The Archbishop Wore Combat Boots. Nancy A. Collins

gothic-style church, surprisingly large for a neighborhood full of Methodists, boasted an ample rectory as modestly furnished as a monastery. The sitting room of my suite consisted of two straight-backed chairs, with a third in the adjoining bedroom, whose bathroom I shared with the other assistant, Father Herb Howley, who informed me forthwith that Father McGraw, a pious, simple priest, harbored a secret — a nickname, that is, of “Muggsy,” a moniker of unknown origin never to be used in his presence. Though spare, my new digs were a veritable Taj Mahal compared to my room in Rome.

      Once ensconced at St. Thomas Aquinas, it became clear that Father McGraw’s main worry was the $40,000 still owed on the new parish school building. Though a monstrous sum to him, it wasn’t to me since the weekly collection averaged around $1,000. Still, almost as soon as welcoming me to the rectory, I was informed that I would be in charge of the annual drive to retire said debt, as there was obvious tension between the pastor and first assistant, Father Howley, a sociable, carefree sort who loved to entertain with his splendid baritone voice. Though he had tried to smooth his relationship with the pastor, it hadn’t worked out.

      Dealing with difficult personalities in, and out, of the priesthood is an essential part of the life, the sacrifice you make. The good Lord gives no assurances that upon ordination you will be serving with consistently pleasant people. And though I got along well with both men, the pastor was admittedly a worrier, overly devoted to schedules like our written-in-stone evening routine. Every night, following dinner, we would adjourn to the second floor, listen to the news on the radio, and the minute it ended, go downstairs to take care of requests from the people. (I was also assigned to celebrate the 6:00 a.m. daily Mass.)

      The first time that I celebrated a Sunday Mass there, I was surprised when parishioners unable to secure a seat simply walked into the sanctuary and stood for the duration of the service. They, in turn, were equally stunned when this upstart, new assistant from Rome delivered a short homily on the need for charity in every aspect of our lives, including toward other nations. After Mass, the senior altar boy, a bright-looking lad of fifteen, made me chuckle when he asked where, being Roman, I had learned English.

      The next day, after the collection was counted, Father McGraw asked that I accompany him to the bank. “Since the parish is big, you’ll need a car,” he announced, adding that despite its size, the percentage of Catholics was small. “We have a lot of Ku Klux Klan in this area,” he nonchalantly added, “but they don’t cause us any trouble.”

      Hearing that I needed an automobile, I called my father who knew of a convent selling a secondhand Dodge, which I promptly bought. Driving around with Father McGraw, he explained that the parish was divided into three distinct sections: Hampden, Woodbury, and Roland Park, home to many of Maryland’s first families who opted to attend Mass downtown at the Jesuit church, St. Ignatius, rather than St. Thomas Aquinas in middle-class Hampden. For their part, Hampden residents were devoted to their area, as I later discovered visiting a sick policeman at Mercy, who was born in Hampden and said it was “the first time in my life that I’ve been out of it for more than a week. I’m lonesome.”

      “Well, thank God that you had the good fortune to live here so long,” I responded. “Offer up your loneliness and tell your wife how much you miss her.”

      In Roland Park, meanwhile, with grand St. Mary’s Seminary as well as the Anglican church, St. David’s, religious boundaries were often ignored among friends. Being introduced to one family guaranteed entrèe to all, as I found out when the MacSherrys, one of the oldest, most devout Roland Park families, invited me to dinner, introducing me to their group, including the Shriver family, whose cousin Sarge married John Kennedy’s sister, Eunice. (Favorites of Cardinal James Gibbons, the legendary Catholic prelate, Mrs. MacSherry was the only female that the cardinal let drive him around in a car.)

      Unlike many Roland Park residents, the MacSherrys chose to attend St. Thomas Aquinas, and it was through them that I ended up regularly taking Holy Communion to Mrs. Shriver, who was infirm. Meeting me at the door, Mrs. Shriver’s maid, bearing a lighted candle and walking backward, so as not to turn her back on the Blessed Sacrament, would dutifully lead me to Mrs. Shriver’s bedroom. (Later, in Washington, I jokingly told Sarge that I expected the same devotion from him as from his Maryland relatives.)

      Woodbury, meanwhile, site of the mills making cotton duck (a Fabric) for the war effort, was the poorest section, where I was thrilled to begin my work — and learning curve. When I hit the ground in Maryland, being a priest was far more theoretical than practical. Though the fortunate recipient of brilliant academic preparation on the subject of a vocation, I knew little about the day-to-day, person-to-person, soul-to-soul work of helping other human beings walk in the grace of God. Knowing the Scriptures by heart means nothing if you cannot make them live in the hearts of others. For someone like myself, who had grown up schooled, trained, and loved by devoted Catholic parents as well as the Catholic Church, believing in its teachings — indeed believing in God — was like breathing: automatic, life-giving, trusted. If I worked hard, perhaps I could help others find their own spiritual confidence.

      Parish Census

      My initial duties in Woodbury would be to help take the census that the parish was conducting as well as contacting couples who were invalidly married. (More than a hundred families, of the four hundred registered on our books, were not in a valid marriage. And, of all the evangelizing missions given me by Father McGraw, this would be my most beneficial pastoral opportunity, particularly in terms of own my spiritual development.)

      On both counts, I was complimented that my first efforts would be among our poorest parishioners — many from Appalachia. Though not always Catholics, they welcomed advice and help from anyone offering, including a Catholic priest. Shortly after arriving, a tall, strongly built Appalachian man asked to speak with me at the rectory. After an awkward beginning, a surfeit of missing teeth impairing his speech, he asked me to convince his wife to return to him, giving the address of a married daughter with whom he thought she was staying.

      Imbued with optimism, I arrived at the door early the next morning to a curt reception. “I don’t know where my mother is,” a young woman scowled, as I heard a scurrying noise upstairs. “Well, your father,” I said, raising my voice, “wishes your mother to return to their home. I can guarantee you that he will neither bite nor harm her.” Suddenly, a woman appeared at the head of the stairs. “How do you know that?” she asked. “Because he has lost his teeth,” I replied. The wife wound up returning to her husband.

      With their open, guileless manner, the people in Woodbury soon made me feel at home as I trudged door to door asking them personal questions about their lives for the census. For the new guy in town the assignment turned out to be a wonderfully unexpected shortcut to becoming known among my new parishioners. A priest’s most important task is to know the spiritual needs of his parishioners, which requires getting out among them. You learn how to be a priest by doing the work of one — most importantly, listening. And census-taking ended up being just the spiritual-engagement short course needed by this rookie. To get to their heart, you must (first) get through their door. And humor helped. One elderly lady, asked her age, responded: “Like the hills, I have no age.” “So shall I write down ‘old as the hills’?” Suppressing a giggle, she asked me in.

      Of course Woodbury also had its share of tough customers. Walking up the stairs at one modest house, I thought I saw a pair of eyes watching me. After I knocked, a gruff, unkempt man answered the door. “Get out of here. If you don’t, I’ll knock you down the stairs.” “Listen, mister,” I replied, “I’ll leave, but I guarantee that you’re not going to knock me down.” Later, when he was visited by the FBI, I learned that the man had been harboring an escaped convicted murderer.

      Meanwhile, following up with the unmarried parishioners turned out to be a delicate task indeed. Any success that I might have had in helping couples depended on making friends with them first. In those days, most wives, being homemakers, were at home during the day, which meant talking to them before meeting their husbands. In this regard, children were my greatest allies.

      “Mom, the priest is here,” invariably signaled a mother’s headlong rush to the parlor before their kid could blab every family secret crammed in