Bishop, Pastor, Story-Teller

I learned with sadness today that Archbishop Lipscomb died.

A bishop from another diocese once told me, learning that I was from Mobile:  "I know your bishop well. You can find him easily during breaks at our bishop's meetings. Just look for the laughter. He could really spin a tale. " 

Yes he could.  For 19 straight years I witnessed that first hand. 

Our graduations at Montgomery Catholic Preparatory School followed the same script during my tenure as principal. Graduates would receive their diplomas, followed by three talks:  The first was from the valedictorian, representing his or her classmates. The second was a joint talk by then president Dr. Doyle and me, in which we roasted the graduates, one student at a time. "Some of the stories are true," we'd say, "some are half-true, and some are outright lies." (We said it was our last chance to get even.)  And then Archbishop Lipscomb would take the podium, address the graduates,  and offer benediction to close out the ceremony. Every single year, seemingly effortlessly, he would weave elements of the valedictory address and our roast into his remarks, making what was always a compelling, interesting point. I marveled at his ability to do this, and at his ability to speak so eloquently, without ever using notes. 

Setting aside confirmations (for those in our archdiocese, this needs no further explanation), he was consistently one of the best homilists of our Church. 

But he was more than that. He was a gentle, caring pastor.  I once called him about a senior in our school who had become pregnant. "What do you want us to do?"  I asked him. He didn't hesitate: "You tell her and her parents that we're behind her and that I look forward to handing her a diploma in May, " he said. "We can't call ourself a pro-life Church and walk away from a young lady when she needs us the most." I remember the tears of gratitude in the eyes of the girl’s mother when I relayed his message.  And I remember being proud of our Church and proud of our bishop. 

He was a  true southern gentleman, marked by a genuine Christian humility. He trusted people. He endured unkind remarks, but forgave those who made them. Shepherding our Church through the horrific scandals that came to light in the early 2000's must have been a profoundly lonely, profoundly sorrowful time for him. But I never knew him to give in to despair, or walk away from his obligations as pastor. I always admired him for soldiering through that period with grace and gentility. 

He had a good sense of humor, too. I remember a story he told my family when visiting our home back when I was a boy:

"I often traveled with Monsignor Sullivan and Bishop Thomas J. Toolen," he said, "and once we had to take a helicopter from Chicago O'Hare to Midway to transfer planes.  Back in those days, helicopters had weight limits, so the pilot asked each of us how much we weighed before we got on.  I was first-- "180" I tell him.  Toolen was next--he was a large man, but he never liked admitting it, so he mumbles "240."  " Thomas!" cries Sullivan, alarmed, "These are our lives we're talking about!" "OK,"  Toolen says grumpily-- "260." "And you sir?" the pilot asks Sullivan. Glaring at Toolen, Sullivan says, "400 pounds." 

Thank you for your many years as our faithful pastor, Archbishop.  May your soul, and the souls of the faithfully departed, rest in peace.