the second half of the morning, guests receive a healing blanket prayerfully made by a supporting parish community. Paul invites the guests to reflect on the cross as a living symbol of God’s union with them in their suffering. Their suffering is known by God and embraced by God as a place of hope and victory. The vertical and horizontal lines of the cross reflect one’s personal relationship with God and the living witness of God through others. The cross is the sign of victory over the moment of death, Paul says, as well as the promise of eternal life in the company of God and the community of saints.
After breaking for lunch and a rest period, the guests reconvene. Then follows what Paul has called “the most powerful experience of my life.” Paul assembles everyone for a time of solemn prayer called the adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. Gathered in the chapel, the guests sit in a circle surrounded by the retreat staff. Before everyone on the altar sits a small monstrance, or gold frame, containing a consecrated host (wafer). The Scriptures are read recalling God’s covenant of love for his people. Roman Catholics believe that in the celebration of the Eucharist, the bread and the wine become the “real presence” of Jesus Christ. The living sacramental presence of Jesus is reserved in the tabernacles of Catholic churches for distribution to the sick and dying and for prayerful adoration. This service is one of adoration. Father Paul carries the small monstrance to each guest, who is given time to pray with Jesus for as long as he or she needs as the retreat team sings softly in the background. As they pray, these seriously ill people connect with Jesus, the One who promises to be with them always, to love them without end. “The silence of that service is charged with holiness,” says Paul.
After a period of rest, Paul celebrates the Eucharist again in the late afternoon. Dinner follows, and the closing ritual of the day is the sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick. In this sacrament, the community of faith—the church—prays for the recovery of the sick and peaceful transition of the dying to the company of God. The anointing reaffirms the promise of God that whenever the church prays and exercises a healing ministry in the name of the Lord, God will raise up the sick persons and save them. Members of the retreat team are offered an opportunity to receive this sacrament as well.
The day ends with “Gaudeamus” (Latin for “let’s rejoice”). This is a continuation of the prayerful gatherings of the day. Now the guests are treated to a program of joyous songs, wonderful food, and abundant laughter. After a long day of conferences and prayer services, all the retreat participants and retreat staff “enjoy gathering for fun, a time to laugh and sing and to recognize that God is in all things!” says Paul.
On Sunday morning after breakfast, Paul invites the guests to take time alone and review what has happened on the retreat. They are encouraged to name a moment, conversation, prayer, or word they received from God during the retreat. After a period alone, the guests come back together. They are offered the opportunity to speak about their experience, though some choose to remain silent. These reflections are shared without comment; they are received with compassion and thanksgiving to God. At the end of this shared reflection, each guest is invited to take one of the prayer cards home with them and to continue to pray for the guest who wrote it at the beginning of the retreat. The gathering ends with staff washing and anointing the feet of the guests. This ritual of honor and respect for the guests captures the spirit of the retreat. With this final action, the guests and staff go to the chapel to welcome family members for Sunday Eucharist, and later a closing lunch for all.
The retreat is an elegantly simple idea: a time of silence so that seriously ill people can listen. They can prayerfully listen and receive the consolation of God’s presence in this stage of life. And in listening, they hear the deepest longings of their own hearts. They receive. They find God.
One example: a woman with terminal cancer registered for a Genneseret Retreat. A week before the retreat, she suddenly cancelled. When the next retreat came up, she registered again. When she arrived, she was defensive and sullen. Eventually she asked Paul if she could speak with him during one of the quiet times. When they met, she told her story—at first slowly and then in a torrent of words. Her husband sexually abused her. Her priest had told her to keep the marriage together despite the abuse. She finally divorced her husband. She had an adopted son, and just before she attended the retreat, he told his mother he was HIV positive.
It was the first time in her life she had disclosed to anyone the pain of her life. Paul said nothing. He listened. At the end, she said, “You are the first priest or even the first human being who has listened to me without comment and without judgment.” And then she cried.
“People want to be received with care,” Paul says. “By listening to ourselves, we receive. By listening to others, we receive. By listening to God, we receive. Listening is so difficult for us. But it is the way we hear the deepest longings of our hearts and the loving words of God.”
“The message of God comes in a thousand different voices,” Paul declares.
At the end of one Gennesaret Retreat, when Paul was clearly drained, I asked him, “Why do you do these retreats?” He replied, “This is what I am meant to do.”
This book contains the voices of a few of those who showed in their dying how they learned to listen and receive the loving embrace of God. At the end of their lives and in their own unique and different ways, they found God—with the help of a priest who listened.
Maria
The Woman Who Yearned for Reconciliation
I met Maria in the early 1990s while I was serving as pastor of a large, suburban congregation with more than three thousand households. During one Lenten season, I offered to pray with anyone who wanted intercessory prayer immediately after Mass.
One Sunday Maria stopped me in the middle of the foyer. She told me forcefully, “I need a prayer for my medical condition.” “Now?” I asked. “Yes, now,” she insisted. “Why?” I inquired. “Because I have a hard decision to make. I need some help.”
I asked her to explain her situation before we started to pray. She reported that she was a survivor of breast cancer. She had undergone surgery six years earlier, and her cancer went into remission. But now it had reappeared, and she didn’t know what treatment she should undergo.
I placed my hands on her shoulders, and she put her hands around me. I prayed in a whisper that she would be aware of and be filled with the presence and wisdom of God to recognize the possibilities that were unfolding for her. She prayed for strength to endure and handle the chaos of her inner life. A madhouse of people was swirling all around us in the foyer, but we paid no attention to them. Her husband stood in the background.
That first encounter symbolized what eventually became one of the most extraordinary spiritual relationships of my ministry. Maria was an Italian-American woman in her late fifties with equal parts humble piety and strong will. She had four children, all living away from home; her husband owned a business in New York City; and as mother and wife, she was the center, the glue of her family’s life (this is true in many Italian families). She yearned for God’s presence and guidance, but she also took responsibility for her life—her treatment for cancer and her accountability with others and with God.
After that prayer in the foyer, Maria consulted with her doctor and later called me to come to her home. She reported that the cancer had spread to her lymph nodes, and the doctor recommended chemotherapy. Keenly aware of her condition, she was shocked by the reappearance of the cancer. Nevertheless, she said, “I think I don’t have enough information to make a good decision.” She decided on a second opinion, and it came back the same. Both doctors suggested chemotherapy sooner rather than later.
She received eight chemotherapy treatments over the next couple of months. To virtually everyone,
