Fuzzy Theology

Many years ago, I found myself at a high adventure camp deep in the heart of Tennessee. I’m not saying I was unwillingly there, but I am saying it wasn’t on my top ten list for summer destinations that year. But a heaping helping of Catholic guilt from my favorite Irish priest pushed it to the top of the list. Regardless of how or why I’d gotten there, I was there and I was determined to survive the week.

And survival wasn’t a guarantee.

Our schedule was packed from the moment we arrived at camp until the moment our bus brought us back to our home parking lot – another thing that turned out wasn’t a guarantee. We’d planned excursions for horseback riding, ropes courses, hiking, and white water rafting.

And we were bringing over one hundred high school teenagers with us.

Again – survival was not a guarantee.

Our trip started with the highest of hopes – all of us standing in the parking lot of our church bleary eyed in the obnoxiously early morning. We faced an 18 hour bus ride from our hometown to the heart of Tennessee in the heat of summer and none of us were looking forward to that.

We crammed into two buses – teens, chaperones, luggage, snacks, blankets, pillows, sweaty socks, and cell phones.

“They’ll sleep for this first part,” was the first lie we told ourselves.

“I’ll get some rest,” was the second.

“It’s only an 18 hour trip,” was the third.

By the time we dragged ourselves from the buses and into our cabins one thing was clear. No one had slept – and that wouldn’t put a stop to our schedule.

Day One Hour One – Daily Mass

Now, don’t get me wrong. I was excited to go to Daily Mass with my teens. I was happy to be at camp – for the most part. And I still held on to this naïve hope that we would have a fun and soul-searching retreat/high adventure camp experience.

But all that was about to change.

Cramming ourselves back onto the buses we’d been trapped in for “18” (nearly 22) hours felt like torture. My eyes burned with the need for sleep. My muscles ached from sitting in one small seat for so long. And as we drove almost an hour to find the nearest Catholic Church, I once again questioned why I’d let myself get volun-told to chaperone this trip.

But, an hour later, we spilled out in front of the smallest church I’d ever seen, tucked behind dilapidated warehouses and positioned along roads that needed repaving decades ago. There was no parking lot, no religious statues standing guard outside. There was no brightly lit LED sign advertising social nights or the latest retreat.

This church was stuck in the pre-Vatican II days… or long before.

We crushed inside – all one hundred and twenty bodies.

We filled every pew. Every seat. With many of us left to stand in the back.

The Sacristan saw us and turned pale. There was a scramble to count our numbers and add that to the ciborium on the altar. She gave up trying to find extra Communion Wine.

Apparently, we’d forgotten to call ahead.

If you’ve never seen one hundred teenagers and twenty chaperones squeeze themselves into a church no bigger than a broom closet, you’re missing out. It was a sight. It was a force. It was something I will never forget.

And the Sacristan, so flustered by our numbers, had forgotten to pass that little message along to the priest.

The bells rang to signal the start of Mass. The few parishioners who attended daily looked on warily, as if not believing so many teens could appear so suddenly in their small church – and especially not for holy reasons.

From the side of the altar, the priest hobbled out. His body hunched over like he held the weight of the world on his shoulders. And his eyes stayed glued to the floor as he shuffled the short distance toward the center of the altar.

He wasn’t old.

He was ancient.

Like he and Moses were probably besties. Like he probably gave Noah arm-chair advice while he built his Ark. Like he probably listened to Adam while he griped about how Eve got them kicked out of paradise.

His voice whispered out as if he barely had the energy to say the words. As if saying the words over and over for decades sucked the life and the meaning from them. As if he’d lost the heart of prayer.

“In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen,” we responded.

“The Lord be with you,” he pushed on, cutting off our response even before the word was fully said.

“And with your spirit,” we responded. All of us. One hundred and twenty voices. Filling the rafters of this tiny church in the middle of the worst part of town.

The priest froze.

If this were an action movie, the camera would have zoomed in on his face. Slowly.

While his eyes finally lifted from the altar.

While they focused on the mass of us, standing expectantly, reverently, waiting for the gift of the Mass.

While his face morphed from the weight of despair, to blessed confusion, to hope and wonderment.

His next words will forever be written on my mind.

Can you guess what they were?

Wrong.

False.

Whatever you thought, whatever you imagined, it is 100% incorrect. These words were not what anyone could have guessed.

This priest.

This ancient priest.

Who’d looked like he was clinging the last strands of his faith. Who was going through the motions. And who was now faced with a packed church.

He looked at us and he said…

“I’m going to die.”

Wait – like now?

Do we need an ambulance? A doctor?

Another priest to perform Last Rites?

How immediate is this premonition of death? The chaperones around me shared my concern. Cell phones appeared from pockets, ready to call for help. Muscles tensed, ready to leap onto the altar.

And he left us hanging there for a few very long, very worrying seconds while he worked to form his next words.

“I’m going to die soon,” he repeated. “And I had lost hope for the future of the Catholic Church.”

You see, this priest. This beautiful ancient priest. Was standing strong as a pillar of faith in the middle of Nowhere, Tennessee where his congregation was no more than a handful of families, and his annual budget was whatever they could scrape together. His homilies were more conversations with the same people around the same table, sharing faith and losing hope.

“Today is the feast day of Saint Aloysius Gonzaga, the patron saint of youth.” I couldn’t tell you if there were tears in his eyes because of the tears in mine. “I had been asking for his intercession, asking for a glimpse of hope. And he brought you to me.”

In that moment, in the heat of summer, with sweat dripping down our backs, with eyelids like sandpaper from lack of sleep, crammed shoulder to shoulder with each other, our uncomfortable, exhausted, smelly, sweaty presence brought new life to this priest’s eyes.

A new conversion.

A gladdened heart.

A hopeful servant once more.

This was why.

This was why I’d gotten up when most others were falling asleep to drag myself onto a bus that smelled worse than a locker room.

This was why I’d laughed and joked and played endless rounds of card games on an endless bus trip to bring us here.

In this moment.

To witness this priest’s conversion.

And the impact it had on our teens.

This small moment in time, with all of us standing together, with tears and sweat and laughter and hope, marked our hearts forever with a message proclaiming that our presence mattered.

It was important.

It was impactful.

So I’m here to remind you that YOU matter.

Your presence matters. In the pews. In the aisles. With your tears. And your sweat. With your hope. And your regret.

Your presence makes a difference.

We may not always see the impact our presence has on someone’s life. (My teens and I were given a gift to witness such a moment.) But have faith that you are needed, you are wanted.

And most importantly…

You are loved.

I would love to hear from you! Faith is made stronger when we share our stories with others. I am so thankful you’ve joined me for this first adventure in faith. Stay tuned for more stories from youth ministry, from teaching, from being a mom, from being a Catholic.