Each year, around the time when brilliant fall colors begin lighting up our land, my mind turns to my pastor, Father Dan. I’d love to give him a call, or see him at Mass or send him a letter I’ve long since composed, but alas, he’s gone now.
Father Dan died a few years ago — but I’ll always think of him as my pastor. Aside from being the best homilist I’ve ever heard, Fr. Dan also had the purest heart. One of my first exchanges with him was at the Blessing of Pets on the Feast of St. Francis. My dog, then still a rambunctious puppy, barked and strained at her leash, eager to greet the sundry pets present.
As Father Dan sprinkled holy water, he told me, “This dog doesn’t need a blessing; she needs an exorcism.” And then he took a moment to pet her, speak to her, calm her, and tell me what a magnificent creature she was.
For me, Father Dan ranked as one of those special priests who hold an intimate part of our spirituality because they do bless our pets. And our throats. Our houses. Our sacramentals. They anoint us with oils and ashes, hear our confessions and grant us absolution and remind us that God loves us. Regardless.
The boundless mercy of God was one of Father Dan’s recurring themes. I suspect he’d stumbled into a profound understanding of God’s mercy because Father Dan had left the priesthood for a number of years. But he’d returned. No doubt, he’d wrestled painfully with the decisions to leave and to return to his ministry. But return he did, and that gave rise to my deepest respect for the man.
I respected him as a priest, appreciative of the gallant way in which he celebrated Mass. Father Dan possessed great flair for liturgy, for environment and music. His special touch touched me, touched off something newly taking shape in me spiritually.
For another thing, Father Dan could preach, riveting my attention with his words, his thoughts, his delivery. His timing rivaled that of Jack Benny. He made me laugh. He made me cry. On more than one occasion he made me stand unable to recite the Creed because his homily had moved me beyond speech.
Father Dan’s homilies weren’t always what I wanted to hear, but what I needed to hear. I frequently felt Father Dan was talking specifically to me, though I sat among a congregation that filled the large church. I knew others must feel the same, and I often wondered how he managed this Pentecost experience. I’d once heard a definition of a prophet as one who comforts the afflicted and afflicts the comforted; so I came to think of Father Dan as a prophet.
I especially enjoyed the weekday Masses he celebrated for the school children. In Phil Donahue style, he roamed the aisles with a microphone, asking questions of the children. Their answers and his comebacks were sometimes hilarious, sometimes poignant, always proclamations of the Gospel message in a context children could grasp and adults understand ever more deeply.
When Father Dan took a medical leave, I wrote him a letter still filed in my computer, never mailed.
The last time I saw Father Dan alive was at a mutual priest friend’s silver jubilee Mass. I watched the concelebrating priests process, but hadn’t noticed Father Dan. Rather, I hadn’t recognized him.
But when a priest stood at the lectern and spoke the first few words of the homily, I recognized his unmistakable stately voice. I sat up straight, knowing we were all in for a treat. One last time, Father Dan made me laugh. And cry. He choked back some tears of his own, too.
After the recessional, I gave Father Dan a huge hug. He’d lost a great deal of weight, and I almost knocked him off balance. Then I felt self-conscious about my exuberance. But I know I did the right thing in giving rein to my emotion, because in that embrace I released all the haunting regrets of my letter unmailed.
Father Dan and I spoke briefly at the reception following the Mass. And as we parted, he said to me, “Think of me once in a while.”
“I already do,” I told him.
I still do. Probably, I always will, especially in early autumn, when it’s time for the blessing of the pets.
