Requiescat in pace, Little Becket

About the only good thing I can say about March at the moment is that at least it brings us a bit closer to spring. I'm sorry to say that various unhappy memories of my past (among them that both my parents died in March) come to mind this time of year. I'm writing this on the second, the fifteenth anniversary of the death of a priest who was a dear friend of mine. How well I remember the last night of his life, when I was thankful to be at his side, hoping that, despite his being comatose, he could hear the Latin psalms I recited, and my saying (this in English - I knew he feared the last moments of life, as he'd previously told me that all temptations can snatch one away at the end) "It's Compline. It's only compline."

But this blog (and most of my memories in any case!) are not likely to be spots for the morose. (Also, despite Julian of Norwich's vivid description of the dark sights when she herself thought she was at death's door, I never was inclined to think that, after a life of service to God, the devil is too likely to snatch one's soul at the last minute.) Father Thomas, a Franciscan friar, was a brilliant moral theologian and superb preacher, but also quite a character! A tiny man (the size of a jockey), he stood on a little stool in the pulpit (probably lest he hit his chin on it!), and, whenever he thought parishioners might be opposing him (even mentally - and admittedly he seldom thought otherwise), he would look sternly out at the congregation and, in tones reminiscent of Richard Burton, say, "Will.... no one... rid me... of this meddling... priest."

To this day, I have visions of Tom's perched on a cloud, his wings poking out from a well worn and not too clean angelic robe (and halo certainly awry), looking down at many a poor mortal and saying, "And the back of both o' me hands to you..."

Tom was a choleric man, dramatic in speech and gesture, and (as was probably obvious) inclined to think of himself as Thomas Becket. Brilliant though he was, Tom could have a thought which made little sense except in his own mind, and suddenly address this as if the hearer knew exactly what he meant. He was avidly Roman Catholic (in the militant version developed to perfection in southern Ireland, from which he hailed), and not terribly tolerant of my Anglican intellectual leanings. Tom would use various and vivid metaphors, derived from everything from scripture to history to US baseball.

It was a morning in the early 1990s, and Tom, with a wrath of all the gods, suddenly, without preamble, burst out with, "There are limits! I cannot believe what he has done!" I expressed a bit of puzzlement. Tom continued, "I know a pope can dispense himself from anything he likes, but there are limits!"

Searching my mind for whatever John Paul could have dispensed himself from which would be particularly abhorrent to a Kerryman, I asked, "Are you referring to the pope's meeting with the Archbishop of Canterbury?"

Little Becket naturally bristled at his title's being usurped, and stormed, "There is no Archbishop of Canterbury! There is only a Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster! That character in Canterbury is not a bishop! He is not a priest! (Crescendo) I suppose you think that Anthony Quinn was the pope!"

Becket suddenly was replaced by Pius V, and, in what I assume was a reference to Canterbury and the ordination of women (a very controversial topic at the time), Tom ominously declared: "There is but one holy, catholic, and apostolic church! And there are no Bo Peeps in the one, holy, catholic and apostolic church!"

Pius then was superseded by, of all people, I assume Babe Ruth, as Tom began swinging a huge bat (fortunately imaginary). "In our Holy Mother Church, it's ONE strike, you're out! And it does not matter that you are a much better Christian, than I am! One strike, you're out! And you may not, under pain of mortal sin, answer me with saying you have never denied anything! " (I may be no authority on baseball, but know enough to be glad that I refrained from commenting that I intend to "walk," which shouldn't be difficult, considering I have more balls than many a bishop I could mention.)

I, of course, needed to summon every speck of my previous theatrical experience not to laugh aloud at this commentary, the more since it was delivered with such righteous thunder. However, I made a 'fatal error.' Tom, waiting for some humble response (though he should have known me better than to expect just that), finally said outright, "Well! Is it not true that there is ONE holy, catholic, and apostolic church?"

I answered, "Have I ever denied that?"

May Tom rest in peace and rise in glory... even if heaven is quite crowded with all of those Anglican saints. :)