Years ago, I met with the eighth grade religion teacher about visiting her classroom, suggesting that students might write questions for me and put them in a box. Anne raised her eyebrows and asked: “Father Dave, are you sure you want to do that? You know 13-year-olds can ask really off-the-wall and embarrassing questions, especially when they can hide their identity.” I replied: “Let’s give it a try and see what happens.” “Okay,” she said, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I had used a question box with youth groups before, so I knew to be ready for questions about having to go to Mass, confessing sins, sex, and a variety of church issues. For teenagers, I knew it is important that I appear neither “judgmental” nor “arrogant.” They remember how I make them feel more than what I say.
We gave them no guidance for the questions to be asked, so all questions were fair play. Any question in the box had to be answered, even if I were to say, “I don’t know, but let me find out, and I’ll get back to you.”
I took my seat on a stool in front of the class. After a smile and a brief introduction, I said, “Let’s begin.” With each question, I unfolded the paper and read it silently before reading it aloud. The first handful of questions were fairly normal coming from young teens, and I was happy with my answers.
I then unfolded another paper, and, reading it silently, I was stunned, thinking to myself, “Where is this coming from?” I fought against the impulse to take it personally and be snarky or “judgmental” or “arrogant.”
I am not one who thinks fast on my feet. I often need time to put my mind around an issue, telling a person, “Let’s meet tomorrow about this.” But I couldn't do that with the question at hand; I knew it to be not only a teenager’s question, but one that adults might also ask. Only the Holy Spirit could have led me to my answer.
I read the question aloud: “Whatever happened to you that was so terrible that made you decide to live a life so removed from the realities of life?” I looked around the room, and all eyes were on me, wide-open with anticipation. I took a breath.
“There are two questions here,” I said. “Let’s begin with the first one: What was the terrible thing that happened to me?”
I proceeded.
“Nothing terrible happened to me. After high school, I joined the Air Force and met some wonderful nuns — Felician Sisters — at an orphanage when I was in Germany. Felician Sisters are inspired by the famous St. Francis, and they were the most selfless people I ever met. They took care of more than 40 children and some survivors of World War II Nazi death camps. I saw that, for them, religion helped them live their lives not for themselves but in love for others.
"I also met some priests who were the same way, and they made a difference in my life. Father Clarence Zachman was a chaplain in the Air Force. He had grown up on a farm in North Dakota, and we took drives into the German countryside and talked about the crops we saw and about our Christian faith. When I went to San Jose State University, I met Father Dan Derry, who had lots of energy and would listen to me and my concerns. They and others taught me that religion and my life are not about me, but about a loving God and other people. When I was 28, I decided I would like to be like them. I decided to be a priest and have had no regrets about it.”
I continued: “As to being removed from the realities of life …”
“As a priest, I once sat with a woman in the middle of the night who tried to overdose with a bottle of pills. I thought I failed, but then learned that she was telling others that I was there for her when she really needed someone.
“I once went to a hospital to be with a woman who, at the end of her nine-month pregnancy, learned her baby would be born dead. While she gave birth to her baby, her husband held her hand, and I held her other hand. They cried. The doctor and nurses cried. I cried all the way back to the church.
“I sat many times with Ed who was dying from cancer, and he told me about his life and about dying, and I did his funeral. I also took a walk through a park with a man who had AIDS. I wish I could remember his name, but I remember that he felt all alone. I told him he wasn’t. I think he believed me.
“People also make me feel appreciated for being the priest at their wedding, at their child’s baptism, at their loved one’s funeral, and when they need nothing but for someone to listen to them.”
I then paused.
“Yes, I guess I do live a life removed from the realities of life ...” I paused again. The room was quiet. When I looked up, their eyes were wide open. Everyone was quiet. Very quiet.
I then said, “Next question,” and reached into the box.
