Lynch or one of the friars as he took in the newest exhibit. He often seemed revitalized by such excursions rather than drained. It was as if the art he had contemplated had somehow given him a little extra strength or perhaps a little extra joy.
Of course, religious art was the type that drew Fr. Benedict’s attention most powerfully, although at times he could define “religious art” somewhat broadly, discovering spiritual aspects of secular paintings that others would miss. The Cloisters, a museum in upper Manhattan that is a great repository of medieval art, was one of his favorite destinations, and I can’t even imagine how many times he visited it. He was apt to spend hours there, utterly absorbed in the art produced by a culture that knew no separation between the sacred and the secular.
Trips to the Cloisters became a tradition for him with each successive group of postulants and novices for the Franciscans of the Renewal. He would guide them from room to room, from corridor to corridor speaking enthusiastically about the vibrant and beautiful religious art that can be encountered there at every turn, art that he comprehended deeply because it had been inspired by a faith as profound as his own. Occasionally he would stop before a statue or painting of Our Lady, where he would fall silent for a few minutes and then, as if he were in a church, begin to sing the Salve Regina (in Latin, of course). The postulants and novices may have been a bit embarrassed by this, but they always dutifully joined in, probably leaving the other museum-goers wondering if all these gray-clad men were performing a reenactment of some long dead medieval rite. Fr. Benedict of course never thought there was anything particularly odd about singing a Latin prayer in the midst of a public museum—at least it was no more cause for embarrassment than being caught with one brown shoe and one black one.
1 Lincoln Barnett, The Universe and Dr. Einstein, with Introduction by Albert Einstein (New York: William Morrow and Company, 1948) 106.
2 N. John Hall, Belief: a Memoir (Savannah, Georgia: Frederic C. Beil, Publisher, Inc. 2007), 63
Chapter III
A Difference in Taste
The Tales Father Wasn’t Given the Time to Tell
Peter Groeschel’s future was much discussed among his friends as their high school years drew to a close. Nobody who knew him doubted for a moment that the priesthood was his eventual destination, but many people wondered about, and were even perplexed about, the route he would take to get there. Apparently, he was rather closedmouthed about it, offering few if any real clues; and so speculation at Immaculate Conception High School was rampant. Some claimed his intellectual acumen made it obvious that he would find his eventual home among the Jesuits. Others believed that his talents as a public speaker and his attachment to the Dominican Sisters of Caldwell made it a foregone conclusion that he would join the Order of Preachers. Of course, he entered neither community, but apparently he gave at least some consideration to each.
Concerning the Dominicans, N. John Hall wrote that the young Pete Groeschel was seriously considering becoming a member of the Third Order of St. Dominic while still in high school; that fact certainly can be considered a clue as to the way Pete’s mind was working at the time. Hall also wrote that Pete “lost his interest in the Dominicans when in his senior year he went to see the Dominican Fathers read the Holy Office in a New York City priory. The fathers seemed bored, inattentive, and one of them swatted a fly. Pete, disgusted with the Dominicans, looked around for what he thought was the strictest, most rigorous of the active orders, and settled on the Capuchin Franciscans.”3
It is very probable that Pete Groeschel gave at least some real thought to joining the Order of Preachers, if for no other reason than the one already stated: he had a warm relationship with the Dominican Sisters of Caldwell and was very impressed by them. Marjule once commented that her brother and the superior of that community, Mother Dolorita, were alike in some ways and got along well. Surely those sisters would not have hesitated to suggest their own order to a boy who was considering the priesthood and religious life, especially a boy who showed as much promise as Pete Groeschel did.
Whether the Dominican Fathers’ lack of attention at prayer (or the fact that one of them swatted a fly during it) was the deciding factor in sending Pete into the arms of the Capuchins seems a bit difficult to believe, but is impossible to know. What is possible to know, however, is that Pete’s interest in the Capuchins predated both his senior year in high school, as well as that disappointing visit to a Dominican priory. It is also possible to know that a profound desire to serve the poor lay at the heart of his religious vocation from a very early age. So it is not altogether unexpected that the Capuchins, rather than the Dominicans or any other order, would have appealed to him as he contemplated his future.
By the age of sixteen it seems clear that Pete was already focusing on the Capuchins—even though he had never met or even seen one. In fact, by that point it is likely he was becoming rather determined to cast his lot with them, as the following piece, which was one of the last things he ever wrote, shows.
The Tale As Father Told It
As I work on this little memoir, I discover some odd and interesting things. One of them is that I am able to summon up memories of events and people I haven’t thought about in many years with almost startling clarity. That’s surprising to me, because the recollection of this morning’s breakfast is vague, indeed; and, let me tell you, last night’s dinner has long ago been consigned to the realm of total oblivion. Memories from the distant past, however, seem to be like snapshots in an old, dust-covered album that I haven’t opened in ages. I expect the pictures in it to be dim, faded, and perhaps even unrecognizable. But as soon as I open the book, the past becomes present once again in all its vivid colors and details. Such things remind me of how very wrong we are to think of the past as being over and done with. It is really something that we carry with us at every moment, as an ever-present companion along the way—as an intimate part of us. It is the lens through which we view and make sense of the present. Too often we take memory for granted, as if it were an old file cabinet sitting in the corner of the room. But we should not. I find I forget many things these days, and I won’t say that’s not frightening. At the age of eighty I see that old file cabinet as a treasure, as one of God’s most wonderful gifts to us, and I take pleasure—real delight—in exploring it while I’m still able.
I once attended a memorial service for a non-Catholic friend. Sadly, the man who delivered the eulogy did not believe in life after death in any way. Yet he spoke of “the resurrecting gift of memory.” This is a startling way to put it, so startling that I recall that phrase and nothing else from the eulogy. I have come to understand that those few words contain real truth and real beauty, and perhaps even some unwitting theological insight. I make much use of God’s “resurrecting gift of memory” these days. This little book allows me to do so; it has given me the opportunity to make many moments in my past present to me once again, to make them so real I can almost touch them.
Today an image from the past has leapt into my mind with unexpected vibrancy, as sharp and clear as if it were an actual photograph. It is of my father and me when I was nearly seventeen. In this remembered snapshot I am wearing my best clothes—the same ones that I wear to Mass on Sunday—and my father is wearing a suit as well. His hat is in his hand. We are standing in front of the friary at Mount Carmel Church in Orange, New Jersey. I remember—I can almost see—that my hair is especially carefully combed. That image makes me smile a little, for it sparks another recollection, one of me earlier that day trying to look as serious and mature as possible. As part of my effort to achieve this goal I labored very diligently to get my cowlicks under strict control (anyone who knows me can attest that God has completely spared me this problem in recent decades).
As I think of myself on that day I can almost see or even feel my own eagerness
