The Gift

A young, skeptical priest suddenly receives the stigmata, challenging him to come to terms with his vocation.

The Gift

by 

Douglas Stephens

From now on, let no one make trouble for me;

for I carry the marks of Jesus branded on my body.

St. Paul,

Letter to the Galatians

Based on real events, what follows is a work of fiction.

Father Mike woke up with a start seconds before his iPhone alarm was scheduled to go off.  Feeling a bit foggy and out of sorts, his first conscious thought was to regret the third Jameson he had the previous evening while watching the Yankee game at the local pub.  It was now 5:55 a.m., thirty-five minutes before he was scheduled to celebrate the 6:30 a.m. Mass.

6:30 a.m. Mass?  “Who in their right mind attends Mass so early?” was Father Michael Finn’s protest four years ago, when he arrived at St. Anne’s Parish on the Jersey Shore as their new curate.  Not a morning person, celebrating the early Mass, especially in the dead of winter, was not his favorite thing.

Mike Finn was an average looking man.  Not handsome, not ugly, he could easily pass as a pizza delivery man if he were not wearing a clerical collar.

The rectory was quiet as he slipped into the shower down the hall from his room.  The “boss” was in Provincetown “on retreat,”a euphemism, the parish gossips said, for time away with his “friend.”

Grabbing a diet pepsi from the fridge, he slipped on his clerical collar and headed out through a passageway into the rear of the church where the early risers were already praying their rosaries.

He mechanically donned his alb and stole and glanced at the readings for the day.  His homily this morning would be a reprise of one he gave three years earlier, a time when he still experienced a sense of inspiration.

Seated in her usual place in the first pew was Martha Fitzsimmons, the parish secretary for the past 25 years.  Martha was fiercely loyal to the boss, had an uncanny attention to detail and served as an informant to the pastor about the comings and goings of the staff, especially young Father Mike.

Father Mike said Mass on autopilot, as was his custom.  Everything was numbingly routine until he began speaking the Institution Narrative, the words of Jesus spoken over the bread and wine at the Last Supper.  It is during these words that Catholics believe the hosts and wine become the Body and Blood of Christ.

Suddenly, as he lifted the chalice, 33 year old Father Mike Finn felt a sharp pain in his wrist, pain so intense that he almost dropped the cup.  At that moment, Martha Fitzsimmons watched as he winced in pain, their eyes meeting in a brief moment of recognition,the curate coming perilously close to spilling the contents.

Needing to regain a sense of control, Father Mike slowly replaced the chalice on the altar, as the pain subsided.  

“What is this?” he asked himself, as he scanned the congregation fearing that others could see his distress.  “What is happening to me?” he wondered, as he distributed holy communion to his flock.

The morning Mass over, he forsook his customary morning cup of coffee in the rectory kitchen and fled like a phantom to his room.  Unbuttoning his shirt and rolling up his sleeve, he experienced a sense of dread as he now saw blood seeping from his wrists.  Blood without an obvious wound.

“What could this be?” he wondered, as he clumsily grabbed some paper towels and tried to dry the area.  And dry it, he did, for a moment.  But a moment later, the bleeding began again.  Trying to contain his rising sense of panic, the young curate was further startled when, suddenly, there came a banging on his door.  Quickly donning a sweatshirt to conceal his wound, he opened the door to find the parish janitor, Jorge Cruz, standing there, breathless.

“Please, Padre Mike.  Come quickly to the church” Mr. Cruz said.

Sensing his alarm, Father Mike jogged the 30 feet to the rear entrance.  As he entered from behind the main altar, he beheld a stunning sight:  80 or so parishioners clustered at the side altar, some kneeling, others gawking a the statue of Our Lady, from whose eyes now flowed what looked like tears.  The curate walked slowly to the statue and observed water flowing down Mary’s cheek.

The silence was broken by Jorge Cruz, as he loudly whispered in the curate’s ear, “Un milagro, Padre!  A miracle!” his words echoing through the vast, quiet space. Jorge now dropped to his knees, joining his fellow parishioners looking at the statue with wide-eyed awe.  All around him, lips moved, people praying fervently.  Some wept quietly out of a sense of wonder, while others deftly instagrammed the tears, sending images to friends and family.  As word spread, parishioners and the curious alike began to arrive, filling pews they would never occupy for a weekend Mass.  By noon, a church usually empty at that hour was full.  Not since 9/11 had St. Anne’s seen such crowds.

By noon, Father Mike Finn had fled the scene, leaving the faithful in the capable hands of Pietro Bergonzi, a missionary priest who lived in the rectory and celebrated Mass on weekends.  Bergonzi was a scholar, a charming man from Tuscany, who spoke five languages and loved Puccini.  

Martha saw Mike Finn leave without saying a word,noting his strange behavior since Mass that morning.

While Father Pietro Bergonzi led the curious in prayer, about 50 people formed a line at one of the confessionals, despite the fact that there were no confessions scheduled for that day.

While Father Bergonzi heard the confessions of the penitents, Father Mike Finn waited on line at the local urgent care facility.  The large bandage he had taken from the church’s first aid kit was now bleeding through, causing him to tuck his hands inside his sleeve, staining his grey New York Giants sweatshirt with a trace of red.

As we waited, he received a text message from the pastor, Father Damien Dunn:  “What the hell is going on?  Why didn’t you call me?”  Martha had phoned him, giving him a report about the events of the morning.  Included in the “report” was the rumor that the Virgin’s tears began at the moment when Father Mike entered the church.  

“Sorry, boss!” the curate texted.  “Had to run to the local E.R.”

“E.R?” was the boss’ reply.

“I’m coming back now.  I should arrive in about 2 hours.  Wait for me!”

The nurse from Shore Urgent Care now appeared and led Mike Finn into an exam room where she proceeded to take his vital signs.  On an iPad she noted his blood pressure and pulse, which at the moment was rapid.  As the nurse left, in came the doctor, an engaging woman in her late 20’s, who apologized for the wait.

“What brings you in today?” she asked, as she gently removed the bloody bandage.  Along the wrist she observed a small rivulet of mostly dried blood.  

“I remember feeling pain when I was celebrating Mass this morning.  It came out of the blue and was very intense.  When I got back to my room I noticed the blood.  I tried to dab it dry but it just kept on bleeding.”

“How did it come to bleed?” asked the doctor.  “Did you hit your hand on something?  Were you doing any physical labor?  Did you pick a fight with a nasty parishioner?”  

“No.  Not that I can remember,” he answered, feeling self-conscious.

“Do you take any blood thinners?’

“No.”

“Baby aspirin?”

“No.”

“Any history of diabetes?”

“No.”

“Any known diseases of the blood in your family?”

“Not to my knowledge,” he answered.

The doctor then had the nurse come in and apply pressure to the area.  With the bleeding stopped, she crafted a large bandage of gauze and tape and gave him instructions on how to change the bandage.

The nurse then drew a vial of blood to send to the lab. She then sent him on his way, instructing him to come back if the bleeding returned.

“What causes a person to bleed for no reason?” Finn asked as he was about to leave.

“Not sure,” the doctor replied.  “Your platelets could be low.  It could be any number of things.  I will call you in two or three days when we get the results of your tests.”

“Thanks” said the curate, as he headed out to the parking lot.

Back at St. Anne’s, Damien Dunn tried to contain his amazement as he watched the throngs of the faithful and curious who had come to see the Lady Statue.  His sleepy Jersey Shore parish had suddenly been transformed into a place of pilgrimage.

Arriving breathless from his time away, the 6’ 8” pastor stood next to the much shorter Jorge Cruz, who informed him that Mary’s tears had ceased at noon.  The pastor then instructed Cruz to place kneelers around the perimeter of the now revered statue, to allow the faithful to pray, while providing a barrier to prevent anyone from knocking over the Blessed Mother.

As he watched the curious arrive, he decided that, for now, he would keep the church open around the clock if need be.  He would ask his volunteer coordinator to enlist the help of parishioners to be present in the church when it was open.  A church usually locked between Masses had suddenly been opened by this mysterious event.  Father Damien also decided to add additional Masses to accommodate the increase of worshippers.  

The pastor also stationed Martha at the door of the church, with instructions to bring Father Mike into the rectory as soon as he arrived.  Seeing the curate’s blue Honda Accord arriving, Martha opened the driver’s side door and led him to the rectory in the direction of a rarely used side door.  They were nearly inside when Finn felt someone grabbing him from behind.  He turned to see Maria Hernandez, one of his most faithful parishioners, who trembled as she blurted out, “Perdón!  Lo siento!  Padre! I ask for your blessing!”

She then knelt in the concrete and kissed his hand.  As she did so, Finn gave the woman an awkward blessing and fled into the rectory.

A moment later, Damien Dunn arrived and beckoned Finn and Martha into the dining room.  “The bishop just called to say he’s on his way.  He should be here in about 15 minutes.”

It was then that Father Damien noticed the gauze on his curate’s wrist.

“What happened to you?”

“I’m not sure” Finn said.

“Well, suicide is not an option for our curates,” he added, interjecting the inappropriate humor which was his trademark.

“What really happened?” Martha asked.

“I felt terrible pain while celebrating Mass this morning.  Never happened before!”

Finn’s attempt to keep his wound a secret had failed.

As his black Mercedes approached St. Anne’s, Bishop Hugh Ryan saw the satellite truck from News11--the local all news station.  As he emerged from his car, the bishop was immediately accosted by Tom Quinn, a reporter new to their staff:

“Bishop Ryan!  Can you tell us what is happening here?” Quinn asked.

“We don’t know yet.  It will take an investigation to determine.”

“Is is true that the statue of Mary was weeping?”

“All I know is that some parishioners observed what appeared to be tears in the statue’s eyes this morning during the early Mass.”

“Would you call it a miracle?”

“That has yet to be determined.”

“How do you account for the presence of all these people?” Quinn asked.

“It is remarkable, to be sure.  Clearly, this event is speaking to the faith of the people who are here.  It is a wonderful thing, indeed, to see how people have been touched by this event.”

At this, the bishop ended the interview and headed inside the rectory, accompanied by his secretary, a deacon named Jack.

During the conversation that followed, Father Mike and Martha related the events of the day to the bishop.  Father Damien shared his plans for additional Masses.  The bishop then appointed one of his assistants to immediately begin an investigation.  They agreed that press interviews would be referred to the bishop’s office.  It was then that Martha shared the now widespread rumor that Mary’s tears began the moment Father Finn entered the church.  Finn strongly rejected the idea as a coincidence.  But his protestation did not negate the fact,  that for the faithful, the curate’s presence was somehow linked to the events of the day.

“Well, perhaps we should send Mike out of town on a retreat,”  the bishop suggested.

“Please, bishop,”  Finn replied.  “I’d rather stay here and continue my work as usual.”

“O.K.” the bishop relented.  “For now, keep your usual schedule.  But I urge you to spend some time with a spiritual director for your own sake,especially since the people are seeing you as somehow linked to what is happening here.”

“When are you scheduled to celebrate Mass?” the bishop asked.

Finn offered that he was scheduled to celebrate the early Mass the day after tomorrow.

With that, the meeting ended.  The bishop headed north to preside at a Confirmation.  Martha headed back to her desk to answer phones that were ringing off the wall.  Father Damien headed back to the church, while Father Mike grabbed a yogurt in the kitchen.

A steady stream of people arrived throughout the day and night, despite the fact that the statue had ceased weeping.  As Damien Dunn stood at the back of the church, he allowed himself the guilty pleasure of contemplating what it meant to have the church overrun with people.  At a time when Mass attendance was declining, he was suddenly the pastor of a parish which stood to break all attendance records, not to mention the potential financial gain. His modest shore parish was now front page news.  And it was not due to anything he had done. . . .

The next morning, Fr. Mike Finn slept in, as the pastor was scheduled to celebrate the two morning Masses.  After his morning coffee and bagel, he dashed out the side door of the rectory and drove to Pennsylvania, to visit his best friend from his seminary days, Father Peter Piancone.

Peter Piancone and Mike Finn are, in many ways, polar opposites.  Peter has had a life-long vocation to the priesthood.  His is a deep faith, a mystical spirituality.  For a relatively young man, he possesses a gentle, wise and pastoral demeanor, which has made him a popular curate.  He was always a foil for his friend, Mike, who was more conflicted about his vocation and uncertain as to whether he would remain a priest.  Peter was the one person with whom Finn had shared this secret.  Even his parents didn’t know.

The two curates sat on the porch of the rectory, located in rural Lancaster County.  Peter handed his friend a glass of Irish whiskey, while pouring himself a beer.

“So, what happened?”

“You mean, with the statue?”

“No, your wrist.  What happened to you?”

“No idea,”  Mike said.  “I got this sharp pain in my hand right when I was elevating the chalice.  It was so bad, I nearly spilled the precious blood all over the altar.  When I got back to my room, my wrist was bleeding.  But there was no injury, not a scratch.  So I went to the E.R. where the doc stopped the bleeding and sent my blood to the lab.  It was strange.”

“Strange, indeed,”  offered Peter.  “And you see no meaning in a 33 year old priest with wrists that suddenly bleed during Mass?”

“The thought never crossed my mind, “  Finn said.

“And the statue?  What about the statue?”

“During the 6:30 a.m. Mass parishioners began to notice what seemed to be tears gleaming in Mary’s eyes.  Some immediately proclaimed it a miracle.  They knelt down.  Some even wept at the sight.  Others gazed in awe.  Then a couple of idiots sent photos out on Facebook and Twitter.  Soon, the church was packed.  Damien came back from his holiday.  Then the bishop showed up.  Now, the boss has the place open all day and night and he’s added additional Masses.  It’s crazy--Lourdes has touched down on the Jersey Shore!”

“And what about the rumors about you?” Peter asked.

“Pure pious nonsense!  Some of the people were saying that Mary began to weep the moment I began the Mass, which just added to the chaos.”

“And you don’t buy it?”

“Of course not!  You know me, I’m against all the superstition and magical thinking I see in so many of the people.”

“For some, superstition rooted in deep faith,” countered Peter.

“I know, I know,”  Mike said, taking a sip of his whiskey.

Following an early dinner, Mike Finn drove back to St. Anne’s, since he was scheduled to celebrate Mass early the next morning.  He saw Father Damien in the kitchen, who was enjoying a bowl of ice cream.  Damien related that the church was still full of people, despite the fact that the statue had not wept for the last two days.  Local t.v. carried interviews with parishioners who had been moved by the event, including one with Maria Hernandez, who claimed that two days earlier, she was informed by her oncologist that her melanoma had inexplicably gone into remission--a healing she was now attributing to Father Mike.

Overwhelmed by this revelation, Father Mike retreated to his room, to watch the end of the Yankee game.  At 5 a.m. he was jolted awake by pain now in both his wrists.  Discovering no bleeding, he lay awake in his bed for another half hour and then showered before heading to the church.  

To his surprise, he was greeted in the sacristy by Father Damien, who was there for moral support.  Open all night, the church was full of worshipers, a far cry from the 65 souls who usually attended this Mass.  

Accompanied by an adult acolyte, the Mass began with the customary bell.  The assembly of the faithful and the curious rose as the curate, now in intense pain, entered from the sacristy.  Dispensing with his usual folksy greeting, he began the Mass with the Sign of the Cross.  As he did so, he noticed Maria Hernandez, seated in the first pew right next to Martha Fitzsimmons.

Martha and Maria, from their vantagepoint, would be the first people to observe the blood seeping through the curate’s white vestment as Father Mike lifted his hands during the consecration.  As he held his arms outstretched in what is known as the orans posture, Father Mike suddenly appeared like a living icon of the crucifixion, as he stretched out his arms over the altar and the assembly, his hands oozing blood.  

Abruptly handing the hosts and wine to his deacon and lay ministers, Father Mike sat down in his chair, as the startled deacon and ministers distributed holy communion.

Seeing the blood on his wrists, Maria Hernandez became lightheaded and overcome with emotion.  Moving in sync, Maria and Martha slowly approached the curate from the side as the Mass ended.  Joined by Father Damien, they formed a protective shield as they escorted Mike Finn to the rear entrance of the church.  As Father Mike exited the church, no one noticed that the statue of Mary had once again begun weeping.

Stepping outside, they were startled to encounter a group of the faithful, there to seek the curate’s blessing.  They approached him as if he were a rock star.  Unnerved by what just transpired, Finn’s inclination was to seek refuge in the rectory.  Father Damien, standing behind him and supporting his shoulder, quietly urged the curate to bless the people who were waiting for him.

As Father Finn touched each one, making the sign of the cross on their foreheads, Damien looked into their faces.  As he watched, he could see their faith and their longing, their awe at God’s presence.  In 35 years of priesthood, he had never seen anything like this.

It didn’t take long for reports of the bleeding priest’s hands to spread by social media.  By late afternoon, the News11 satellite truck had been joined by 10 others, with cable news and the major networks saturating the coverage.  On YouTube, grainy cell phone videos showed the outstretched arms of the curate with blood coming from his wrists.  By the next morning, the video had received 2 million hits.

Back in the rectory, Maria and Martha cleaned and bandaged the wrists, which had now stopped bleeding.  On Mike’s wrists now appeared distinct circular wounds, each around 4 centimeters in diameter, with a deep red color.

As Maria and Martha left, Fr. Damien brought his curate a cup of coffee.  Taking a sip, Father Mike said, “Boss, what is happening to me?”

“I’m not sure,” answered Damien Dunn.  “For some reason, you appear to have received the stigmata"--the wounds of Christ.”

“But, why?”  protested Finn.  Many of the great stigmatics,  beginning with St. Francis of Assisi, have had a profound identification with the suffering of Christ.  Father, we both know that that is not me!  For the last three years, I have been stuck in a spiritual funk, barely able to fake it for the faithful around me, in my homilies and in my teaching.  I’m no Padre Pio!”

“I understand,”  said Damien.  “On the one hand it doesn’t make sense.  But, then, I look into the faces of the people, many of whom have not been to Mass in years.  Drawn here by these events, they have mysteriously returned.  We are hearing stories of conversions, of healings.  Some are confessing sins they have carried in their hearts for decades.  Others who left because they felt slighted or ignored have returned.  Your wounds, Mike,  have somehow given them hope.  And then there are people like Maria, a single mother raising two children and fighting cancer--a cancer now in remission. For you, in the moment, it is a cross to bear, a real shock to the system.  To those who seek your blessing, those who are spiritually hungry, it is a gift.  We priests are here to represent Christ.  More often than not, we fail.  But in this moment, you, my friend, have come to represent Christ in a special way.  It’s clearly not something you sought or even deserve.  But here you are, bearing in your body the wounds of Christ. I have no idea what God is up to here.  But one thing is clear--He surely wants our attention!  And he has chosen you as a vehicle of grace.”

It was then that Father Mike’s cell phone rang.  It was the nurse at Shore Urgent Care, who called to say that his blood tests came back and everything is normal.  “Thanks,”  the Curate said, feeling anything but normal.

Speaking of normal, over the next week the staff and people of St. Anne’s worked to adjust to the new normal.

Damien Dunn spent hours ordering everything from extra communion hosts to two Port A Potties, to meet the needs of the increasing number of visitors.  He also met with the local police to map out a new traffic flow plan around the church--a plan which now included tour buses which arrived daily.

The Parish Womens Guild created a new prayer card with the image of the Our Lady Statue which they now sold, together with a variety of rosaries, greeting cards, scapulars and other religious items in a little kiosk which Jorge Cruz constructed at the entrance of the church.

Father Bergonzi spent many hours giving spiritual counsel to visitors and hearing confessions.  He also spent time trying to calm the nerves of the neighbors who resented the invasion of their neighborhood.

Peter Piancone’s boss gave his curate some time off, allowing him to take up temporary residence at St. Anne’s so that he could provide support for his friend Mike Finn.  He helped out also by presiding at some of the additional Masses.

Martha Fitzsimmons worked the phones and referred all interviews to the bishop’s office.  She served as a clearing house for rumors and  gossip, while attempting to keep the rectory safe from the intrusions of the curious.  Martha and Damien Dunn called the bishop daily to provide updates.

Meanwhile, the bishop’s assistant conducted interviews with Jorge Cruz, Maria Hernandez and other parishioners as a part of the ongoing investigation into the recent events.  Adding to the ever-escalating mystery were unsubstantiated reports that Father Mike was seen in two different towns at the very same time, causing the curate once again to dismiss such reports as pious superstition.  Despite his denials, rumors about bilocation continued to spread. 

Ignoring the rumors, Mike Finn kept almost daily appointments with a wound care specialist and his primary care physician, who had now prescribed hydrocodon for pain.  He also met with a psychologist who helped him cope with the stress of his rock star status.  As much as possible, he kept his usual work schedule, while refusing to be interviewed by the media.  He had yet to meet with his new spiritual director, the famed Benedictine, Johannes Metzler.  Metzler, ill with cancer,  agreed to see Mike Finn as a favor to Bishop Hugh Ryan.

Johannes Metzler, a priest for nearly 50 years, was a noted author and retreat leader.  In recent years, his Sunday evening television show was a staple on the Catholic Cable Network.  When he preached on the 7 Last Words from the Cross at New York’s St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Good Friday, there was a standing room only crowd throughout the three hour service.  Popular with the laity, he was also a priest’s priest.   Like the sainted Padre Pio, Metzler had the uncanny ability to see into the souls of those who came to him for confession and spiritual counsel.  If he felt that a penitent was giving less than an honest accounting of his or her life, he was known to withhold absolution until such time as the penitent returned with a more complete and honest confession.

Out of love for the Church and the priesthood, Metzler had little patience for what he saw was widespread mediocrity in the current crop of priests, with their poorly prepared and uninspiring preaching, and the mechanical and sloppy way they celebrated the liturgy.  He was critical, too, of pastors who spent more time creating little fiefdoms of their parishes while neglecting the spiritual needs of their people. 

Metzler, weakened by a recent bout with cancer, his frail body dressed in a simple grey habit and sandals, had followed the news accounts from Saint Anne’s with interest.  A true mystic, he spent hours in prayer, preparing to meet Father Mike Finn.

Father Mike Finn arrived at his first meeting with Johannes Metzler a few minutes early.  Metzler currently resided in a beautiful retreat center in Northern New Jersey.

Finn wore his grey sweatshirt, garb which allowed him to hide his hands in his sleeve with ease.  Finn was a bit apprehensive about the meeting, having heard stories about the Benedictine’s laser-like insights.

Ringing the bell, Metzler met Finn at the door, dressed in his grey habit and sandals.  Metzler possessed piercing blue eyes, eyes which seemed to look into the soul.  Indeed, the people who attended his recent Good Friday service at St. Patrick’s said, that even if you were standing in the last row in the back of the church, his piercing eyes made it feel as if he were preaching “just to you.”

The famed Benedictine now ushered the young curate into a beautiful library. 

After offering the curate some tea, the Benedictine inquired how Finn was coping with the wounds and the pain.  Finn then described the help he was receiving from his physicians.

Experiencing pain only during the celebration of Mass, Finn related that the pain medication was helping.

Then Metzler asked:

“So, Father Mike, why do you think this is happening?”

“Well,” said Finn, “the boss says it is God trying to get my attention.”

“And why, Father Finn, does God want to get your attention?” Metzler asked.

“In all candor,” responded the curate, “ I have been uncertain as to my vocation a priest.  I feel as if I am going through the motions.  I say Mass on autopilot.  I lift homilies others have preached from the web.  I do all the things that are expected of me, but I am not in them.  I’m uninspired and uninspiring.  I do not know if the priesthood is for me.”

“So, when you suddenly experienced the pain and the wounds, how did your people react?”

“Many of them dropped to their knees, believing they were witnessing a miracle.  For them, it confirmed their faith.”

“And as they did, how did you feel?”

“I just wasn’t  sure.  I just couldn’t buy it.  I saw their faith, but it just didn’t seem real to me.”

And when Maria Hernandez knelt in front of you and asked for your blessing, what did you think?”

“I didn’t know. . . .she kissed my hand, asked for my blessing and all I could do is to flee into the rectory.  She looked to me to affirm her sense that a miracle was taking place and all I could do is flee. I didn’t know what to think, I just wanted to get away from her.”

“Father Mike, how well do you know these people?  How well do you know Maria, how well do you know Jorge Cruz?” Metzler asked.

“I see them at Mass.  They do whatever I ask.”

“But, how well do you know them as people?  Have you ever visited their homes?  Their place of business?”

“No,” the curate responded.  “We are too busy to visit them individually.”

“Fair enough, Father.  I appreciate your candor.  But what you are telling me is that you have no idea about their lives, their struggles, and their faith, faith which is all too willing to accept what God is doing in you and in St. Anne’s.”

“I admit it.  You are right.”  said the curate.

“So this is what I am going to ask you to do.  Beginning tomorrow and however long it takes, I want you to visit each and every one of your parish families either at home or at their place of business.  I want you to get to know them and especially get to know what motivates their faith.”  

“Father, “  the curate responded, “we have about 3, 000 families in this parish.  It will take a while.’

“Fine,”  Metzler said.  “Start tomorrow. And come back to see me next week with a progress report.  You might want to start by visiting the home of Maria Hernandez, your greatest supporter.”

The curate left, his head spinning with his new assignment.  He immediately texted Peter and asked him to meet him at a local bar when he returned.

45 minutes later Finn met Peter at the local pub.  

“He’s crazy!” Finn smiled, as he caught Peter’s eyes on entering the pub.  Ordering drinks, they sat at a secluded table in the rear.  As a group of rowdy locals played darts, Finn debriefed:

“So, what is the Benedictine really like?” asked Peter.

“A little intimidating, but gentle.  He’s smart.  Deep.  And deeply spiritual. And despite his ill health, he is very sharp.”

“So, what did he say?” Peter asked.

“He says, I need to get to know the people.  Really get to know what makes them tick.  So, he’s challenged me to visit every member of St. Anne’s by visiting one member each day.”

“That is crazy!” Peter smiled.  “Or, should I say, crazy brilliant.”

“What do you mean?”  Finn asked.

“I mean, we priests are very good at expecting the people to come to us.  And we berate them when they don’t show up for Mass.  But, I don’t know how good we are in reaching out to them.  I mean, don’t you think maybe we’ve lost the sense of what it means to be sent?  Yes, his assignment is crazy and totally unrealistic……but maybe it’s exactly what’s needed!”

Finn then took a sip of whiskey and said:

“Then the Benedictine stopped me in my tracks.  He said that one day, sooner or later, the statue would stop weeping and the wounds would disappear from my body. . . .”

“And?”  Peter asked.

“So,” then the  Benedictine asked me, “how will you fill the church when that happens and all the curious people go home?  You’ll fill it if the people have come to believe that you have cared enough to know them, know who they are as people, know what they long for.  You’ll fill it by meeting them where they are.  You’ll fill it if each of you does what he or she is called to do.  No more, no less.”

Mike and Peter finished their drinks and returned to the rectory.  Turning on the t.v.,  Father Mike Finn did something he rarely did these days--he watched as the news carried interviews with parishioners and visitors.  One man, who drove 4 hours from Virginia with his children expressed disappointment that the statue did not weep during their visit.  Another local channel carried an interview with the bishop who spoke very cautiously about the need to reserve judgment about the events at St. Anne’s.  “If anything,” he said, “we have to carefully understand the meaning these events hold for the faithful.”  These comments were followed by an earlier interview with Maria Hernandez, who spoke about her sense of gratitude that her cancer was now in remission.  As the curate watched, he drifted off to sleep.

The next day, Father Mike sat for a psychiatric evaluation with a doctor suggested by the bishop.  The report which followed would find no diagnosable mental or personality disorder.  His level of anxiety was a bit high, which, under the circumstances, made sense.  Later, the curate saw his primary care doctor who observed a red wound in the curate’s abdomen which, when it throbbed, prevented Mike Finn from sleeping.

Meanwhile, Damien Dunn tried to manage the increasing workload, with the additional Masses and the extra administrative tasks of running a mini pilgrimage site. In his heart of hearts, Dunn was torn between concern for his curate and the pleasure of having a packed church and escalating collections. In a month’s time, the weekend collection at St. Anne’s had gone from an average of $8000.00 to $40,000.00.

 

Later that week, with the bishop’s permission, Mike Finn gave an interview to 4 print journalists in the dining room of the rectory.  Present for the interview were Damien 

Dunn, Peter Piancone, Martha Fitzsimmons and the curate himself.

In the course of the interview, Father Damien Dunn admitted that he isn’t much for “signs.”  His personal faith and his ministry has never depended on signs.  But he also admitted, upon questioning, that he had personally seen blood seeping from Mike Finn’s wrists, and on more than one occasion he was watched the Our Lady statue well up with tears.

Martha recounted the day she was seated in the first pew and saw blood seeping through the curate’s robe.

Peter added to the conversation by remarking what an unlikely choice his friend was to receive the stigmata.  Modest, shy, no future saint and the priest with the lowest profile in the diocese, Finn is the most unlikely person God could choose to receive his wounds.  “This is what gives these events the mark of authenticity, Peter said.  Because, if you look at the people God chooses, they are usually the most unlikely.”

Finally, the curate spoke:

“Look, guys, I would never believe this kind of thing normally.  Maybe with the statue it’s the plaster sweating or mass hysteria on the part of the observers.  To the skeptics, I say,  I know how you feel.  For, I am a skeptic by nature.  All I can say is this is not me.  This is not about me.  It’s Christ.  It’s Christ working through me.  It’s all His work.  It’s Mary’s work, too.  She’s interceding here somehow.” 

As Finn spoke, the journalist sitting closest to the statue of Mary in the room, noticed the eyes of the Virgin well up with tears.

The next afternoon, Mike Finn met again with Johannes Metzler who immediately asked the curate about his visits with the members of St. Anne’s.  On this day, no statue would weep, but Mike Finn wept as he described his visit to the home of Maria Hernandez.  He spoke of her graciousness and how positively she spoke even when describing the sudden loss of her husband in a construction accident, leaving her to raise her two small children on her own.  

“Whenever I see her at church, she is so generous with her time, her energy and her love.  You would never know the pain and suffering she has endured and the economic hardship.  And here she is, literally bandaging my wounds!  I feel so ashamed that I never once reached out to her in the four years I have been here.”

“It’s not too late,”  the Benedictine said.  “You will now be able to show her the compassion she deserves.  And both of you will benefit.”

The Benedictine, changing the subject, now spoke to Mike Finn about his homilies.  He challenged the curate to stop using canned homilies lifted from the internet.  He then urged him to spend one hour in preparation for every minute he would spend in the pulpit.  “If you delve more deeply into the Bible while spending the time getting to know your people, your priestly ministry will be transformed.”  Get their attention.  Dare to be bold.  Shock them by daring to be relevant.  Speak about things that matter to them!

By now, the curate was becoming accustomed to what seemed on the surface to be impossible assignments.  No priest he knew spent that much time in preparation.  Many didn’t prepare at all.  But, impossible or not, he was now determined to do as the Benedictine asked.  In only a short time with this holy man, Finn had begun to experience a renewed sense of call and the desire to be the best servant of God he could be.

For the first time in years, Finn felt free and unfettered.

That night, instead of fleeing to his room, he walked into the church, still crowded with visitors.  With Peter at his side to help prevent the unwanted selfie, he spent time with the visitors, talking about his experience, giving his blessing, praying with them.  Observing this, Peter was stunned by the transformation taking place in his friend.  The once mediocre priest who so often sought sanctuary in his room, now mingled with the people, some of whom had driven hours to visit St. Anne’s.  The man who formerly craved solitude now desired to be among the people.

Back in the rectory, the two curates drank beer and shared stories from the past.  The next morning, seeing the improvement in Finn, Peter returned to his church in Lancaster.

Over the next two weeks, Mike Finn dove into his homily preparation, spending hours trying to make the Biblical stories come alive for his hearers.  He did this while also continuing to visit a new member family every day--a change which shocked and delighted the parishioners.

Despite the pain in his hands and side, he moved about with a sense of confidence and joy, which Damien Dunn had noticed and had reported to the bishop.

Worshipers at Mass also noticed a change in how the curate celebrated Mass.  He was less rushed, more focused, more connected to the mystery.  He lingered over the elevation of the host and took time for silence following the homily.  He now approached the Mass with a sense of reverence and awe.

Under the Benedictine’s guidance, Mike Finn also became more reflective.  Not prone to spending much time in prayer, Finn didn’t even pray the Divine Office, prayers prayed daily by priests and deacons.  Nor did he spend very much time in prayer in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament.  But, as time passed, he became more reflective which was a good thing, especially since so much was happening in his life.

Thinking back over his conversations with the Benedictine, and thinking about the people who daily filled St. Anne’s--especially his most devoted parishioners and friends--he now began to formulate a plan to preach a bold homily--a very personal homily in which Mike Finn would attempt to explain his recent experience of receiving the stigmata and all that had transpired at St. Anne’s over the last few months.  Finn would also use this homily to describe his own spiritual renewal and the changes which had been taking place in him as a priest and as a person.  In the spirit of boldness, encouraged by Johannes Metzler, he would begin his homily with a confession--a role reversal.  The priest would begin his homily asking his people for forgiveness.  He would confess his failures and ask his people for a second chance.

Excitement and a bit of trepidation welled up in the curate as he contemplated delivering this homily.  And with Pentecost just two weeks away, he decided to deliver the homily at the principal Mass on Pentecost, the birthday of the Christian Church.  He called his friend Peter to see if he could be present at this Mass.

With two weeks until Pentecost, Mike Finn felt an urgent need to share his plan with Metzler, the person who had inspired it.  He would need the Benedictine’s guidance now more than ever about what he was going to say and how he should say it.

So, Finn called the retreat center and asked his mentor if he could see him in the next few days.  Johannes Metzler agreed to see him the very next day.

As he arrived at the center, Finn felt a surge of anticipation.  Gone was his initial sense of intimidation.  Over the weeks, intimidation had morphed into an increasing sense of ease, tempered always by the awe you feel in the presence of a truly holy person.  

Finn knocked on the door, only to be met by silence.  He then knocked a second time.  Still no response.  So, he dialed the main number which was answered by Mary, the Benedictine’s secretary.  “I am here to see Johannes,” said Finn.  “I’ll be right there,” said Mary.

The moment Mary opened the door, Finn knew something was wrong:

“What’s up?”  said Finn.

“I’m sorry, Father.  He’s gone.  The cancer finally claimed him.  He went into cardiac arrest this morning and died quickly.   I am sorry no one called you.”

“Oh my!”  Finn sighed.  “I don’t know what to say,”  he said, feeling a sense of heaviness descend upon him.  “I’m sorry for you, Mary, and for everyone here who lived and worked with him.”

With that, Finn slowly walked back to his car.  He placed the key in the ignition and immediately called Peter before starting the car.

The wake for Johannes Metzler took place in the Lady Chapel of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.  Six tall candles and a Paschal Candle surrounded his casket, bathing it in soft light.  The Benedictine was dressed in a white chasuble, the casket open from head to foot.  Lines of the faithful passed by his body throughout the day and into the night.  Peter joined Mike Finn at the wake and later for drinks at a bar near Rockefeller Center.  It is then that Mike Finn described his plan for his Pentecost homily and how disappointed he was that he could not have one more meeting with the Benedictine for his feedback and suggestions.  He would now have to rely on his own instincts for the most important homily of his life.

“It is bold,”  to be sure said Peter.  “And it could end up being both powerful and meaningful for the people who have been struggling to make sense of everything that has happened at St. Anne’s, not to mention the metamorphosis they have been witnessing in you.  And while you were deprived of that last conversation with your mentor, I have the feeling that he is now with God, interceding for you.  

The next morning, Mike Finn joined in the procession with 100 priests, bishops, cardinals as they walked down the center aisle of the cathedral to begin the Mass of Christian Burial for the Benedictine.  The funeral was broadcast live on all the Catholic cable channels across the country.

Following the Mass, Mike Finn drove back to the Shore.

When the day of Pentecost came, Father Mike Finn, wearing red vestments and walking down the center aisle of St. Anne’s--and carrying the memory of the Benedictine with him--began what was the most important Mass of his life.

Standing in the pulpit, which extended out over the people, and looking out at the standing room only crowd, all dressed in red, he began his homily with these words:

Brothers and Sisters:

For four years I have served as your assistant priest.  During that time, I have often heard your confessions.  Today, I stand before you and ask you to hear my confession.  And if you are of a mind to, I would ask you to grant me your forgiveness. . . 

The curate then boldly went on to list what he felt were his failures as their priest, especially his failure to get to know them as people and his failure to preach homilies that would feed their souls.  He spoke of his regret that too often he celebrated Mass in a mechanical or distracted way, rushing to get it done so he could go have breakfast.  He then described what it was like for such an unworthy person to receive the wounds of Christ, and how profoundly changed he was due to his relationship with Johannes Metzler, whose counsel and encouragement had transformed him as a priest.

Gazing at this good friend Peter, he thanked the people for their love and support and prayed that they together would create a new spirit of Pentecost at St. Anne’s.

As he walked down the center aisle at the conclusion of the Mass, the statue of Our Lady stopped weeping.  And the next morning, his wounds had stopped bleeding, now appearing as faint scars.

Steven D. Olson