calls, and my Dad got those calls, too. That makes sense to me. I also know she's seen some tough times, ones that she's made part of this life's journey, which we all struggle to do.

Finally, unlike the priests of my childhood parish, my wife has a daughter, our daughter, who thinks it's cool that her mother will be a priest. She also finds it hard to understand why some churches don't allow that.

Now my wife will soon receive the blessing of her bishop, who will lay his hands prayerfully upon her head. Her vocation has been confirmed, and she will be called on to serve. I know that what I believe now about the Episcopal priest's vocation is partly the product of the best of my childhood Catholic training. On the day of my wife's ordination, in a sense that is a little bit beyond my comprehension, two dreams will come true.

Joseph Wakelee-Lynch is a Witness contributing editor, and his regular online column is The View from Sardis. He lives in Berkeley, California, and may be reached by email at wakeleelynch@earthlink.net