The Archbishop Wore Combat Boots. Nancy A. Collins

of her own immortal soul, a mother was always anxious about the spiritual and physical development of her child, providing the perfect opening to inquire about the spiritual status of the couple.

      It didn’t take long to figure out that when it came to getting married, women were the prime movers. (Times haven’t changed!) Men, on the other hand, were procrastinators. “All right,” the husband would say. “We’ll fix it sometime. But what’s the rush?”

      With women, you could appeal to their conscience. With men, you appealed to, well, whatever got their attention. Approaching the home of one couple, I purposefully started chatting with a neighbor standing in her yard. It wasn’t long before the man in question came out of his house and joined us, eventually inviting me in to see the weight room where he and his four sons engaged in weightlifting — a sport holding zero interest for me. After several minutes of demonstrating how to bench-press two hundred fifty pounds, he looked at me and said: “You know, we don’t have any religious beliefs in this family. Maybe we ought to talk about that.” We did. And, eventually, he, his wife, and their four buff sons joined the Church.

      Roland Park Catholics weren’t always so hospitable. Hearing from a Catholic friend that his neighbor’s wife was gravely ill, I made a house call, bringing the holy oils. At the door, her husband was matter-of-fact. “Thank you, Father, for coming, but we have called a Jesuit priest,” he said without inviting me in to bless his wife.

      That evening, at dinner, I told the story to Father McGraw, who became uncharacteristically angry. “What did you say to him?”

      “I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing,” I replied.

      “If it happens again,” he continued, “tell them that since they live in our parish, you have a duty to care for them spiritually, even if they insist on having their own priest present.” Father McGraw’s years on the job had taught him when to vent righteous “holy anger” and “moral indignation” — and when to turn the other lip, as it were. Being an effective priest takes experience — and I had none. Clearly, I had a lot to learn.

      Bringing non-Catholics into the faith, of course, was always a priority. Never knowing when God was going to drop a potential believer in my path, I was always on the lookout. Serving as a substitute chaplain at Johns Hopkins Hospital, I met a young doctor who was interested in becoming Catholic. An avid, quick learner, within a week he asked to see a confessional. Surprised, I was also anxious, since he had expressed an interest in psychiatry. (Johns Hopkins had pioneered studies in the development of the science.)

      Fearing he may have been influenced by anti-religious ideas perpetrated by the field’s early practitioners, I carefully explained the history and method of Confession before showing him an actual confessional. He was enthralled.

      “This is the perfect way to deal with sin,” he exclaimed. “Complete anonymity. No embarrassment, and a good opportunity to instruct people. Who invented this?” His fresh observations subsequently made me reinvent my own approach to teaching converts how to confess their own lapses in judgment.

      Youth Ministry

      A year after my arrival at St. Thomas, it became clear to me that if we didn’t engage the young people in the parish, we would lose them. This led to one of my biggest, most successful projects. What St. Thomas Aquinas needed was a youth program geared to teenagers and those in their early twenties; but how to make it happen? And where? The only available auditorium, located in the school basement, was already reserved for the weekly Bingo Night, which is exactly where I hatched up my grand plan.

      Wanting to be accessible, I made it a point to attend Bingo Nights — a cruel and unusual penance unrecorded in any spiritual text acceptable to the good Lord, who understands all the vagaries of human nature. However, compared to spending three hours answering questions — “Why are you eating so many peanuts? Don’t they feed you in the rectory?” “Peanuts help me think” — dreaming up an entire youth program was a trip to the beach.

      And the peanut-thinking paid off. With Father McGraw’s permission, I investigated the interiors of the former parish school, shunted aside for our indebted newer model. Solidly constructed with classrooms, a cafeteria, and toilets, the space could handily be converted into a sizeable meeting hall. Moreover, according to my brother Tom, our pro bono contractor, a stage could also be added at the far end of the bingo hall so plays could be produced to raise funds and reduce the school debt. In short order a gang of volunteers turned our old facility into a new reality.

      Figuring nothing sells like success, I asked the school’s most popular girls and boys to meet with me and figure out a program. (Naturally, the girls were the magnets.) The program we hammered out was simple and practical: every other Saturday night, we would hold a dance; and during intermission, there would be a discussion based on questions submitted by teens to what we called “The Question Box.”

      To get the evenings rolling, a welcome committee of attractive, sociable teens would introduce everyone. On one point, however, I was emphatic: there were to be no wallflowers. Any girl who came had to have at least a few dances. If the boys didn’t ask on their own, I’d introduce them to the wallflowers on my own. Conversely, if a girl got “stuck” with an unattractive boy, I would swoop in and rescue her, saying I needed to see her about something. Overseeing the whole shebang would be officers, initially chosen by me, but eventually by the membership. When I presented my plan to Father McGraw, there was only one sticking point — he wanted dances to end at eleven; I, midnight. We compromised on eleven thirty.

      The Youth Club was an instant hit. Kids poured in the door while the entertainment committee unearthed such impressive local talent that the Wurzburg jukebox quickly got junked in favor of a small but enthusiastic band.

      But the real star of the show was “The Question Box.” Our goal was relevancy, so after starting off with a couple of basic questions about the obligation to attend Mass and confession, we quickly crossed over to discussions about the war, when I was often asked to give my own observations on the situation in Europe.

      Victory breeding victory, our sought-after Saturday nights woke up the athletic committee, who formed a basketball team, drummed up donations to buy uniforms, and organized a playing schedule. The dances grew so fast, meanwhile, that, issuing ID cards, we were forced to restrict them to Catholics, prodding complaints from members who wanted to bring Protestant friends. Ultimately, we agreed that they could on the condition that they would be totally responsible for their guests. The overwhelming success of our venture proved the wisdom of the principle of subsidiarity, stressed by Pope Leo XIII in his famous encyclical on the rights of labor and the evils of industrialization, Rerum Novarum. Moreover, I learned a lot; mainly, build a field and they will come — to God.

      However, when youth from Roland Park started showing up in Hampden, I knew that this newly ordained priest needed the advice and assistance of older, wiser heads. As a result, I organized a group of priests who developed an all-parish program that included a large, multi-parish ballroom dance featuring a big band at Baltimore’s biggest hotel. Ticket sales were so huge that we chartered a boat for an evening ride on the Chesapeake Bay. Acting as chaperone, Father Scalley, from St. Bridget’s Parish, merrily spent the evening prowling the dark recesses of the vessel on behalf of Christian morality.

      It was our poster for that dance, a picture of the labarum of Emperor Constantine, bearing the cross with the inscription, “In this sign you will conquer,” that got me called into the chancery for a meeting with Monsignor Joseph Nelligan. Monsignor Nelligan, son of a wealthy banker, was spare, businesslike, but approachable. Allowing me to fully explain why and how I began this youth apostolate, he had just one criticism. “I support everything you’re doing,” he said, “with the exception of the poster’s cross and inscription which might be offensive to those outside our Church. It would be better to drop it.” His kindness and helpful use of authority were a great lesson, not to mention a perfect example of the wisdom of my high school teacher: “Hannan, forget every third idea.”

      Capitalizing on the favorable publicity, Father McGraw gave the go-ahead for my brother Tom to build our stage in the bingo auditorium. Our first play, “Growing Pains,”