by Paul O'Reilly, SJ
"Go out to the whole world, proclaim the Good News to all creation."
I learned something last week.
I was reading a book about evangelization.
Its basic point was that the Lord's final command to us was to go out to all nations and preach the good news.
According to the 2001 Census, Christians in this country are 72% (a little over two-thirds) of the population - and are all but invisible. Catholic Christians are 10% of the population and are worse than invisible - except when there's a bad news story about the Church. And the book concluded with a compelling rallying cry for all Catholic Christians to make themselves and their commitment to the Faith visible in the world.
Even to a pink cardigan-wearing cashmere liberal of the 70's, this was a call I could not ignore. Resolutely, I marched to the cupboard in my room - the last known resting place of my clerical collar. Eventually I found it. it was like that moment, usually at a funeral, when you re-encounter an old and good friend that you really should have kept in touch with.
I put it on, struggling with the awkward unfamiliarity. I was reminded of why it's called a dog collar. But at least it was not heavy: just a light piece of white plastic -- not like the white coat I used to wear as a junior hospital doctor, weighed down in the pockets by handbooks, stethoscopes, notepads, odd bits of scrap paper and all the detritus of a man who never had a moment to see beyond the needs of the next patient. But also weighed down in the shoulders, by the knowledge that this was the uniform which made me the first on call for anything that went wrong for anything up to 400 very sick people.
Unlike the white coat, the white collar was just a small but meaningful piece of light plastic -- a much lighter load, both literally and metaphorically. And then, having worked it tolerably into place, I set out for my weekend ministry in Pentonville Prison. I walked up Oxford Street (if you're American, think Madison Avenue) and that led me to three immortal conversations:
The first was easy -- I think God was being kind to me. A young girl looked like she had actually shopped till she had dropped. She sat on the pavement outside a well-known Oxford street store, surrounded by the glamorous plastic bags of her day's purchasing, drinking out of a bottle of beer and silently weeping. She looked like an image needing the caption, 'Money can't buy me love'.
As I passed, she looked up: "Are you a priest."
"-- Err, yes."
"Well, I need a blessing."
And so, for a few moments, we obstructed one of the Queen's busiest highways, while I gave her the sign of God's unending love for one of his people.
The next was a bit more A-level. Seb was selling tart cards (and if you don't know what they are, you are too pure for London). Seeing the collar, he engaged me in conversation - as he hurriedly concealed his tart cards in a pocket of his hoodie. His pal fell into line very close behind me. I remembered getting mugged this way before.
Seb asked if I really cared about the Word of God that I preached - we talked; but mostly myself a little defensively asserting that -- to the best of my ability -- I read the gospels, believe what I read and teach what I believe. And also slightly defensively I held on to my pockets, aware of the large silent presence following a little too close behind me.
Maybe I went on too long. Seb kept looking back at his pal behind me and shaking his head. Seb then asked what was important in a man's life. I answered about the will of God - to love and be loved - to be part of a human community that becomes its best in communion, one with another - that's what I think of when I say the word 'church'. Again, Seb shook his head at the unseen man behind me. He asked about the people I saw in prison. So I spoke about all the people I met in Pentonville Prison - what the gospel meant to them; how through the prism of God's eyes, people saw themselves differently, saw the world differently; saw their chances in the world differently.
We came to a corner - I was turning; he was going back. So taking my life in my hands, I suggested to him that, given the prevalence of coppers on Oxford street, and prison overcrowding being what it is, it might be in the common good for him to call it a night. He laughed and told me he loved me; there was a snort from the large man behind. Seb tuned and just shook his head one last time. And so we parted friends.
Late that night, as I was on my way back home, two young women asked directions to Berkeley Square -- a place where nightingales once sang, but now a venue for the highest class night clubs. I told her it was just around the corner and we passed. Then she called me back.
"Are you a priest?" --Yes.
"Is there a God?" {I noticed, not "do you believe in God? Or: "is there a God for you?" but: "Is there a God?" (for me)}.
And so, at two in the morning, we discussed Aquinas in Mayfair, outside Annabel's nightclub. At the end, she just said -- "I wish I was sober; then I would understand." It seemed like a metaphor for an entire life. So I asked her just to remember two words -- 'Aquinas' and 'cosmological' - google them tomorrow. So she passed on into the nightclub and I came home.
As I took off my collar, it suddenly felt as heavy as the white coat of so many years before. I went to bed and slept the sleep of the just. But the next day, I found myself putting it on again - just as confoundedly awkward as the day before - but with a small sense of pride. I have been ordained for a while, but I've never quite felt so much like a priest.
Mount Street Jesuit Centre,
114 Mount Street,
London SW1K 3AH.
ENGLAND.
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