Fr. Gary's reflexions on the pilgrimage
Some of my fellow priests are somewhat skeptical about “The Year for Priests,” fearing so much focus on us could inflate clerical egos instead of renewing our spirits. A recent experience I had with my parish proved in a dramatic way that “The Year for Priests” can be the kind of spiritual renewal that Pope Benedict XVI intends.
In my ten years as pastor of St. Anthony Parish in Renton, WA, we’ve been on three pilgrimages. In 2005, in celebration of our parish’s centennial, we traveled to Padua, Italy where St. Anthony preached. In 2008, for The Year of St. Paul, we followed his footsteps in Greece and Turkey. The third pilgrimage came about after St. Anthony’s Director of Faith Formation, Mike Borte asked me: “What would you think of making a parish pilgrimage to your home parish for The Year for Priests?” We asked some parishioners what they thought, and the idea took off like wildfire.
St. Anthony is a large parish of 2,300 households made up of a diversity of cultures located just south of Seattle. Many people work for Boeing, some for Microsoft. My home parish, St. Peter’s in Deming, is a mission church of less than 100 families, all Caucasian and many of them my relatives, located in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains near the Canadian border. Most men in my family were loggers. A few still do so, others are truckers or mechanics. The contrasts are pronounced between the two communities.
On an unexpectedly beautiful November Saturday morning, 50 St. Anthony parishioners loaded on a chartered bus. We stared out by praying the rosary together as we began the journey north on I- 405. We took in the beautiful scenery of the soft sunlight shining over the freshly fallen snow on the Cascade Mountains. In a short time we came to the city of Everett. I explained that the logs that my uncles hauled were dumped there at Scott Paper Company. A short distance up the road we passed through Skagit Valley, rich in agriculture where I had ministered to migrant famer workers as a seminarian. We got off the freeway and headed east to the town of Sedro-Woolley where I lived at Immaculate of Mary Parish as a seminarian. I pointed out the house where my Uncle Dan and his wife, Rose and their five children had once lived across the street.
The next part of the journey was the most significant. We headed north on Highway 9, a winding country road. I pointed out the hills where my family had logged for many years. We stopped at the little town of Acme. I shared with my parishioners what had happened there on Dec. 12, 1968. My Aunt Rose’s car skidded on ice and collided with a train. She was killed, along with the four children that were with her. Aunt Rose was 35 years old and my cousins were 5, 4, 2, and 1 years of age. One child, Mark was in the second grade and in school at the time of the accident. As a ten year old, this event had a huge impact on my life. Their funeral was the first one I had ever attended. I had already thought of being a priest, and when I saw the role that the priests played for my extended family, I saw firsthand how essential priestly ministry is. My Uncle Dan, a very devote man, searched for ways to hold on to his sanity afterward. When he learned that Dec. 12th is the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, he studied everything he could about her and spread her message to others. I first learned about Our Lady of Guadalupe from him. Ten years later on Dec. 12th I was a seminarian learning Spanish in Mexico and attended Mass at the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Three years later in 1981 I was a part of the 350th anniversary Mass in the Skagit Valley of the apparition of “La Guadalupana” to Juan Diego. I got home late at night and put on the St. Louis Jesuit Christmas album “Gentle Night”. My Uncle Dan had died of cancer just two months before. One of the songs refers to Romans 11:33-36, one of the readings from Advent: “How deep are the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God. For who has know the mind of God? To him be all glory forever!” At that moment it was as if heaven was with me. I felt that my uncle and aunt and cousins and Our Lady of Guadalupe were at my side. It was a powerful confirmation of my call. I told my parishioners that is why part of my heart is with the Hispanic people.
I’ve driven by the accident scene hundreds of times since then. The pilgrimage was the first time that I’ve stopped and shared the story with people who mean so much to me. I was surprised by the depth of the emotions that came over me.
We continued our journey north and I pointed out the house where I grew up and the houses of various relatives. We stopped at the former St. Peter Church where I was baptized, of which my great-grandparents where charter members. (It was “The Holy Smoke” tavern for years and has since been recently purchased by another church.) We visited the parish cemetery where five generations of my family are buried, including my Dad, my Uncle Dan and the accident victims. We went to the current site of St. Peter’s Church where they treated us to a potluck lunch. We prayed and reflected together on the gift of priesthood and concluded with Mass.
For days afterward people thanked me for the pilgrimage. One woman apologized for judging me harshly for spending so much time with the Hispanic community. I keep returning to the experience in my prayer and realize even more profoundly the gift of serving as a priest.
St.Anthony Parish, 314 S 4th St. Renton, WA 98057; 425-255-3132