Critical Mass

A natural part of aging together as a married couple is the increase in conversations about how things will be when one of us dies.

We’ve explored what Mrs. Orr might likely do if I go first, and what I might do. It’s obvious and natural that my beloved wife would want to be near the boys and the grandchildren, and this would be a good thing — good for her to have loved ones near her, and good for the young ones to enjoy the benign influence of so saintly a grandmother.

I am a horse of a different color.

I love my family very much, but the older I grow, the more my natural love of solitude and silence grows. To me, it’s clear that if my wife departs this life before me, the heart will go out of me to do and enjoy most things that are now a regular part of my days. If I were in close proximity to loved ones as a widower, I suspect I would hardly be a source of joy.

Re-reading these lines, I am struck with the self-pitying tone they seem to carry. But as sincerely as I can manage, I have examined myself and do not think I am indulging in this particular vice. I honestly think the MeeMaw-less years of the winter of my life would be spent in withdrawal from most things and people.

And for the record, yes, we are MeeMaw and PeePaw to our grandchildren.*

So what would a reclusive elderly widower do with the rest of his life?

I’ve told Mrs. Orr many times and quite frankly that the life of a cloistered monk would appeal greatly to me. In our visits to Our Lady of Gethsemani Monastery in Kentucky, I have had the opportunity to observe these hidden and forgotten men as they go about the natural rhythm of the hours of their days. I have noted the contrast between their lives and the lives of the aged suburbanites with their Senior Center exercise classes and buffet get-togethers, between their self-imposed solitude and the involuntary loneliness of the impoverished retired coal miner whose children never call and whose neighbors don’t even know if they’re still alive.

I can think of no more profitable way to spend the last years of my life than as a monk, lifting my hands and voice to God in prayer seven times a day, praying for the world, for the souls in purgatory, for the land and its crops, for the glory of Christ and the honor of His Mother and the will of our Father.

But that door is closed to me.

Yes, I have done a bit of investigating, and there is an age limit for monks. Most monasteries will not accept any man over the age of 50. I do understand why this is…after all, a man my age is more likely to bring health problems in the gate with him, and the monks have limited resources to devote to geriatric care in their infirmaries. This makes sense, but it is a personal disappointment to me, because it means that an appealing option has been walled off to me.

I realize I’m rambling. Stay with me, friends.

The other day, I read this post at Mundabor’s blog. I will post it here in its entirety so that you may read it first before proceeding with what I have to say:

We are informed that priestly vocation in Italy are decreasing sharply (almost 30% in a decade). What a surprise, eh? I think I know why.

Now let us imagine you are a young boy with a strong faith and some vague inkling that the best use of your life is actually giving it to Christ. You would, first, be discouraged by the fact that, let us speak frankly here, the figure of the priest is not very manly anymore. When the priest was seen as a man’s man, and a person of authority in his local community, vocation and manliness went hand in hand. But if the priest is seen as a loser of dubious virility, many will just not be put in that box. Similarly, such a boy is unlikely to have a manly priest near him. I must say I see shockingly few around me. Even with a strong vocation, it must be cool and manly to be a priest.

Our young man is, however, stronger than that, and applies for the seminary anyway. He will likely be rejected if he is found to be “rigid”, that is, Catholic. There go a number of vocations, straight off the bat.

But let us say our guy makes it. Once inside, he is not unlikely to discover that many of his colleagues are on the high-pitched side, others are rumoured to be homosexual, and a couple or more are actually known sodomites. He’ll soon learn that it is very “rigid” to touch the topic, and he should trust that his superiors have everything in hand. He will also be exposed to heretical teaching. Doubting will be cool. Questioning will be cool. Being Catholic will not be cool at all.

But hey, our guy is very smart and has decided he will get through the Valley of Death because he wants to be a good priest. That’s where the real problems begin.

Father Guy will soon discover that he has to do with a number of lay committees, filled with sanctimonious busybodies who did not smoke enough forbidden substances in the Sixties and Sixties to die. Being, at this point, highly trained in these matters, he will soon realise that a couple of progressive harridans have already targeted him for a complaint to the Bishop. Father Guy is rigid, they will say. Not inclusive. Insensitive. Pelagian! He is just the contrary of what the Future Saint Francis Of the Blessed Wheelchair wants from a priest! One wrong homily, one “upset” parishioner, one “rigid” remark, and the circus will start.

The Bishop will have a chat a first time, then a second and then a third. He will explain to him that “insensitive” topics should be avoided, and Mrs Thornycroft should not have to “cry” just because her son, who is oh so loving, is “gay”. Father Guy will learn that he is supposed to “accompany” the faithful, not upset them. Upsetting people is not very pastoral, you know… He will be told that he should smell a bit more, like his sheep…

I don’t blame the young guy for not wanting to become Father Guy, vocation and all.

Not everybody wants to become the martyr of Mrs Thornycroft, who did not want to be upset and cry.

Mundabor’s assessment of the priesthood and of what faces potential seminarians is on-target.  I only met a couple of priests when I was a boy in Protestant bible-belt land, but I remember both of them being very imposing, masculine fellows. One of them used to box at the local gym and the other was an avid fishermen. They were on the faculty at the parochial school across the street from the elementary school I attended. I can recall watching the Catholic kids in their uniforms playing in their playground and feeling something…envy?….while observing them. They were exotic and fascinating to me. Anyway, the priests were formidable but friendly. They were nothing like the fruity fops wearing Roman collars I’ve encountered in recent years. As Mundabor points out, what normal young man would look at the current state of the priesthood and think, “Oh, yeah, that’s for me!” ?

So what’s to become of the priesthood? In the most literal sense of the phrase, God only knows.

Far be it for someone like me, a non-official Catholic, to offer suggestions to the Church about how to run her affairs, but it occurs to me that necessity really IS the mother of invention sometimes.

There are groups outside of the Novus Ordo who seem to operate in a fairly proper manner, groups like the Society of St. Pius X (SSPX) and the Priestly Fraternity of St. Peter (FSSP). These Catholic groups seek reform and a reverent return to the pre-Vatican II way of Roman Catholicism. And it is to such organizations that I offer my clumsy recommendation. I say “clumsy” because I have neither the education nor the acumen to offer a systematic outline of how my idea would work. I won’t apologize for being a half-baked autodidact — I will simply speak my piece and then hit the “publish”  button.

Why not open up the priestly vocation to elderly men?

To me, it is clear that the “regular” Catholic church, the Novus Ordo crowd, are not an option for men who discern a vocation to the priesthood, unless they want to become a frocked version of a towel boy at the Castro District Baths. Splinter groups like the SSPX and FSSP, for all their apparent internecine controversies, seem like a better option.

But the problem remains. Young men aren’t staying away from the priestly calling simply because of the faggotry in the mainstream Catholic church. They’re staying away because they’re young men in AD 2021. They have neither been raised nor prepared to even consider the priesthood. Young men desperate to find their life’s purpose but who lack the financial resources to pursue certain paths just might consider the military, as I did. But that door is closing, too, with the advent of the 3rd Armored Tranny & Wymyn Empowered Brigade, commanded by tolerant and open-minded persyns holding all the rigorous academic and military qualifications of, say, Kamala Harris or Lori Lightfoot. Serious young men who want to discern and set out upon their life’s path have almost no options left that do not involve self-imposed slavery in some form.

Normal young men are almost certainly not going to suddenly “discover” the priestly vocation. The ranks are thinning and are going to get even thinner.

But if the SSPX and FSSP could develop seminary programs for older men….ah.

We have the technology and resources to assemble online seminary programs which could be overseen by faithful bishops and priests, programs which could eliminate the time-wasting nature of classroom attendance. Older men, especially widowers,  who discern a priestly vocation would be disciplined and dedicated and motivated. There would likely be a very low dropout rate. These men, unencumbered by wives and young children and family life obligations, could dedicate themselves to learning the requirements of holy orders. They could be mentored and supervised by experienced priests. Once ordained and installed, they could bring an immense measure of life experience and seasoned, mature wisdom to the office. They would also bring an aura of trust and respectability to the priesthood.

Imagine yourself as a new convert to Catholicism.  You’re going to be baptized and confirmed in the Church. You must make your first Confession. To whom would you rather make Confession, a 28 year old lisping graduate of Catholic University who Tweets ten times a day and describes himself on his Facebook page as a “radical foodie,” or a 70 year-old widower who built his own business from the ground up, raised a child with Down’s Syndrome, nursed his wife through Alzheimer’s disease until her death, and then pursued priestly ordination out of a sincere desire to serve Christ and His Church, studying late into the night and accompanying his ordained mentor into the field to gain practical experience?

“Why would the Church invest so much time in someone who might have, at best, ten or twenty years to devote to the priesthood?” I’d answer that question by asking whether the Church would rather get sixty years out of some poofy little funboi who’s never gotten dirt under his fingernails. or a mere ten years from an experienced, serious man who has withstood life’s batterings and who heeded the vocation not because of financial or social need, but rather to burn his life out in sacrifice and service?

I suspect that if traditional Catholic groups like those mentioned above were to put out feelers to see if any older men are interested in becoming Roman Catholic priests, the response would be completely overwhelming.

What would it cost the Church to make such an overture? And what might be the benefits for her, for the glory and honor of Christ and the strength of His Church?

If the Lord were to call Mrs. Orr home tonight, and if the Church had such a program in place for older men, I would fling myself into it headlong, without hesitation or reservation.

I suspect I am not alone.

~ S.K. Orr

* The “MeeMaw and PeePaw thing came about in typical Orr fashion. When our eldest son’s wife became pregnant with our first granddaughters — identical twins — we had many rambling, happy conversations about what the as yet-unborn girls might call us. I decided that I wanted to be called something dignified, something Old World. I told everyone, “I want to be called Grand Papa,” emphasis on the second “pa.” 

Then our son said, “You realize, of course, that they’ll pick their own names for you. And you’ll probably end up being something really hillbilly and hicky like ‘PeePaw’.” This made me laugh, and it became a running joke in the family. So naturally, when the twins were born, the kids began referring to my wife and me as “MeeMaw and PeePaw.” In short order, we stopped being “Mom and Dad” and became “MeeMaw and PeePaw,” even in casual conversation not involving the grandchildren. Our daughter in law would call up and say, “PeePaw, does MeeMaw have the phone number of that bookstore…?” And our younger son and his then-fiance began doing the same, and then when they married and began having children, we were MeeMaw and PeePaw to their boys as well, and thus are such things engraved in the family history…