Jim Benjamin
St. Faustina Writing Group
Fr. George Bennett stood outside after the noon Mass in the cool, early spring breeze. I wish I’d brought my jacket, he thought, as parishioners streamed by. He was hungry, and his knees hurt. Nevertheless, he tried to smile warmly. “Thanks, Father, for your homily.” “Father, can you come for dinner Wednesday evening?”
“What’s on the menu, Mrs. Thompson?” he joked. “Just kidding. It’s so hard for me to watch my diet with your wonderful desserts! Maybe you could make Jell-O?” They both grinned.
Someone else touched his shoulder. “Fr. George, say a prayer for my husband. He’s having heart surgery this week.”
“I knew it was coming up soon, Carla. Would he like me to stop by and anoint him?”
“Father, that would be very kind of you. Mike would be delighted. He’s a bit worried.”
“Do me a favor, and let the secretary know when a good time would be. I’ll be there.”
Carla smiled and touched his arm. “Father, you are very kind. Thank you.”
The priest was about to turn away and go back to the sacristy to remove his vestments. Well, one more Mass finished. Maybe I can take a nap after lunch. I wish my knees didn’t ache so much.
“Fr. George, can I talk with you?”
José had come up behind him. The priest smiled again, recognizing the squat, swarthy man. José Gomez was the parish’s janitor; he often attended daily Mass and always cleaned up the church after the liturgies, putting the hymnals away and stacking the bulletins in a neat pile.
“Oh, hello, José,” said the priest. “What can I do for you?”
José looked apprehensive. “I don’t want to be no trouble, Father.”
“I think I have a ham and cheese sandwich waiting for me in the rectory. Would you like to share it with me? My kind cook always makes a very large sandwich for me.”
“Sure, Father. Thanks.”
Indeed, there was a large ham and cheese sandwich in the refrigerator, made with three slices of bread, mustard, and a plate of lettuce and tomatoes on the side.
“I told you there’d be enough, José. Have a seat.”
They sat down around the small wooden table in the kitchen. Fr. George cut the sandwich in half and gave José a plate and a napkin.
“Did you ever hear my brother’s favorite grace before meals, José?”
The man shook his head.
“Bless the meat; now let’s eat!” They both chuckled.
José said, “In our house when I was growing up, we’d say “¡Bendecir la mesa!”
“Short and sweet.”
“But my hungry brother Tomás couldn’t even wait that long,” said José.
Fr. George chuckled again, then asked, “What’s on your mind, José?”
“Father, some of the parishioners said I should become a deacon, and I wanted your advice.”
“Is that something you want to do?” the pastor asked.
José said, “Since Margarita Sanchez and Maria Ricardo-Jimenez mentioned it to me, I been thinkin’ about it.” He hesitated then asked, “Father, you need a deacon here?”
“I could always use some help. You know, with the priest shortage I haven’t been able to have an associate pastor for the past five years. I should warn you, José. The diaconate is a demanding ministry. It requires five years of preparation. There is course work on church history, the saints, Mary, the sacraments, homiletics—”
José interrupted, “What’s that last thing, Father? I was followin’ you pretty good until then…”
“You mean, ‘homiletics’?”
José nodded.
“It means training to give homilies.”
“OK, Father, I get it,” said José, looking away.
“José, you look doubtful. What are you concerned about?”
“I never did too good at school, Father.”
“How far did you get, José?”
“I had to leave school in tenth grade in Mexico to help on the farm. I told myself I’d go back but I never could.”
What chance does this poor guy have of succeeding as a deacon? How could he get through the classes and the essays?
“José, I think the class work would be tough, very tough. Many deacon candidates have college and graduate degrees.”
José’s face was downcast.
“In addition, José, there are other criteria to enter the diaconate program. Are you aware of them?”
José grinned and his face lit up. “They probly want me to go to Mass every week, right? Just kiddin’, Father.”
“I see you at Mass and Communion all the time, José. Tell me a little bit about your family,” said the priest. “I know that you have done excellent work at the parish, so I have no worries about your work history.”
José looked at his hands, then said quietly, “Me and Rosita get along good. We do argue sometimes, but always peaceful!” He held his hands out reassuringly.
“Are you OK financially? I know we don’t pay our employees very much,” said the priest.
“Yes, Father, we manage. Rosita works as a cashier at the Giant four days a week, and our kids are in school full time now.”
“I’m curious, José. Why did your friends tell you that you should be a deacon?”
“They say somethin’ about people looking up to me. We’re part of a prayer group and sometime they help at a food pantry where I volunteer. Oh, yeah, Father, I just remembered that I coach their boys in soccer.”
“How do you manage to do all those things, José?”
“You know, Father, I no worry . . . sorry, I don’t worry too much about that. I do what I can to help people and God helps me. If I’m too tired, sometimes Rosita fills in for me at the pantry.”
The priest said, “You have a strong faith, José. Do you think God wants you to be a deacon?”
“Good question, Father. I think God gave me the idea of talking to you about it.”
I wonder how he’d be in front of the congregation.
“José, I’m wondering, have you considered lectoring at Mass?”
“Father, I’ve thought about it, but maybe my English ain’t . . . sorry, isn’t good enough. I do read the Gospel sometimes at our prayer group but that’s in Spanish. Father, maybe I could practice wit’ somebody?” he asked.
“I’m sure we could find someone you could practice with,” said Fr. George. “I know that in the seminary, your teachers will ask you to write reflections on your faith. Do you think you could?”
José said, “I’m not much for writing, Father. Sometimes I give a little story at the prayer group. I wrote one last week about my boy, Carlos. About how me and Rosita tried to persuade him to come to Church wit’ us when he was in kindergarten. Now he comes on his own. Is that what you mean by reflectin’ on my faith, Father?”
“Yes, that’s the idea. Tell me, how did the others react to your story?”
“It’s funny, Father, but my story got them talkin’ for an hour about our kids and Mass. Some of the older kids, you know, lose interest when they’re in high school. We all worry about that in our families.”
“José, it’s a big problem in our parishes.” Fr. George paused, then continued. “Even if you decide the studies would be too difficult, I would like you to be a part of our youth ministry here. It sounds to me like you are a good storyteller and that people respond to your stories. I bet the kids here would love to hear them. Jesus was a wonderful storyteller too, you know.”
José sat up straighter and his voice became more confident. “You know, Father, you been talkin’ about how hard the studies are and I believe you. But what about them . . . I mean, those fishermen, the Apostles. They dint have much book learnin’ neither, but they were good enough for Jesus!”
“Great point, José!” said Fr. George. I’m impressed. José still seems enthusiastic. “Give me a moment. I want to check something that will interest you.”
The priest went upstairs and came back down with his computer. He pressed a few keys while José waited in suspense.
“José, I just looked at the archdiocesan website. It’s an amazing coincidence, but next Monday evening, there will be an information night for people interested in the diaconate. And guess what? It’s right here in the parish hall at 7 p.m. You could bring Rosita.”
José felt his heart thumping in his chest. “Father, maybe no coincidence; maybe God’s sending me ’nother message. How ’bout if we bring some pizza to the rectory next Monday at six? We could share it wit’ you, then we go to the meeting.”
Fr. George smiled and shook José’s hand. “It’s a deal. My cook gets the night off. See you both then.”