(Christian) Witness by (Sartorial) Osmosis

Last week I was graced with a visit from some very close friends, two of which are my "Priscilla and Aquila" of New Testament fame because they are my co-workers in the Gospel (cf Rom 16:3-4).  Among the things we did was take a cruise on the Rideau Canal, walk around Parliament, and peregrinated to both the Oratoire St-Joseph in Montreal and Ste Anne de Beaupre in Quebec City.  And, of course, St-Hubert!

In keeping with the simplicity and poverty that Pope Francis has asked of the Church, and in obedience to the Congregation for the Clergy's Directory on the Ministry and Life of Priests, n. 66, I often wear my cassock, and I certainly did when my friends were in town.  While it was cumbersome in certain situations, and sweltering on other days, it provided a surprising number of 'evangelical moments' in our encounters with other people.

I should also say, by way of a prefatory note, that in my early years of formation in Yonkers, New York, at the House of Studies for Deaf Seminarians founded by the late, magnificent John Cardinal O'Connor, our superior stressed the importance of visuals in the Deaf culture, and the visibility of clerical or religious habit was important for people who, on account of their being unable to hear, rely more on sight than anything else.  So my formation had its beginnings in the ecclesiastical culture of O'Connor's New York and the early days of Deaf ministry in Upper East Manhattan.

Back to my story.

One evening, as my guests and I were walking through downtown Ottawa, a gentleman saw me and asked, "Are you a Catholic priest?"  After responding affirmatively he said, "Can I ask you a question?"  "That's what I'm here for," I thought, and told him, "Yes, of course."

He then expressed his consternation over the world's chaos, with the pandemic, riots across the United States, and so on, and then asked me, "Is the world coming to an end?"

I explained to him that while the world will come to an end some day, dogmatically speaking, a number of things have yet to happen, and I pointed out a few of these.  But then I went on to say, "Whether the world ends tonight or in a thousand years, you could have an untimely death.  So in any case, remember this:  STAY IN GRACE!"  He got the point:  "You're right, I could die at the snap of the finger, so stay in God's grace!  Got it!"  My priestly watchword of Acts 20:24 served us well.

World, 0; Jesus, 1.

On another day, we took lunch in Little Italy and, after paying, a lady who was sharing a meal with her husband came up to me and said, "Father, today is our 30th wedding anniversary.  Can you give us a blessing?"  She said that it was difficult to access a priest with the lockdown in force, so I was happy to pray over them and to impart a priestly blessing.  When we were leaving, my "Priscilla" told me how this lady gushed and rejoiced on account of receiving an unexpected grace.

World, 0.  Jesus, 2.

One last example.  After stolling in the old part of Quebec City, we took dinner at a delightful crêperie  not too far from cathedral-basilica of Notre-Dame de Québec where Bishop François de Laval awaits the resurrection on the Last Day.  As we were eating, two gentlemen approached me, seeing my cassock, one of whom belong to the First Nations, and proceeded to tell me about his experience at the residential schools which the Canadian government compelled the Catholic Church to open and operate.

"They treated me with love and respect," he kept saying over and over again.  Clearly, the other diners and bystanders could overhear this Canadian whose race and culture predates the arrival of the missionaries and explorers--telling an experience that doesn't quite fit the CBC narrative machine.

World & CBC, 0.  Jesus. 3.

In each of these encounters, I never said my name; I was beside the point.  Rather, these people saw not only a Catholic priest, but someone who (is supposed to, at least) could impart a word on behalf of our Lord Jesus Christ.  The obvious cassock (I find clerical business suits too "professional" for what is, in fact, Pentecostal business) signalled an availability on my part to impart a word of grace to people who were asking for one, to say nothing of the many shared laughter with restaurant servers assigned to our table.  Had I worn simply a tee-shirt and shorts, I would have been left unbothered by strangers, but, as a priest, it's my job to be bothered.

Had I not worn this obvious sign of priestly consecration, one might be still wondering about the End, a couple might have had their anniversary come and go without the Church to share in their joy, and a First Nations man would not have had the chance to say "thank you" for his positive experience at a residential school--to say nothing of the many restaurant servers who very much enjoyed our group's humour and levity.

That's not to say that I don't wear street clothes; when I go to the bank or pick up a Guinness, my cassock would be unseemly.  And I certainly didn't wear it while kayaking on Dow's Lake!  But the rest of the time, to me anyway, not wearing a visible sign of my consecration is--again, for me--an act of selfishness, because seekers have a right to speak to a cleric about the Gospel, and because the Gospel must be uninterruptedly available to all people.  Because they aren't always ready, I must be.

After all, the "New Evangelisation" needs to be more than just conversational ornamentation.

If you've been keeping up with this blog, you know that the Church's missionary lethargy is my major hang-up.  In my conversations with other believers, I have heard them express their genuine puzzlement:  "If we are to be missionaries, where would we go?"

On the other side of the church doors, clearly, and looking the part of a priest of Jesus Christ.