Good Priests, Good Men

I was recently on a zoom call of a national organization of Catholic school principals, and one principal lamented that the bishop had moved her “full time’ chaplain to “part-time.”  She took that as a sign of the Church’s diminishing commitment to Catholic education. 

That discussion reminded me of a meeting I had with Archbishop Rodi, the year before St. Michael opened in 2016. He told me that the pastors had been very supportive in the building and fund-raising phase of the school, and he wanted to keep them practically connected to the school once it was in operation. His idea was not to name any one particular priest the school’s “chaplain,” but ask each of the pastors of the parishes that financially supported the school to be “co-chaplains.”

Now there’s one school of thought, expressed to me by a friend of mine, that says “If you have 10 chaplains, you really have none.” I understand that sentiment. But I can say now, in this, our sixth year, the co-chaplaincy model is working VERY well. 

Each week, we have a school wide mass, and each week, we ask our co-chaplains to rotate through as lead celebrants. Frequently, they make themselves available during the lunch period which follows for confessions. They often attend our ball games at night. A few have agreed to be team chaplains, and pray with the team in the locker-rooms before games, and/or lead the fans in prayer over the announcements just before the game. Another has agreed to be on our advisory council. One co-chaplain comes to the school with holy water as we begin the school year and goes through each classroom, sprinkling both the room and the students in that room, praying for God’s blessings in the new year. One priest gathered together a few priest friends and seminarians, and challenged our basketball team to a scrimmage game in front of the student body during activity period. Our kids loved it. We had three priests show up to bless throats on the Feast of St. Blaise.  Our priests say mass with our faculty during professional development days, give talks, and often teach in our theology classrooms. 

Each priest, of course, is wonderfully different. Some are more cerebral, others more animated. Some love sports and use that as the basis of their homilies, where others may speak about their experiences abroad, or their love of music and the arts. Collectively, the diversity of their talents and interests match the diversity of interests in our student body.  If one priest doesn’t “connect” with a kid,  then there are others who probably will.

Archbishop Rodi leads on this front. Once a year he celebrates mass with the student body. In a second visit, he goes to each theology classroom and teaches every student in the school, taking him several days to do so. He teaches a lesson, then gives kids a chance to ask him questions. “Is it a sin to get a tattoo?” a student asked him recently.(“No, he said, “but are you sure you want that tattoo when you are a grandmother?”) “Why doesn’t the Church allow for divorce?” Do dogs go to heaven?” “How did you become a bishop?” He handles all of these with humor and delight—it is obvious to the kids that he enjoys being with them. And he does that in each of the three archdiocesan high schools—every year.

The result of this extraordinary commitment of the clergy is, I believe, a deeply immersive Catholic experience for our student body and teachers.  “There always seems to be a priest around here,” said a student within earshot of me recently. “Duh,” said his friend, “this is a CATHOLIC school—what do you expect?” 

But what these students DON’T understand— because it’s not their experience—is that even within Catholic schools, a priestly presence is an increasingly rare thing. 

What a blessing these men have been to our students. What a gift to St. Michael. What a gift to all of us! 

Once a Lion, Always...

I learned a few weeks ago that Most Pure Heart of Mary Catholic Elementary School is closing its doors when the 2021-2022 school year ends. I grieve this news, as do many. “Closing a school is like a death in the family,” someone told me recently, and I think that’s accurate. But just as we mourn someone's death at funerals, so too do we celebrate and remember that life, and all the ways he or she has affected us.

I am deeply grateful for Heart of Mary School. In a community that has served the black community of Mobile so profoundly well over its 100+ year history, I am one of its more unusual graduates: a white kid, class of 1976.

It was June of 1974—I had just completed 6th grade at St. Ignatius— when my parents called a “family meeting” to discuss something they said was very important. My sisters and I knew that meant one of us was in trouble, maybe all of us.

But it was a bigger bombshell than that: “We’re changing parishes,” my father said, “ and changing schools...”

I remember even before he completed this sentence, I didn’t like what he was saying. I had been at Ignatius since kindergarten and had some really good friends there: Vincent, Jimmy, Chris, Robby, David, and others—these guys were my world. And 6th grade had been pretty amazing year from the perspective of a 12 year old boy: an all-star in football, an altar server, all A’s, the Optimist Club winner that year. Why would I want to leave? I didn’t.

“...And we’ll be going to Most Pure Heart of Mary,” he said, finishing his pronouncement.

"Very funny Dad,” I said nervously, hoping he was joking. All I knew about Heart of Mary was they were a black school, and they killed us every year in CYO football.

But Dad wasn’t joking. There’s a short and a long explanation for my parents’ decision—here’s the short one: my parents and two other families were close to the Heart of Mary pastor at the time, Fr. Robert DeGrandis, and our families felt called to worship together and go to school together in his parish. So my three sisters and I enrolled at Heart of Mary, along with these two other families.

Sensing that football might be a way to be accepted by my 7th grade classmates, I joined the very team that had been beating us like a drum. That was the right decision, but it also turned out to be the hardest thing I ever did as a boy.

I remember the first practice, from early August 1974. Our head coach, Kermit Seals, was a large, dark black, Mobile policeman. He was fearsome in his countenance, and the only comfort I could glean at the time was the other kids seemed just as terrified of him as me. We started with exercise: “200 jumping jacks,” he said. We typically did 25 at St. Ignatius. “100 push-ups,” was next. I’d never done more than 30. 200 sit ups! Then “Six inches”. That was the worst—we were to lay on our backs, then lift our legs 6 inches off the ground, and hold them there until he said “Down.” As we groaned, he would walk around, standing on our stomachs, telling us, “if our muscles are strong, it shouldn’t hurt.” Well, it did hurt—we just couldn’t show it. “Ok,”he said, “take 10. “ Finally!” I thought, and began walking off the field for a water break. But he meant 10 laps, not ten minutes. As I started to jog my laps, my teammates ran past me, almost sprinting. “I’m not in Kansas anymore,” I remember thinking, in despair.

Indeed, it was a different world. Liability issues wouldn’t allow this today, but one of our toughening up drills was “Bull in the Ring.” One person stood in the middle, the "bull," surrounded by a circle of his teammates. Each kid in the circle had a number. When the coach called out a number, that player was supposed to run full steam into the bull and try to knock him off his feet. Coach called out numbers randomly, often in quick succession. If the bull didn’t spin around fast enough,  we were told to hit him in the back. And the way we played it, if the bull ever got knocked down, everyone could jump on him in a dog pile. It was a fight for survival. Typically, by the end of the drill we’d all have bloody noses, banged up arms, a sore back. But no one quit, because it was much worse to be labeled “sissy” or something more vulgar.

I was bigger than most, so I could hold my own. But that brought another worry. The weight limit for CYO ball was 132 pounds—I remember that number exactly, because I was always challenged by the other team to weigh in just before the game. “Weber,” Coach told me each week, “If you  can’t play, you’ll pay for it at practice.” I believed him! The long walk from the field to the weigh room at Sage Park was the 12 year old equivalent of a death march, but God was merciful—I always made the cut.

At  St. Ignatius, I played linebacker, running back, punter, kicker, punt returner and kick-returner. At Heart of Mary, I was strictly a blocking fullback. The two plays we ran about 80% of the time were sweep right, and sweep left. I was supposed to take out the defensive end, but it almost didn’t matter if I whiffed, as those guys had zero shot of tackling Chris Williams and our other backs in open space. But it mattered to Coach Seals! Once in practice, I missed the block. He walked over to me, and then began hitting me on the helmet, yelling at me.   “Run the same (bleeping) play again,” he barked at the offense, loud enough for the defense to hear. “And Weber, you better make the block this time.” I remember breathing fire, fighting back tears. I knocked the defensive end off his feet, then the linebacker, and then the safety, and the runner glided into the end zone, untouched. I walked back to the huddle with a bit of a strut, my chest puffed out some, and glanced over at Coach, expecting praise. “Weber, I see it now; you’ve been holding out on me. You should be doing that every play!”

And slowly, over time, my classmates and I became friends. There were cultural differences, to be sure. They thought I had a hearing problem, because I was unable to understand them at first, and found myself often asking them “What did you say?” They wondered what a “white boy” was doing in their school, and asked me if I were a member of the KKK. The girls found my hair fascinating, and would rub their hands through it, giggling.

Hindsight helps us appreciate things we didn’t once see. I have a lot of respect for Coach Seals. He was tough on us, but it was tough love. As a policeman, I’m guessing he saw a lot of “men without chests” (to use a C.S. Lewis phrase) and he wanted us to be better than that: stronger, tougher men, better fathers and more faithful husbands. He did me a huge favor by treating me exactly the same as he treated everyone else, and because of that, Andre, Byron, Keats, Julius, Allward, Orlando, Chris, Eric and others became my new friends, as I had “earned my stripes” alongside them.

There was a tremendous pride in self, in team, and school at Heart of Mary. I am not a scientist, so I don’t know if there are genetic differences between whites and blacks that explain the disproportionate success of the black athlete, but I knew this: athletic success meant more to them, and they worked harder at it. They were also less inhibited, less pretentious, easier with their laughter than the world I had known. They joked often about each other’s parents, which they called “janking.” When they started janking about my parents, I knew I was becoming one of them. They rolled in laughter when I tried to jank back about theirs.

We worshiped at Heart of Mary Church on Sundays. Masses were longer, but joyful. The gospel choir, accompanied by a jazz organist, was amazing. It didn’t matter what part of the liturgical season it was, at the end of the mass, we always sang “Ride On, King Jesus!” And loudly! My parents were part of the choir, which thinking back, must have been an amusing image, with my dad and mom, conspicuously white, singing and swaying to the music. The fact it didn’t seem unusual then was a testament to how thoroughly we'd become part of the HOM community, and how graciously they'd accepted us.

Occasionally, I will bump into a classmate from that era. We laugh, talk about CYO football, even remember a few jokes about each other’s parents. But without fail, we remember our experience at Heart of Mary with great gratitude. It formed us, just as it has formed so many others.

Thank you to my teammates and classmates. Thank you, Coach Seals. Thank you to Heart of Mary’s teachers, principals, priests and all those who have given their lives to serve and to lead us to Christ. What an incredible blessing you have been for me, and for the generations of students and families you’ve served over the last century!

May we always be the proud LIONS you’ve formed us to be.