Confessions of a stand-in priest
I’ve been in an ecclesiastical frame of mind of late. I de-voted my last two columns to criticizing Liberty University. I would be fine with Liberty if they left to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and were completely committed to our Constitutional barrier between church and state. But they don’t, and they’re not.
It’s not that I’m an atheist. I’m an agnostic and a secular humanist who grew up in a nominally Catholic family. “Nominally” because only a few members of our family were practicing Catholics. Early on, I broke with the Church over its commitment to dogma. I couldn’t accept being told what I must believe no matter how unbelievable it was in light of our “God-given reason.” But I did chance to go to an excellent all-boys Catholic high school in which all but a few faculty members were priests and seminarians. Most were openminded and progressive. While I didn’t come away a believer, I came away with an abiding respect for the priesthood — especially their lifelong commitment to remain celibate, and in the case of ordered priests like ours, to take vows of poverty and obedience.
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Celibacy would not have suited me, but I’ve always admired the uniform. Not the overly ornate vestments priests wear at mass but rather their Class A uniform: black suit, black shirt front and a white Roman collar. Young Palm would have cut a fine figure in that. And confession being good for the soul, I admit I’ve twice been called upon to take Holy Orders.
Back when I was striving to become a tenured full professor, I embarked on a course of research into three prominent Cold Warriors who helped to cheerlead us into Vietnam — Edward Lansdale, William Lederer and Tom Dooley. Sadly, Dooley is largely forgotten today, but in the 1950s, he was one of the most admired men in the country. I don’t have space here to give an account of this unholy alliance and what they did. I urge you to Google them.
Suffice it to say I got a small research grant to travel to St. Louis University, where most of Dooley’s papers are held. In speaking to the Special Collections librarian, I learned Jesuit House, adjacent to the campus, rented rooms to visiting scholars for $16 a day, meals included.
What I discovered staying at Jesuit House was that Jesuits don’t wear their clerical garb when they’re not on duty. Hence, the support staff assumed I was a Jesuit visiting from another province. They kept addressing me as “Father.” So, I gave some blessings and heard a few confessions.
I didn’t really. There are limits even to my irreverence. But then there was the time when I was living in a BOQ in San Diego, and my roommate was a wild and crazy divorcé I’ll call “Dan.” We became fast friends. Until …
Dan was a lapsed Catholic, and he was having difficulty breaking up with a clinging, neurotic young Catholic girlfriend I’ll call Cecilla. He finally thought of playing the Catholic card. He told Cecilia their affair was sinful and that she should call his roommate for counseling, “Chaplain Father Palm.” Would that he had told me about this in advance.
I think it was five minutes before I could interrupt Cecilia’s weepy lament and tell her I was not a priest. Wherever you are Dan, I assume God or karma or both got you for that.
A former enlisted Marine and a Vietnam veteran, Palm retired from the Marine Corps as a major and went on to an academic career. He lives in Forest and can be contacted at [email protected].
Celibacy would not have suited me, but I’ve always admired the uniform. Not the overly ornate vestments priests wear at mass but rather their Class A uniform: black suit, black shirt front and a white Roman collar. Young Palm would have cut a fine figure in that.
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