Christmas Bells (24 page)

Only in hindsight did his parents detect a pattern in his childhood play: He had always liked to build churches instead of spaceships and castles with his LEGOs, he had often played Mass with his Star Wars action figures, and twice he had dressed as Saint Francis of Assisi for Halloween. He had sung with the church choir from a very early age, but they had attributed that to his love of music, and a few years later when he asked to become an altar boy, they assumed he was dutifully responding to the priest's request for volunteers. He was a good, loving boy, certainly, but a future priest? The thought had never occurred to
them, and if anyone had suggested it, they probably would have laughed. Surely future priests were more obedient, less likely to squabble with their brothers, and disinclined to gleefully check their opponents on the rink or to boast the highest shooting percentage in the high school league. Ryan was far more likely to join the NHL than the priesthood.

But Ryan had always found an inexpressible joy and beauty in the Mass, qualities he quickly realized went unnoticed by his brother and his friends, who groaned about going to church and waited impatiently for the torturous hour to pass. Uncomfortable, he kept his feelings to himself, except in the confessional. His parents had no idea he went to confession every Thursday on his way home from school; they assumed he stayed late to get help with his homework, and Ryan did not correct their mistake out of embarrassment and a vague sense that they would think he was strange. Every week his confessor gently suggested that deceiving his parents even with the best of intentions was a kind of sin, and that honesty could lead to greater understanding and acceptance. “They'll just think I'm weird and tell me to stop,” Ryan would reply gloomily, and the kindly priest would drop the subject until Ryan brought it up again the following week.

In his junior year, Ryan and his classmates were inundated with standardized tests, personality inventories, and career aptitude assessments. The results of the first type of test told him that he was a good student; the second that he was outgoing, optimistic, and happy, which he had already figured out. It was the last kind that made him inexplicably anxious, because they consistently reported the same results: He should pursue a career as an athlete, coach, trainer, or teacher; or he should consider work in counseling, nursing, teaching, or religious life.

“I guess it's teaching for me,” Ryan had muttered after receiving the results from a test taken in his psychology class.

A friend overheard and turned around in his chair. “What'd
you get? I got finance or business. That totally blows. I want to play electric guitar.”

Ryan had pretended to study his results. “According to this, I'm supposed to be the starting forward for the Bruins. Can't argue with that.”

His friend had guffawed, prompting the teacher to call on him, abruptly ending the conversation.

Ryan brooded over the test results and his inexplicable yearning as he accompanied his parents on campus visits and diligently filled out applications and fielded inquiries from college recruiters. In his senior year, after receiving several acceptance letters, he discussed his options with his parents and school advisor—and then had a very different conversation with his priest.

“I think maybe I'm supposed to become a priest,” he said hesitantly. Saying the words aloud and hearing them echo in the quiet church made the idea somehow more real, frighteningly so. “The problem is, I'm not sure. I like hockey too, and I really like girls.” Embarrassed, he studied the floor. “I'd really hate to give up either one.”

Father David nodded, seeming not at all surprised by any part of the admission. “What do your parents think about this?”

“They don't know.”

“This isn't something you'd feel comfortable sharing with them?”

“I don't think they'd exactly celebrate.”

“They might surprise you.”

Ryan shrugged.

The priest sighed, thoughtful. “What are your other choices?”

“I got into a few universities, but I've kind of narrowed it down to applying to St. John's Seminary or attending Notre Dame. They gave me a hockey scholarship.”

The priest's eyebrows rose. “Full ride?”

“Yeah, all four years, maybe even a fifth.”

“Well done.” Father David smiled kindly. “Have you spoken to anyone at St. John's?”

“No.” Ryan shifted uncomfortably in the pew. “Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Did you know that they only accept applicants who have already earned a bachelor's degree?”

Ryan's heart sank a little. “No, I didn't.”

“There are other seminaries that accept young men with a high school diploma, of course, and I could certainly recommend some for you to consider.” Father David studied him for a moment. “It's very good that you want to discover God's will for you, very good indeed. Do you want my advice?”

“Absolutely, Father. That's why I'm here.”

“I think you should take the scholarship. Play hockey and earn your degree. Study philosophy and theology, and find a religious advisor to help you prayerfully and thoughtfully discern your vocation.” Father David smiled. “I've heard that Notre Dame is a fine place to do that.”

A sudden rush of happiness convinced Ryan that he should follow the priest's advice.

The following August, he enrolled at the University of Notre Dame, moved into Dillon Hall on South Quad, and quickly befriended his roommate, Jason, an aspiring engineer. He played hockey, joined the Glee Club, participated in campus ministry events, and even dated now and then, although his acknowledgment that he was considering the priesthood tended to deter any long-term romantic relationships. At the end of his first year, he declared his major in philosophy, which from the moment he returned home for summer break inspired many pointed questions from his parents about what he intended to do with a philosophy degree after graduation. All he could bring himself to say was that he was still figuring it out, which satisfied his parents not at all.

To his surprise, as the summer passed, his younger brother, a straight-A high school senior-to-be, became his staunchest supporter. “An education in the humanities teaches critical thinking and essential analytical skills,” Liam declared. “It develops oral and written communications skills, the ability to synthesize information, and the ability to ask the right questions. Skills like those appeal to employers, and they never become obsolete. Studying the humanities opens the mind.”

Liam was likely to become his class valedictorian, and his stratospheric standardized test scores had already earned him the avid attention of Harvard, Yale, and Columbia, so their parents found it impossible to dismiss his argument out of hand. To Ryan's relief, as he prepared to return to campus for the fall semester, they did not insist that he choose a more practical major, and he knew he had his brother to thank for it.

“No problem, bro,” Liam replied, slapping him on the back and grinning. “I did it for myself as much as for you. I plan to major in history.”

Over the next few years, Ryan studied and prayed. He met weekly with his rector, who had become his spiritual advisor during his time of discernment, and he volunteered with Campus Ministry and the Center for Social Concerns out of an intense desire to serve his community. For release he had hockey, for fun the Glee Club, and for friendship his roommate Jason, the other guys in the dorm, and a small circle of friends he had met in clubs and classes, fellow students drawn together by their contemplation of religious life. Some, like Ryan, were reluctant to tell their parents and had confided in only a few close friends. Others had been urged so often since childhood to consider the priesthood or had been told so many times that they would make an excellent priest that they were uncertain whether they heard God's call or merely an internalized echo of their parents and parish priests. But for Ryan, every year brought greater certainty
that God wanted him to become a diocesan priest, and greater happiness with that choice.

As much as Ryan enjoyed his undergraduate social life, in the second semester of his junior year, he moved from Dillon Hall into Old College, an undergraduate seminary for the Congregation of the Holy Cross that offered residence, community, and support to undergraduate men discerning a call to religious life. It was there that Ryan became more certain of his calling and more determined to heed it.

With that knowledge came acceptance that he could no longer hide from his parents the truth of what he was and what he wanted to become.

A few weeks before graduation, while home on spring break, he broke the news to his family one evening after dinner. His parents were stunned, and as the week passed they asked him again and again if he was absolutely certain. His mother lamented that he would never marry or have children, and in the tearful discussions that erupted and subsided in the days that followed, she confessed that she feared he would be lonely and unhappy for the rest of his life. His father took it remarkably well, and after much throat clearing told Ryan that he was an adult and capable of making his own decisions, but he should be sure, absolutely sure, before he took any irrevocable vows.

To his sorrow, his younger brother took the news very badly.

“How could you willingly enlist in a sexist, moribund, archaic, patriarchal, scandal-ridden institution like the Catholic Church?” Liam demanded. “You're an intelligent, rational, educated person. What possible appeal could that life have for you?”

Ryan tried to explain, but Liam refused to listen. A chasm opened between them that day, one that Ryan tried in vain to bridge. He wrote to Liam often from the seminary, but Liam rarely replied, and only in anger. When they gathered at their family home for holidays, their conversations were strained and
formal. Ryan missed their old closeness terribly, but Liam, who as the years went by earned his PhD from Princeton, accepted an endowed chair in the Department of History at Harvard, married, and welcomed two children into the world, rarely spoke to him except to debate Church doctrine or to challenge him to defend the Church from scandals that Ryan himself deplored as indefensible.

Over the years his parents came to accept his vocation, even to respect it, but Liam rejected organized religion, and he would have considered himself a hypocrite if he had not rejected Ryan too. Ryan had always known that the path he had chosen could lead him away from people he loved, but he felt the loss of his brother's friendship keenly, and he felt responsible for the sorrowful burden their estrangement conferred upon their parents.

Ryan's vocation had cost him his brother's friendship. That was his only regret about his choice, but even if he had known, he could not have chosen otherwise.

“Your mother called,” Sister Winifred told him brightly when their paths crossed in the hallway outside the parish office, where Ryan had just finished meeting with the office manager about year-end accounts. “She wants to know when you're available to celebrate Christmas with the family.”

Ryan nodded, remembering her earlier prediction. “Thanks, Sister. I'll call her back later.”

“She said she understands if it can't be on Christmas Day itself, or even Christmas Eve. She realizes that you're quite busy this time of year, and that you can't easily reschedule commitments. She wants you to know that they'll arrange the family celebration around you. The important thing is that you be there.”

“Of course,” said Ryan, taken aback. Why wouldn't he show up? Even at that busy, holy time of year he had days off between Christmas and New Year's Day, and he had never missed a family Christmas celebration. “Well, that's . . . very considerate of her.”

Sister Winifred put her head to one side and studied him. “Your mother would also like you to reconcile with your brother as soon as possible. She and your father are still quite distressed about your last argument at Thanksgiving. They're worried that one of you will refuse to come for Christmas in order to avoid the other.”

Ryan inhaled deeply and ran a hand over his jaw. “My mother told you all that?”

“Why, no,” said Sister Winifred, indignant, “but I would hardly expect her to. These are private family matters.” She smiled and continued on her way, then paused to say over her shoulder, “Oh, my. The snow has arrived ahead of schedule.”

Ryan stared after her until she disappeared around the corner, then he shook his head, his glance taking in all sides of the windowless hallway. He knew that if he stepped out onto the front porch, he would discover snow falling quietly upon the churchyard, and the streets and city beyond.

He found himself equally certain that however the elderly nun had come by her information about his parents' unspoken worries—intuition or eavesdropping or otherwise—she was probably right.

Lost in thought, Ryan made his way to the sacristy, where he sat down heavily in a chair, his errand forgotten. It was true he and Liam had exchanged heated words over the pumpkin pie and coffee while their parents and Liam's wife had sat in silence, glancing unhappily at one another across the dining-room table. To Ryan, however, nothing had distinguished that argument from its many predecessors.

Liam had brought up the usual criticisms of the Catholic Church in general and the Boston archdiocese in particular, and Ryan had responded as honestly as he could, but even when he agreed that certain actions were utterly indefensible and described ongoing reforms, Liam disparaged him. “How can you
acknowledge these glaring faults in the Church and remain a part of it?”

“You mean aside from having taken sacred vows? How would my leaving the Church help solve any of the problems you've mentioned? Don't you want people who acknowledge past mistakes and care about justice to stick around to resolve these issues?”

“Leaving would make a stronger statement,” Liam retorted. “By staying you align yourself with an authoritarian institution that treats women as second-class citizens and puts maintaining its own power and authority above everything that Jesus professed.”