Once again, Chicago’s river ran green on St. Patrick’s Day, and no doubt Old St. Patrick’s Mass was well attended by the famous and the not-so-famous, a tribute to the Lord who gathers all into his sheepfold.

Young lads and lassies danced the Irish jig all around the city, and tenors warmed the hearts of young and old alike with renditions of “Danny Boy,” and “Galway Bay,” as we paused to think about the thousands and thousands who shored up their courage and set out for the sea voyage to a new home, among whom were Ireland’s missionaries, filled with zeal to be of service to those who had preceded them, among whom was a priest we’ll call Father Clancy.

By now, the good priest must be enjoying his well-deserved Heavenly reward, but since he cannot give permission for his story to be told, we shall honor his privacy and not give his real name.

I first met Father when two friends and I signed up for a two-week stint of teaching religion in his parish, right in the middle of Iowa’s corn fields, miles from the nearest town, further yet from another parish or clergy companionship.

It’s still a mystery to me why the bishop chose to assign the gregarious, politically savvy, brilliant priest to a nowhere parish as punishment for his being on too-friendly terms with 80-proof of anything.  That he conquered his weakness there is a tribute to grace, and I don’t know what else.  Never asked. Wanted to.

Once in a while, a deep sadness would seem to overcome this shepherd, whether from disappointment, loneliness, or both. If he went to any AA meetings, he never mentioned them. However, it seemed to me AA came to him in the form of a congregation straight out of a Catholic Land of Oz, where young and old  worked together to make the parish work, and to help keep its leader sober, one day at a time.

It was the month of May, and every night bells would chime out across the fields, inviting the people to the rosary and Benediction.  And they came, whole families came. The adults gathered in the parking area, while the young people chose the steps to chatter about everything from exams to the basketball games. 

After the service, the adults headed for the rectory, while most of the younger set continued milling around outside.  Every night, there was an adult study group, held in the living room, with friendly, but serious dialogue about everything from divorce to the goings-on in the Vatican or how to start a co-op.

Clancy’s love of learning was apparent in his collection of books, which were everywhere, with order nowhere – books on shelves, tables, in corners, on the floor, spilling over from the living room onto the dining room chairs, stopping at the kitchen door, where a white Aunt Jamima had built an invisible wall to protect her sacred workplace.  People checked out the books on the honor system,  signing them out in a notebook, and scratching out the title when returned.

Father Clancy  was a born teacher, and came alive before the chalkboard.  Yet, he insisted on the women’s taking over some of the adult sessions, saying the people needed a woman’s touch. He was so far ahead of his time, I am sure he would have welcomed women priests into ministry.

With regard to the parish budget, he practiced transparency before the term became part of our operating vocabulary.  A group of lay people kept track of the bills, the salaries of the few paid staff members, needed repairs or replacements to the church property, etc.  The pastor sat in on the finance meetings and signed the checks, but the nuts and bolts of running the parish were in the hands of the laity.

If one were to describe the Irish priest in one word, I think it would be “available.”  He was there for his people, all his people.  One hour a day was off limits, the one he spent praying in the white frame church...with no air-conditioning, no matter how hot and humid the Iowa summer’s day.

Father always came to our city parish’s Forty Hours Devotion, and his delight to be among the large gathering of  his brother priests revealed the sacrifice required of many, who find the isolation of rural living difficult.

I would have given a great deal to have learned something of his prayer life, and of what it was that kept him at his post, serving, ever serving, year after year.  Yet, it was obvious that that part of his life was too sacred and too personal to be shared with anyone but, perhaps, a chosen few. 

Such saints come into our lives and take up residence, reminding us that lived faith is the only kind worthy of our attention. Just ask Patrick and Father Clancy, and, of course, Jesus Christ.   

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