Column A church without its Romeos is lost
By TIM UNSWORTH
The Romeos meet most Wednesdays at
Gullivars Restaurant on Howard Street on Chicagos northern border.
(Howard is the dividing line between what was once Catholic Chicago, which was
wet, and WASP Evanston, which was dry. Evanston is the Vatican of the
Womans Christian Temperance Union. Uncounted numbers of WASPS were
martyred trying to cross Howard to secure a drop of the creature from the brown
bag stores owned by the papists.)
Gullivars is wet, but none of the Romeos drink -- or smoke
-- at least not at lunch. Catholics just dont sin like they used to.
The Romeos gather around the dark, wooden table under a
spectacular collection of antique light fixtures and study the menu, which is
only slightly shorter than War and Peace. Reading the pasta section
alone can give one gas.
But I digress. Romeos is an acronym, dreamed up by Carole,
one of the spouses. It stands for Retired Old Men Eating Out. Most, indeed, are
retired and most are enrolled in Medicare -- a blessing because, if the Red
Cross learned of their ailments, they would send a sandwich and coffee truck.
There is cancer, heart bypass, dialysis, diabetes, fading eyes, prostate
problems, hearing problems and so on. Yet, there are no complaints. Instead,
they are more concerned with each others ailments than their own.
All are married. All are practicing Catholics. All are involved in
some capacity in their parishes.
The group has no charter, no rules, no dues or mailing list.
Affiliation with the Romeos wont appear in their obituaries. In a world
in which drug cartels have mission statements, the Romeos exist on the thin air
of tolerance and the strong bonds of friendship.
Most of the Romeos are resigned priests, although Im not,
and some -- especially visiting clergy -- are still on a diocesan or
congregation roster. Harvey, a retired priest from another diocese, was there
recently, for example. He was filling in for a local pastor who was in Ireland.
The Romeos were laughing at Harveys account of his encounter with a woman
who had chided him after Mass for his failure to kiss the gospel book at the
conclusion of the gospel reading. Madam, I dont kiss things,
Harvey said to her. I kiss people. Then, he threw his arms around
her and thawed her liturgical ice. Romeos love substance laughing at image.
Most of the Romeos left active ministry during the years that
followed Vatican II. But they cling to the church like wet leaves and volunteer
for everything under the dome.
Jim plans liturgies for a university chapel; Marty directs a
satellite liturgy in his parish for a group of mostly elderly people, some of
whom he drives to a local school of podiatry to have their toenails clipped.
Barry, a former juvenile court officer, monitors the case of a good
friends son. Peter is the business manager in his parish. Frank, who
lives part of the year in Florida, walks around his seaside parish, inviting
stray sheep back into the fold and building the parish roster -- this in spite
of the fact that his pastor is a former Episcopal priest and a married man. For
Frank to be reintegrated into the active priest corps, he would have to abandon
his spouse and jump through dozens of hoops. Ed likes intellectual topics. He
and his wife run a prayer group out of their home. So it goes.
They gather for occasional days of recollection, and nearly all
are part of an annual retreat at a local Benedictine abbey. They pray with the
sick and infirm. If I didnt know better, Id swear they were priests
with portfolios.
The Romeos anger with the church is virtually weightless.
They look back with humorous and affectionate nostalgia. I have seen them cry
when returning to their seminary for a gathering. (Most are local diocesan
priests -- a few of over 300 Chicago priests who have resigned -- although
there is a former Jesuit and a Passionist among them.)
At a recent gathering, the group was laughing at an item in a
recent issue of Highlights, a publication of the Presbyteral Council of
the Chicago archdiocese. It contained the news in the chancellors section
about the policy on resigned priests and their roles within the church.
There are theological restrictions about service at the altar (e.g.,
lector), the bulletin read. We are trying to avoid confusion,
especially among parishioners and public.
Chancery offices constantly view the faithful as so befuddled
that, without unctuous instruction, they would confuse the holy water fountain
with a birdbath.
Outreach to a man who is not regularized is important,
the bulletin read. He is probably hurting and may not realize his
situation is not impossible. The poor, canonically challenged Romeos
enjoyed the patronizing tone. Theyre not hurting. Theyve been
successful in their jobs. Their lives and marriages are in order. (The divorce
rate among resigned priests is only about 4 percent.) Most are proclaiming the
scriptures -- even giving occasional homilies -- with the blessing of their
good friends among the active clergy who are grateful of their talent and
assistance. But some canonically driven, active clergy are so prudent that they
dont sing The Star Spangled Banner without Vatican
approval.
The newsletters succinct paragraphs, larded with canonical
references, left little room for a pastoral response. The Romeos would prefer
an IRS audit.
At the functional level, the Romeos enjoy virtually full
acceptance among their fellow clergy and parishioners. They are often the ones
who organize class reunions, often held on seminary property with generous
support from the local rector. (The silver and golden jubilees are generally
hosted by the local bishop, and resigned priests are not invited. But they
attend anyway because their still active classmates and friends invite them as
part of their ticket quota. No one turns them away.)
The Romeos are an integral part of the clerical gossip network
that is common to any healthy organization. If a bishop burps in Podunk, it is
heard at Gullivars faster than e-mail. Most of the rumors are true,
especially those heatedly denied by the core administration.
Lately, with three U.S. cardinals over retirement age and 20
bishops at or nearing 75, careerist clergy with scarlet fever are piling up
frequent flyer miles, attending installations, retirement dinners and funerals
where their presence is chronicled by local diocesan papers with platitudinous
sentiments intended to pass as episcopal wisdom. The announcements, together
with local appointments, are analyzed by the Romeos for either deserving
pastoral gifts or clout, although as the Romeos advance in age their interest
in career track clergy turns to amused contempt. Instead, they cheer the
efforts of parish clergy whom they meet at wakes and funerals, in hospitals and
at the curb before and after Mass.
The Romeos are enormously well informed. Jim can provide the name
of a bishop of a diocese the size of a lighthouse. They tend to read scripture
commentary and thoughtful essays on the future of the church, such as the
recent one by retired Archbishop John R. Quinn of San Francisco The Reform
of the Papacy (Crossroad, 1999).
Books and clippings are shared and commented upon as if Romeos
were a priest study group in a diocese. These men could easily slip behind the
lectern at a clerical conference and not be spotted until they dropped their
wifes shopping list.
Mostly, however, the Romeos tell stories, just as active priests
do. The culture of the priesthood is knee deep in clerical lore, some of it
dating to the turn of the last century. It is funny and insightful. The rigid,
celibate structures of pre-Vatican II life made for enormous pressure on the
cassock and biretta corps of priests. But it gave free rein to eccentricities.
The result is a body of clerical lore that would sink an ark.
Quinns book on the reform of the papacy states that, if the
church is in need of continual reform, she is necessarily in need of
continual criticism. There is plenty of that around the Romeos
table at Gullivars, but the talk is closely linked to John Paul IIs
own statement about the reform of the papacy. Criticism, the pope wrote, could
be a service of love recognized by all concerned (Ut Unum
Sint, 1995).
The dialogue at Gullivars is not an option but a necessity.
There isnt much hope for a church that doesnt listen to the
Romeos.
Tim Unsworth writes from Chicago where he is turning into a
pillar of salt. You can reach him at unsworth@megsinet.net
National Catholic Reporter, February 11,
2000
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