important reason. I was to meet a Capuchin friar for the first time, and I was to discuss with him the possibility of my entering his order. As I remember myself standing in front of that friary, I know I thought I looked calm and in control. But even from this great distance I can see that was not the case at all.
The end of high school was in sight, and to my sixteen-year-old mind, that meant that the time for decisions could no longer be postponed. The moment to commit to a course of action had come. So I had searched out the Capuchin church closest to my home and made an appointment. I was growing more and more eager for this next step, and I desperately wanted it to be toward the Capuchins. If you had asked me as I stood waiting in front of that friary why I wanted this, I probably would have given you some sort of reasonably coherent answer. I’m sure I would have told you that I wanted to be of service to the poor, which was the type of work at which the Capuchins excelled.
I probably would have spoken about Padre Pio, the great Capuchin stigmatic, who had become well-known in the Catholic world after the war. He was a charismatic figure to me back then. In fact he seemed larger than life, an almost medieval saint who stood in bold defiance of many of the ideas of the secular world. But if truth be told, I didn’t really know why. It was just a vague but persistent feeling, a yearning. Yet, after all these years, I still know that it was exactly the right thing for me to do. I have no doubt that it was the step God wanted me to take; it was the direction in which He had been gently prodding me for years.
Many thoughts flow through my mind as I remember that long, empty moment before the door opened and my father and I walked into the friary. I have to admit that I recall being aware that my father was disappointed—albeit very mildly so. Although he never said anything to indicate that fact or even to hint at it, I was aware that becoming a follower of St. Francis is not exactly what he would have chosen for me if he could have done the choosing. He actually had his sights set on the Jesuits for his son. Like so many people back then, he greatly admired them. He spoke of the Jesuits in glowing tones, telling me of their greatness, their intellectual acumen, their uniqueness among the orders of the Church, their devotion to the pope. And I have to admit I was impressed by the Society of Jesus.
Several times I even gave serious thought to following my father’s advice. Yet, even though I wanted to please him and make him proud of me, I simply could not do it. I really did admire the Jesuits, and over the years I have been blessed with wonderful Jesuit friends, such as Fr. John Hardon and Avery Cardinal Dulles. But I did not feel drawn toward the Jesuits when I was sixteen nor did I at any other point in my life. The Capuchins, on the other hand, were like some unseen star that exerted a powerful gravitational pull on me. I believed that it was simply my destiny to enter their orbit. I don’t know why, but I did. I know my father accepted that, and I am still grateful to him for his wisdom and love for me, for it took both of those things for him to let me take the path that I believed God had chosen for me.
The door finally opened, and there he was: the first Capuchin I had ever seen. He greeted us warmly but rather formally. That didn’t matter because I barely heard his words. I was far too busy taking inventory of his beard and his habit, the cord around his waist and his rosary. In fact, I think I was trying to commit them to memory. He looked just like the pictures I had seen in books and Catholic magazines, and for some odd reason this pleased me immensely. I guess I thought it proved that we had found the Real McCoy. Maybe I thought it meant I was off to a brilliant start. As we entered, I was struck by the simplicity of the friary. It seemed to me to show very clearly that those who lived in it had no great love for worldly things, no attachment to luxury. On the way home that day I learned that what I saw as simplicity my father had seen as seediness. Each to his own!
I noted every detail: the San Damiano cross on the wall; the small, unobtrusive statue of St. Francis; the picture of St. Clare on a plain wooden table. Yes, I thought, this was exactly the right place. This is going to work out well—perfectly. I was very excited, for I was certain my life as a Capuchin was about to start. There would be no turning back now. My journey into holiness had begun in earnest.
But, in case you don’t know it, God has a sense of humor, one He likes to display at odd moments. Perhaps He especially likes to display it when people (even young people) are taking themselves just a bit too seriously. In other words, things turned out very differently that day from what I expected, so differently that I find myself chuckling as I remember what happened. My father and I were led to a little room that was set aside for interview purposes.
The friar who spoke with me was kindly, but after a short talk about the Capuchin life he started to approach things from an angle that absolutely mystified me. At one point he stroked his beard and looked long and hard at a piece of paper on which was written, among other things, my name. “Groeschel,” he finally said, after what seemed to be a period of inexplicable and rather inappropriately timed meditation. He then looked up at me expectantly. “Yes,” I answered, realizing that some kind of response was needed. “Groeschel,” he repeated more softly, this time while shaking his head almost (but not quite) imperceptibly. He seemed to intone rather than merely say my name, and I realized he had the ability to make it sound like it was comprised of much more than just two short syllables. In fact, he seemed able to make it go on forever.
“This is a German name?” he half asked and half stated. “Alsatian,” my slightly indignant father corrected. The friar smiled apologetically at my dad and then turned to me again. “Do you like spaghetti?” he inquired out of the blue. Was this a trick question? I stared at him blankly for what was probably too long a time. “Ah … no, not really,” I finally responded. He pursed his lips and nodded gravely. “Ravioli?” he asked, making the word sound round and full of vowels. “I … I don’t think so,” I stammered, not willing to admit that I had never actually tasted ravioli. (It may be difficult for people to believe, since Indian and Thai food are commonplace and sushi is consumed by everyone these days, but in the very early fifties in suburban New Jersey ravioli was considered only slightly less exotic than marinated larks’ tongues.) “Lasagna?” he inquired. By now I was a little flustered. “What’s …? I’m not sure I … I … I don’t really know what it is,” I finally admitted.
He raised his rather bushy eyebrows in mild amazement. Apparently my ignorance of the nature of lasagna was the final straw. The friar shook his head vigorously. “You have made a mistake. We are the Italian Capuchins. You must go to the German Capuchins. If you do not, you will starve!”
And that was that. Soon my father and I were on the road home to Caldwell, and I was completely deflated. I had expected to be asked about my spiritual life. I had been ready, willing, and able to expound on my breathtaking understanding of Francis, of Bonaventure, of Clare, of the Franciscan charism. I had been prepared to talk of the spiritual life, of prayer, of my desire to work with the poor. I could even name a decent number of papal encyclicals! But I had never expected to be asked about food. Could my entrance into the Capuchins really have been derailed due to a difference in gastronomic temperament?
“Lasagna,” I kept saying on the ride home. What could it be, and why was it so important?
The Tales Father Wasn’t Given the Time to Tell
God didn’t provide Fr. Benedict enough time to discuss what happened next in his attempt to become a member of the Friars Minor Capuchin, but it is very clear that this first rather disappointing attempt was not his last. He obviously did follow the advice of the friar from the Italian Capuchin province, and he quickly located the German Capuchins. The nearest ones turned out to be not far away at all, which must have been a relief to Pete Groeschel. They were headquartered in New York City, at St. John the Baptist Church, which was on 31st Street virtually across the street from Pennsylvania Station. The location could hardly have been more convenient for a boy from New Jersey. He just had to step off a train and he’d be there. Knowing Fr. Benedict and the determination of which he was capable, I have no doubt that he encountered his second Capuchin within
