Fr Jack Collins’ Story
by Kevyn Pieters
Fr Clifford had been in
This story concerns a visit that Fr
Clifford makes to Fr Jack Collins, in Castle Cromartie, on his way back to
Ballykissangel. This occurs immediately before the start of “The Reckoning” episode
3-11). Fr Clifford is seeking advice from Fr Collins about his future.
Fr Collins is one of the other
assistant priests in the Cilldargan parish although we never saw him in the
broadcast episodes. Fr Clifford spoke to him on the telephone in “Money, money,
money” (episode 2-7), when Fr MacAnally was trying to trick them into paying
for his new vestments. Later in that same episode, Fr Clifford took a call from
Fr Collins letting him know what Fr Mac was really up to. We are told nothing
about Fr Collins, except that he could afford to donate £100 to Fr Mac’s
collection. I have given him the Christian name “Jack”, and located him at the
church in Castle Cromartie. This was mentioned by Fr MacAnally in the very
first episode of Ballykissangel, “Trying to Connect You”; he explained to
Fr Clifford that there were four
churches in Cilldargan parish: in Cilldargan itself, in Ballykissangel, in
Kilmore, and in Castle Cromartie.
Fr Collins took
his empty sandwich plate and wine glass through to the kitchen, wiped his
greying goatee moustache and beard with his handkerchief, resumed his seat,
then unzipped and opened his breviary and began to read the Morning Prayer. He liked to keep a
strict routine after morning Mass, however unconventional: Mozart or Haydn and
orange juice for breakfast, sandwich and white wine for lunch, divine office
for dessert.
He had reached
the intercessions when the telephone
rang. With a sigh, he put down his breviary beside him on the sofa and picked
up the handset.
“St Kevin’s.
Hello?”
“Is that Fr
Collins?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Hello, this is
Peter Clifford. Sorry, Father, I didn’t recognise your voice. It’s noisy here.”
“Good afternoon,
Father. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until tomorrow. Where are you?”
“The airport.
“I was so sorry
to hear that your mother had died. Are
you OK?”
“Yes, thanks,
just about.” Peter continued, “Father, could I ask a favour of you? Could you
spare me a couple of hours this evening? There are some things that I’d like to
talk through with you, if you’re free that is.”
“Yes, of course.
When?”
“I could be with
you about five, so any time after that.”
“Fine, I’ll see
you at about five, then.”
“That’s great.
Thank you, Father.”
“See you later.
God bless.”
“Thanks. Bye.”
Fr Collins
pondered what it might be that Peter Clifford could want; he had sounded a
little agitated. He reached for his breviary and finished the Morning Prayer. Moving the marker ribbon
to the day’s Evening Prayer, he
closed up the breviary and carried it across to the bureau.
Next in the
routine was the day’s post. He had already sorted it into three little piles:
personal, parish and circulars. There was just the one item in the personal
pile, an early birthday card from Margery, his sister, with some photos of
Agnes, his teenage niece, on her new horse. Agnes had made the card; it had on
its front a drawing of a decrepit roman centurion after the style of Ronald
Searle with the inscription “Felix sit natalis dies XLV” in neat Roman
lettering. He couldn’t resist a chuckle as he placed the card on top of the
bureau. The copy of “Down with Skool” that obviously had inspired the card had
originally belonged to Sinead, who had been Agnes’s godmother, one of the last
things she had done. He looked up at the photograph of Sinead on the
mantelpiece. Today would have been their 20th wedding anniversary.
In the morning he had offered Mass for the happy repose of her soul. “Bless you my love,” he thought as he turned
his attention back to the post. He read the circulars and put them in the bin.
Finally, there were the parish items, bills and requests for references. It
took an hour or so to deal with those.
Waiting in the
kitchen for the kettle to boil, he turned his mind to the sermon for next
Sunday. He had confessions at
Heard from Fr Mac today that
our new assistant priest (the curate for
Not sure where the new man
will live because Fr Mac has sold the church house to his builder friend, Brian
Quigley. I never understood that, not that I want to.
A white-coffin requiem
today. The parents were so positive, they seemed to be helping the rest of us
to bear up. I have never before seen a funeral director in tears; the stony
faced gentleman who carried the coffin, not much bigger than a shoe box, into
church was quite overcome.
I couldn’t but help think of
my own little one, stillborn and just thrown in a bucket – no opportunity to
grieve, no ceremony. I’m glad that things have changed. At least Sinead and Teresa
are together now. Bless them.
Finally met Peter Clifford,
the new priest at Ballykissangel. After all I had heard about him from Fr Mac,
I had expected him to have horns and a tail. But he seems sensible enough, and
very approachable. And he seems to be making quite an impact on the village;
that must really get up the old man’s nose. But there was something odd about
him – shyness, perhaps. In conversation, he seemed reluctant to talk about
himself – commendable in a way. But is he hiding something?
He told me the full story of
the electric confessional. Hilarious. But I noticed that yet again Fr Mac
managed to divert the criticism away from himself. Fr MacTeflon, he should be
called. It’s a bizarre welcome to
“Yes, bless them
and keep them safe,” he said to himself sadly as he dragged his mind back to
the problem of his next sermon. Last time this set of readings had come up he
had focused on the salt, how it was made and its significance in the society of
the period. His chair creaked as he rocked onto its back legs. He stroked his
beard as he re-read the passage from Isaiah. “That’ll do,” he thought to
himself, reached for the pad and started writing.
- - - $$$ - - -
As he walked back
and forth across the room, trying the sermon out for length, he heard a knock
at the door. Putting his papers down, he walked into the hallway and opened the
door.
“Fred!”
“Afternoon, Jack.
It’s nearly
“Yes, you’re
right, I’d lost track of time. Come on.”
They walked
together round to the Church. Fred
O’Neil was the one person in the parish who called him by his Christian name;
they had served together in the Irish Air Corps.
“Would you like
to come around for a bite of supper tonight, Jack? I’m slow-roasting some
lamb.”
“That sounds
wonderful, Fred, but I have a visitor coming at five and I’m not sure how long
he’ll need: Fr Clifford, from Ballykissangel.”
“Ah, the Mayday
signaller. Well, bring him along, too, if you like. About eight?”
“Can I let you
know when he gets here?”
“Yes, that’ll be
fine. Don’t worry if you can’t join me.”
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As they walked,
Fr Collins recalled that a few weeks previously, at the height of the Sweating
Statues controversy in Ballykissangel, Fr Clifford had stood in for him at a Sunday
Mass at St Kevin’s. On his return, his parishioners, Fred especially, had been
full of it; the accounts given by several parishioners had painted a vivid
picture. Fr Clifford had begun Mass with
the usual opening remarks, had said how much he enjoyed his occasional visits
to St Kevin’s and how much he appreciated the welcome they always gave him. But
he had added darkly that they would understand why he would prefer to be
anywhere other than Ballykissangel just then.
He had warned
them that he had changed the readings for the day because he wanted to say
something special in the sermon. The first reading was on the Passover from
Exodus, the second was the account of the Last Supper from 1 Corinthians, and
the Gospel reading was from the discourse on the Bread of Life from John 6, all
very familiar to the congregation. When it came to the sermon, Fr Clifford had
become very agitated. Instead of preaching from the pulpit, he had put the
lectionary away and walked down to the edge of the sanctuary step, standing almost
in the midst of the congregation.
“Why are we
here?” he had begun, speaking without notes. “What am I doing here?” The sense
of urgency in the way he had spoken had captured the attention of the
congregation, even the usually sleepy ones.
“Not for the
statues, sweating or otherwise, nor for any other supposed miraculous
happenings,” he had said dismissively in answer to his own questions.
“And what did the
bishop have in mind when he consecrated my hands at my ordination as a priest, in
return for which I gave my commitment to obey him and to continence and celibacy
and to live simply?” He had raised his eyebrows and looked searchingly around
the congregation, who had begun to shuffle nervously on their benches; this was
not the kind of sermon they were used to. Calm exposition and reflection on the
scriptures was what they were used to from Fr Collins. And gentle encouragement
and emphasis on the love and mercy of God were what Fr Clifford usually gave
them, not passion and urgency like this.
“Not to fill the
collection boxes by deception, nor for idolatry, if you will allow me to call a
spade a spade!”
“Why, then are we
here? What am I doing here? Why do we bother getting out of bed on a Sunday
morning?”
“WHY?” he had roared,
his voice breaking with emotion. This had
come out more loudly than he had intended, startling several in the
congregation. He had apologised before continuing in a quieter voice. Pointing behind
him to the altar and the tabernacle, he said, “I’ll tell you: the Eucharist.”
He had paused and
brushed tears from his eyes. “It’s important. As we heard in the reading from
John, many of His followers left Jesus when He taught that His body was to be real
food and His blood was to be real drink. He let them go. It was the parting of
the ways. It was that important. It is all
important for us, today, here in Castle Cromartie, more important than
anything else.”
“And why is it so
important?” He had let the echo of his voice subside, before, again, answering
his question: ”Because that’s how Jesus has chosen to be present to us,
intimately present to us as individuals, at Mass, when we receive holy
Communion, and when we pray before the Blessed Sacrament.”
He went on in a
quiet, earnest voice, standing among the congregation, to explain the Eucharist
as a relationship, a privileged relationship with God.
He had concluded
the sermon with his voice breaking with emotion, “That’s why we’re here. Not
for anything else. Nothing else
matters in comparison.”
At the end of
Mass, before he had given the blessing and dismissal, he had read out the
notices that Fr Collins had left for him and then, with an audible tremor in
his voice he had asked simply, “And, of your charity, would you remember me in
your prayers.”
Telling Fr
Collins about it on his return, Fred had remarked that the tone of the sermon and
that request for prayers had been the clearest spiritual ‘Mayday’ signal he
could conceive of. “That poor man needs help, Jack,” he had observed.
Several
parishioners had asked him if he could go over what Fr Clifford had said so
that they could understand it better. That had really impressed Fr Collins –
they had never asked for follow-up on one of his own sermons. Initially, he had
hesitated to follow up Fred’s ‘Mayday’ comment – he knew that at least part of
Fr Clifford’s difficulties stemmed from his disagreements with their parish
priest, and he dreaded crossing Fr MacAnally. Eventually, he had decided to
call Fr Clifford only to find that he had already gone away on retreat.
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Peter Clifford
had arrived in Castle Cromartie early, and was sitting next to his rucksack on
the bench by the front door of the presbytery, waiting for Fr Collins to
return. As Fr Collins approached, Peter smiled
at his resemblance to Lenin, with the pointed beard at his prominent chin, the
large forehead and the short grey hair at his temples.
As Fr Collins
busied himself in the kitchen making tea, Peter looked at the photographs
around the study. One that caught his eye was of a young man with a bushy
handlebar moustache in military uniform standing in front of a helicopter with on
his arm a good-looking girl with “updo” dark hair. Next to it on the
mantelpiece was a framed United Nations medal. He looked more closely at the figure
in the photo: he could see the pilot’s brevet and the two stripes on the
uniform epaulettes. There was a facial resemblance to Fr Collins, but the
forage cap atop the substantial quiff made this seem unlikely; perhaps it was a
brother.
Fr Collins re-entered
the room with the tea tray.
Peter pointed to
the photograph and asked, “Father is that a relative in the photo?”
“No, it’s me. I
had more hair then!”
“You have a
gorgeous girl on your arm.”
“That’s Sinead.
We met when I was at
“Is that a
“You mean the
“What work was
that?”
“It varied quite a
lot - VIP transport, troop transport, police and army cooperation - patrolling
the border mainly -, and the occasional rescue or medical evacuation.”
“Where were you
based?”
“Casement,
Baldonnel … about ten miles south west of
“Is the UN medal
yours, too?”
“Yes, I did a
tour of duty out in the Egyptian desert as part of the UNEF 2 peace-keeping
mission in 1978.” He pointed to the medal ribbon and explained, “The yellow
band represents the desert and the two thin blue lines in the middle are the
“Did you enjoy
flying?”
“Oh yes! The Air
Corps is quite small and we aircrew thought of ourselves as the elite. I am
afraid we affected the swagger of the 1940s British RAF. In the late 1940s the
Corps even had some ex-RAF aircraft, including a few Spitfires. But from the
1950s on, we equipped with French types, for political reasons.”
“Why did you
leave?”
“Well, I was
promoted to a desk job, and …” He hesitated and looked away, but continued, “–
and my life began to fall apart and I was grounded permanently.”
“Sorry to hear
that,” mumbled Peter, after which there was a slightly uncomfortable pause in
the conversation, during which he drank his now lukewarm tea.
Fr Collins looked
at his watch, and said, “Father, you said on the phone that there were things
you needed to discuss with me. I think you should tell me what they are.”
Reluctantly,
Peter focused his thoughts, and tentatively began. “I need your help with
discernment … about priesthood, I mean. My future, I mean. My calling.”
Fr Collins was a
little taken aback at this. “I see. Can you elaborate a little?”
Fr Collins sat
down and Peter followed his example.
“I’ve wanted to
be a priest for as long as I can remember. The more I learned about it during
the training, the stronger the call seemed to be and the more certain I felt.
The idea of living simply, of not allowing oneself to be rooted in this world, of
witnessing to our fulfilment being in heaven and not in this world, seemed to
match my personality, as if this is what I had been made for. When the decision
came with my ordination as Deacon, the commitment to celibacy in order to be
free to love all people without exclusion and better to project the forgiving
and healing presence of the Lord seemed the natural thing to do. Certainly it
seemed the clearest way to focus beyond the immediate concerns of the world,
and … and I was comfortable with it. I really was. And I have been until
recently.
Fearing the
worst, Fr Collins asked, “What has brought this on?”
“Well, I have had
some doctrinal concerns for quite a while, and that “sweating statues” fiasco
really shocked me, but … I have fallen in love. That’s not all …”
Fr Collins
interrupted, “And does she love you? It is a ‘she’, I take it?”
Peter smiled,
“Yes, it is a she. But does she love me? I don’t know. I know she likes me, is
fond of me. But does she love me as I love her? I just don’t know. It’s not
something that I can ask, just like that.”
“Have you done
anything that you shouldn’t have?” Fr Collins felt embarrassed at the way he
had said that but was apprehensive about what the answer might be.
“No, honestly, I
haven’t.”
Fr Collins
thought about this. “Shouldn’t you be talking this through with Fr MacAnally?”
He was mindful that Fr Mac had bitten his head off more than once, for
“interfering”.
“There’s too much
antagonism between us for a meaningful conversation. Anyway, he has such a
simplistic way of dealing with issues.” He mimicked Fr Mac, “Something to test
the mettle of my vocation.”
“Nonetheless …”
“I did speak to
him once before. He packed me off on retreat. I wish I hadn’t taken his advice.
It only evaded the issue. It was the worst thing I could have done.”
“But I have no
experience in counselling priests …”
“Father, there is
no-one else I can turn to. You’ve been willing to help me before. Could you not
hear me out? I don’t want you to say or do anything that goes against your
conscience.”
Sensing the
desperation in Peter’s voice and manner, Fr Collins gestured for him to
continue. “I interrupted you a moment ago, what were you going to day?
“I think I was …
Another thing is that I am having trouble with the way people seem to regard me
– friends, parishioners, even my family. It’s all rather corrosive. I could
ride it out when I wasn’t having doubts about the future and what I am doing,
but …”
“I’m not sure
what you mean.”
“Well take Fr
Mac, he seems to regard me as the devil himself. He’s never once praised
anything I’ve done and it’s pretty plain that he’d love to be rid of me.”
“Well, he bites
my head off too, on occasions. We are little wary of each other. I think he
sees me as a different species: I was a late vocation; I’d made my way in the
world first, had a family even. It’s as if he thinks I cheated in some way. Now
Fr O’Malley, he’s different. He doesn’t care about Fr Mac one way or the other.
If Fr Mac says to preach that salvation comes through eating blue cheese, he’d
go ahead and do it without a second thought! He has his own circle of friends
and interests and his parishioners love him. By contrast, I’m something of a
loner, as I think perhaps you are.”
“No … I had
thought of myself as gregarious. I find living alone very … not sure of the
right word … lonely, I suppose, particularly late at night. I never thought I’d
be putting the BBC World Service on for company in the night!”
“You were saying
about friends.”
“Most of my
friends treat me as if being a priest is an unfortunate handicap. Parishioners
sometimes seem to treat me as a trophy; they deny me the chance to be a human
too. Even my own family seems reluctant to allow me to be both a human being
and a priest. How on earth can I be alter
Christus if I am not allowed to be human?”
“How did things
go at home?”
“Mum was
marvellous. But she could tell that I
was unhappy. I really didn’t want to burden her with my troubles because she
was so weak, but she got it out of me within five minutes. She said that the
jokes and funny stories had vanished from my letters, and it was obvious that my
work had gone from interesting and fun to a hard slog.
“She wasn’t
surprised that I had fallen in love, but she was surprised that I was in such
doubt about the priesthood. She said
that my late father would enjoy saying ‘I told you so’. She said that she would
be proud of me whatever I chose to do. But I could tell that she was disappointed.
“But what really
got to me was what Fr Randall, her parish priest and my first posting, had said
to her: when she got to heaven she was to pray hard for me because the death of
his mother was always difficult for a celibate priest and often a time of
transition. She had been showing him my letters, and, unknown to me, he had
been getting phone calls from Fr Mac bellyaching about me; I think he had a
very good idea of what had been going on – and he gave Fr Mac a good telling
off over the sweating statue: if one of his statues had chip fat on it, he’d
have washed it, not organised a collection and a procession! Anyway, she told
him that she knew about the ‘time of transition’ and that she was praying hard
for me already. I’m afraid I had a really good cry with her over that – made it
easier for me when she did die soon after.
“My real problem
was with my brothers and sisters-in-law. They seemed oblivious to my need to
grieve as well as they, if not more so; I was supposed to be used to death and
funerals. So, they had everything planned with me doing all the official things
while they comforted each other. I was not allowed to be human – if I needed to
weep, I had to hide in the toilet! Fr Randall could see what was happening and
refused absolutely to go along with their plans – he played the high-handed
parish priest and changed all their arrangements. I concelebrated with him and
he preached, but I read the eulogy and assisted with the committal.
“The low point
was after the burial when one of my sisters-in-law, triumphantly returned to me
my ordination winding cloth. My mother had given it to Fr Randall to have it
placed in her coffin; the funeral director had placed it in her hands. But dear
Julia decided that this was not appropriate given that I might leave the
priesthood and had it removed without my knowledge.”
“That was very
cruel.”
“They couldn’t
even let me … That’s one of the reasons I’m back early. If my own brothers
can’t see that this priest is a human being as well, how on earth can I expect
to minister properly to the faithful? It makes a nonsense of what we are taught
about the nature of priesthood.”
Peter began to
tick points off on his fingers: “I’ve thought about this, prayed about it,
endlessly, and I’ve tried to leave my own agenda to one side. I’ve tried in
prayer to imagine in my head and heart taking the decision to leave the
priesthood and then how I would live and feel, given that I could then hope to
express my love and have a response. But I can’t get anywhere with that because
there is so much I don’t know – and there is something I need to ask you.”
“Are you going
through the six steps for discernment?”
“I have tried to.
Do you mind?”
“Not at all. It’s
a structured way to try to reach the right decision.”
“On the other
hand, I’ve tried to imagine in my head and heart taking the decision to stay a
priest and then how I would live and feel: the prospect is chilling. Having a
better sense as I now do of what loving a special person can mean, the world
looks bleak and barren for me … and very lonely if that is ruled out. I cannot
see any happiness lies in that direction, even allowing the good I can do as a
priest.
“I know that
faith and prayer are supposed to redeem one from loneliness; but it hasn’t for
me and I just can’t see it doing so. I remember being taught that a good priest
must be at home in his own skin, content with his time alone, knowing and
accepting his strengths and weaknesses. I am not comfortable being a priest in
this skin!
“Our people are
supposed to see in us priests the forgiving and healing presence of Christ. How
could anyone possibly see in me that forgiving and healing presence? I’m a
fraud.”
“You seem to lack
confidence, certainly, but my parishioners do see that in you!”
“I’ve prayed for
light, to recognise which imagined decision is most positive, and I can’t see
how that can be other than to leave. But I am not sure I have the strength
actually to do that, not that I am quite sure what’s involved.”
“I can’t help you
there. I would guess that you would have to speak to the bishop for that.
Though I think there is an organisation, in
“There’s one
other thing I need to ask you, Father. I’ve tried to keep this separate. What is it actually like to be in
love and married?”
Fr Collins was astonished
at the question and was a little flustered in his answer. “You know married
couples. You saw your parents’ relationship. Some of your friends are married.
Your brothers are married, you said.”
Peter hesitated
before pressing the question. “I … I need a priest’s reflection on what it’s
like to be married, first hand. I know you were married before you became a
priest.”
“That’s not
something I speak about.”
There was a
distinctly uncomfortable silence. Peter looked at the floor. Fr Collins rose from
his seat and walked over to the window that overlooked the garden.
“I’m sorry,
Father, I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t mean to pry, or to raise sad memories.”
Peter looked up
anxiously at Fr Collins, who still stood at the window, his back to Peter,
seemingly deep in thought.
Eventually he
spoke. “This morning I said Mass for the repose of her soul. It would have been
our 20th wedding anniversary today.”
After another
pause, he continued in a quiet, distant voice, and answered Peter’s question. “Having
an anchor. Always knowing which way is up. One person that you always worry
for. Knowing that there is one person who has you at the centre of their life,
who always worries about you. Someone who makes you a better person than you
could be on your own and whom you make better than they could be on their own.
You don’t have to say you’re sorry, you just be sorry. Having a point of
reference, however lost or confused you are. Your share in the love of God, being
their share in the love of God. Together or apart, you belong - time and space don’t matter. In cloud they’re
your artificial horizon. Your joy. Your pearl of great price. Being called into
oneness with a soulmate.”
He turned to face
Peter.
“I’m so sorry,
Father.”
“No need, Father.
We’re still together.”
“Do you have
children?”
“Not in this
life.”
Without thinking,
Peter asked immediately, “What happened?”
“Teresa was
stillborn. Sinead was dead within six months. Ovarian cancer.”
Peter shook his
head, regretting that he had raised these memories.
Fr Collins
continued, “Don’t feel bad about this. It is good to speak about these things, sometimes,
to someone who can appreciate the happiness as well as the sadness.
“Thank you.” He
was seeing Fr Collins in a very new light.
“Peter, you do have
a wonderful ability to get people to open up! You are a good priest. Just look
at the impact you had on my people with that sermon on the Eucharist. I’ve
never been able to do that. Are you really going to throw all that away?”
“I’m not throwing
anything way. I’m living a pretence. I want to live fully. And you know the
saying that a lamp glows brightest just before it fails? I think that was my
last glow.”
After a pause,
Peter continued, “How on earth can an obviously lonely, sad, dysfunctional and
tired priest be an encouragement to people? Surely their reaction would be ‘if
that’s living a Christian life then it’s not for me!’”
“It’s true that some
of us need the intimate love of a woman, with all that entails, to achieve a
wholeness, a maturity, to be a rounded and fully human person … however, intense
the spiritual life. That’s their psychological make up, and at bottom
unchangeable.” He paused before continuing, “I rather think that I was like
that – I’d considered the priesthood when I was leaving school, but I just had
the gut feeling that the celibate life wasn’t for me, at that time anyway, and
then Sinead came along. But, I’ve been lucky enough to have both.”
Both sat
thinking. The silence was broken by the telephone ringing. Fr Collins looked at
his watch. It was
“St Kevin’s.
Hello? … Hello, Fred … Yeah, sorry, I forgot.”
Fr Collins turned
to face Peter. “We’re invited to supper, pot roast lamb. Are you able to join
us?”
“I don’t think
so. I’ve said I’ll meet Dr Ryan and some others at about ten, and it’s a couple
of hours' walk.”
“Don’t worry,
I’ll run you over there in the car.”
“Fine. Thank you
very much.”
“Fred? Yes, we’ll
both be delighted to accept. See you about eight? … God bless.”
Peter asked, “Who
will we be dining with?”
“Fred O’Neil. He
lives just up the street. He’s an old friend of mine. We were in the Air Corps
together. He does an excellent pot roast!”
There was another
silence as the thoughts of both returned to Peter’s dilemma.
“Look, Peter, I’m
out of my depth on this one. But I do appreciate that you need to talk this
through and you are not blessed with an abundance of suitable counsellors over
here. I can see that you really are trying to get to grips with this as
honestly as you can.
“I find it
difficult to accept that the will of God has changed – I don’t know where we
are if God’s will is changeable – but as you say, our perception of God’s will
can and does change, and perhaps the celibate ministry was a mistake for you. You have got to ask yourself, though,
whether the issue is actually your failure to have made the radical surrender to
our mission that as priests we are called to make, and that is more difficult especially
now that you have a more concrete appreciation of what it is that you have undertaken
to forego. I’m sorry to sound provocative.
“No, I …”
“If I can be even
more provocative: are you absolutely sure that you are not acting a bit like
the rich young man of Mark 10 asking ‘What must I do to inherit eternal life?’,
and being unhappy with the answer and ‘going sadly away’ because he has so much to give up?
“It’s a thought
…”
“But I’m certain
of this: you can’t make any kind of decision in the abstract. You are going to
have to find out, somehow, whether your love is returned, and take it from
there. But it’s not going to be easy. I’ll help in any way I can, but I really
think that the best help I can give is to pray for you. You need expert
counselling, if not here in
Peter pressed his
lips as he pondered the advice. “You’re right. Thanks, it’s been such a relief to
have a sympathetic listener.”
“Come on, it’s
time for supper. Let’s talk about something else. How’s that second-rate
football team that you support been doing?”
Peter picked up
his rucksack and followed Fr Collins through the door, swinging it shut after
him. “Second rate! I’ll have you know …”
Acknowledgement
I have borrowed fragments and phrases from the talks and writings of John Regan,
Kevin Doran, Stephen Fawcett, Andrew Krivak, Austen Ivereigh and
Benedict XVI.