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If you've jumped into this page from somewhere else, I'm Adam. Among other things, I'm the Graduate Fellowship leader at Calvert House on the campus of the University of Chicago. This is part of twelvefruits.com, my personal website, and is my personal take on the situation. I am not speaking in any official capacity.
The priest of my youth was Elwood Figurelle, Father Figurelle to everyone. He started at my childhood parish, Saint Michael's, in 1979, the year I was baptised. Yes, I was four. He stayed sixteen years, leaving in 1995, during my third year of college. He was a strong man, in his late forties and fifties during the post. Often as my family drove by, we would see him planting bushes, or sweeping the parking lot, or building something. I wouldn't call him liturgically gifted. His homilies were just average, though he usually worked without notes. He preferred Communion in the Hand. He did circumvent the rules on altar servers at the time by appointing girls as "Cross Bearers". At the time, only boys could assist at the altar, but apparently he noticed that nothing prevented girls from participating in processions. I served as altar boy for about seven years, and as lector (the first under 18) for my last year before college. Father Figurelle remained pretty aloof. Occasionally, he would talk to us servers before Mass, and somehow what we said would make it into the homily. It took me longer to learn to shut up than most. He wasn't a friend; how can a boy really be friends with any adult, let alone one older than his parents? Still, until I went to college, he was the only priest I knew, the representative of Catholicism.
In October 2003, my mom called me and asked about Father Figurelle. I was surprised. Particularly since she then asked if I had heard of anything untoward or suspicious. I hadn't, of course, and wondered what brought this about. Father Figurelle, now 70, had been arrested on charges of viewing child pornography from the Internet. Here's a link to the relevant details. Since he was guilty, he pled so, and was sentenced in December 2004 to around a year and a half in prison. I was shocked and dismayed, of course. But it was an isolated case; he hadn't physically harmed anyone, and just had fallen to temptation. Actually, I still feel mostly sadness for Father Figurelle, and pray for his healing.
I went to university, where my pastor was J Bryan Hehir, at least as much as he could be with his teaching and lecture schedule. Father Hehir had faith, and scholarship, and leadership. Plus the amazing ability to seemingly subsist; in four years, I don't think I ever saw him eat solid food. We students would joke about it. I served the parish as an Usher, for two years working the 7:30 AM Mass. Those of you that know me now will find that surprising, but it so helped my faith. Often, I would come into St Paul's Church around 7:00 AM, behind just the sacristan. Or the sacristan and Father Hehir. It's where I picked up my tendency to walk around an empty church and talk to God, or prostrate myself in front of the altar to pray. Just after my 20th birthday, returning from a retreat the week after the Armijo suicide, Father Hehir and I talked in the front seat of a van, and I understood the humanity of a priest for the first time. Until then, priests were set above. Not like Christ or anything, since they weren't divine, but basically immune to serious fatigue and loneliness and confusion. His example caused me to consider the priesthood, and while I realized it always felt like a fallback, Father Hehir is still one of my role models.
After college, I spent four years in the suburban wasteland of the Arlington, Virginia Diocese. There are very large parishes, bad worship spaces, and priests focused heavily on enforcing rules and traditionalism over all else. There was this one time with the 15 minute homily on why communion in the Hand was bad. Then there was the time when I stopped by at 3 PM on a weekday for Confession - I had missed a Sunday, but had to attend a funeral and wanted to take Communion. I got yelled at for trying to turn it into "a snap counseling session" because my Confession took two minutes to describe my sins. Apparently, seeking a priest for help is a bad idea, unless you make an appointment. Suffice it to say that I knew no priests in Arlington.
I came to Chicago in 2000, at least partially because Calvert House, the campus Catholic center, was next to my classroom building, and the university was not anti-Catholic. Contrast this with Berkeley, where at a statistics department reception a full professor talked about he couldn't stand all religious people. In the first year, I came for Sundays and holy days, served as lector and for the first time eucharistic minister (the name in 2000), but not much else. Course survival was priority. The chaplain was nice enough, but I didn't know him.
After a year, in came this new guy, Father Mike Yakaitis. Even though he was about my parents' age, he preferred Father Mike. Since I still use last names with my parents' friends and neighbors, this was new, and the first time I ever called a priest this way. He wasn't around much the first year, with other assignments, though I was there a bit more and gained friends. The second year things started to change. Masses got better; homilies improved, singing made sense. The chapel got renovated. We had more speakers, and talks by Father Mike, who had been a professor and could match most of my lecturers. The crowds got bigger, with more Masses and programs, and I met more people, and there was more community. Father Mike and I still weren't friends, although we chatted pleasantly. Priests still had a different aura, and he was my parents' age, and more attuned to Europe and travel and refined tastes than my poor American background. The best description was like trusted boss. When I had the silly idea that people would show up just to eat dinner and talk, he let me run with it - though he was surprised by how many people I got. I talked to him about my confusion about Father Figurelle. When I was depressed and had trouble eating and sleeping (which I describe elsewhere on this site), I trusted him to find me a therapist, and he did. As I said to my friend, "Who else can I trust?" He is the priest I know best.
Monday the 7th, I stopped by Calvert for my weekly chat with the campus minister. I noticed a TV camera outside, and inquired, but was told nothing was happening. Because I had been sniffly, I skipped the outdoor burning of palms, but came later for Mardi Gras dinner. Father Mike looked a little off, but not unreasonably so; he showed fatigue often enough, and I now understood that priests at least had physical weakness. Tuesday is my normal day at home programming, so I didn't head to Calvert. Instead, since I decided to give up hamburgers for Lent, I drove to get one, then to the gym. At 11:05 PM, in my parking lot, I was about to shut the radio when I heard "the chaplain at the University of Chicago, Michael Yakaitis, resigned ...". His last name was mispronounced, but I was confused. I came upstairs and hit Google. Here's the campus paper covering the story, which is the best-written and most evenhanded description of events. To summarize, about 14 years ago, while a professor and dean of students at seminary, Father Mike had a sexual relationship with a 18 year old male seminarian under his supervision. Nothing illegal, though it is impossible to describe any professor-student relationship as fully consensual. The victim wound up leaving seminary. Father Mike took a sabbatical for treatment and therapy, and since then, by all accounts including mine, served faithfully and well.
Now, the priest who defined my Catholicism and the one I knew best have both admitted serious sex crimes. To close out this factual portion, I provide a few other perspectives. The Maroon provides a fair secular opinion. For less fair commentary, this link and this one are filled with merciless people that call themselves Christian. They make the Arlington priests look good. (While the links are factual, I never said my description of them would not be opinionated.)
From that point until now, just about a week later (Wednesday night the 16th), life has been a whirlwind. I basically set aside my dissertation. I started the email conversations that Tuesday night, to a few mature people I thought could help. Then, after fitful rest, I arose, went to Dunkin' Donuts for coffee, and headed to the chapel about 6 in the morning. I opened up, swept the sidewalk, and got ready for the day. Ash Wednesday is the busiest day of the Calvert year, although it's not a day of obligation. Most regular people attend, along with University workers who drop by during the day. There are also a large number of cultural Catholics, for which this is their one stop between Christmas and Easter. While it would be better to attend more frequently, that they still consider the symbol important is hopeful. On this day, Bette and Kathy, the other paid staff, would be extremely busy, so I offered to coordinate Mass logistics. This made sense. Maggie and I, greatly supported by the Holy Spirit, did the job. We chose the alternate ash phrasing, "Turn away from sin and be faithful to the Gospel", which seemed to make more sense. Maggie handled hymnals and chairs and chalices and important stuff. I instructed on how to give ashes, and handled many drop in requests. I also took the responsibility of talking to lectors and EMs and the tutors in the tutoring program about the situation, answering questions. There were press folks on the street. It was decided that the solemnity of the day made an announcement harmful, but ministers needed to be aware.
Seven times I gave the talk that day. Seven times I watched faces contort in shock. People asked about Father Mike, how he was doing, what would happen now and in the future. I tried to answer every question. I tried to be strong and supportive. Unlike the past, I do not think I failed. And I praise God for that. But I'm not a trained pastor. I'm not a psychologist. I'm not a grief counselor. The comfort, the calmness, the security I showed came at great price. There's this hypothetical place, the "Bank of Healing", where one withdraws strength to help people through pain. In ordinary terms, one deposits credits through experience, and prayer, and patient goodness. The bank never has enough to solve the world's cares, or even those of the people in my daily life, but I and others work diligently to not bankrupt it. On Ash Wednesday, I took a rather large loan from the bank of healing. Now I will have to repay that loan. And the terms are not good.
Before moving on to my feelings and the payment of the price, I should probably fill in the rest of the week. At 8 PM Wednesday, I had two thirds of a can of Coke, which kept me awake with a headache until 1 AM. I then slept for 11 1/2 hours. Thursday was answering mail, then Mass and talking and speaking of anger at the leaders' meeting, and telling someone in the gym at 11 PM. That night I wrote and read until my parents awoke, so I could talk to my mom about Father Fig and the public statement read there. Friday was Mass and lunch and waiting for the Maroon and some actual work, then welcoming Bishop Perry for Vespers, dinner, and a fairly heated discussion. Saturday was cards, then dinner, then buying Valentine cards and watching the cool cart escalator at the new Target on Roosevelt, then the gift of a favor; almost a normal day.
Sunday was the jour de Emilie. For a friend, and a sweet friend, I could forgive enough for Communion. For a friend I could cry. And we did, in the chapel's front two center seats. Tears of forgiveness, a little, but mostly loss and empathy. Later that night, the organist and night singers and I sang American spirituals, something sorely, sadly lacking from most Catholic worship. Strengthened, Monday I made communion, then did what leaders do, speaking to a Maroon reporter for 25 minutes. That talk formed much of the basis for the follow up, in where I announce my depression. The very fair writer even double checked that she could use that exact wording. Before the paper hit the streets, Monday night was spent in pleasant moments over carrot cake. But since then, I have shifted from leader to penitent, begun to pay the bank's price, and the grace is gone. A small card freed the pain, which I needed, even as I cry here at 0350 Thursday morning. There is still lots of processing to be done, which brings me to myself.
Let's start with faith. Right now, of the two priests I've known best, the two representatives of God, one is in jail and the other is in hiding. Somewhat surprisingly, I have no loss of faith in Christianity. The basic question of Jesus does not require a priest, or a building, or an institution. A man was crucified on a day. Either that man was the embodiment of God, and escaped death, and thus there is something beyond death for all of us, or that man was just a man, and death ends all, and I waste my time in a giant repressive moral system. Faith is acting as if the first option was true. The faults of the people change nothing. They can obscure the truth, and often they do. Yet I'm still Christian. Furthermore, I still find Catholicism the fullest expression of faith.
Instead of faithlessness, I have several other feelings coursing through my body.
Anger at the sin: There was a very grave evil. In September, I helped with the introduction for teaching. Part of the training was about sexual harassment. I threatened physical violence if anyone in the department had a sexual relationship with a student in their responsibility. I'm not exaggerating much. The damage is very great. While an undergraduate, someone I am very fond of had a professor make serious harassing sexual advances. It took years to get that professor fired, and there are repercussions yet today.
Anger at the appointment: More than the past act, I am very frustrated at the central office of the Archdiocese. This position should never have been offered to Father Mike. Based on the statement, my bishop, Francis Cardinal George, did not seem to know about the incident when making the appointment. That makes the responsibility harder, because it falls to several unknown people who failed to put the information in the proper place. Faceless anger, at "the Chancery" or "the central office", is more cruel. It's harder to fix a process.
Working at a university is not a right. Teaching is an earned privledge, because it confers responsibility. As a teaching assistant or lecturer, I have certain obligations towards my students - to attempt to impart the promised knowledge, to evaluate them fairly, to treat them decently. The power differential restricts relationships; I am even careful about how I act in public gatherings, and privately, clear romantic consent is extremely difficult. If I fail in those responsibilities, there are penalties. In some cases, the penalty is dismissal and loss of the privledge to serve at university. What Father Mike admitted to (even discounting the comments of the victim) falls under this category. Furthermore, one must consider scandal and public image. Should the parents of any 18 year old about to leave home for school send their son or daughter to a place where the unknown chaplain previously fooled around with someone? The parents' responsibility to their family should prohibit that.
The last paragraph has been challenged by several people, who talk about forgiveness and change. I do not deny that people can grow through grace. I do. The Father Mike I know is a good and faithful priest. He should be forgiven. But many people are confused about forgiveness. It does not neglect the consequences or restrictions; it's a personal act. Martin Luther King Jr says it better than I might:
Forgiveness does not mean ignoring what has been done or putting a false label on an evil act. It means, rather, that the evil act no longer remains as a barrier to the relationship. Foregiveness is a catalyst creating the atmosphere necessary for a fresh start and a new beginning ...
I've spoken with a lot of people the last two weeks, and the concept of "forgiveness" varies by position. There's a very strong age split. Almost uniformly, undergrads and young graduate students wondered why Father Mike had to leave. Older students and parents were much more angry about the appointment. Numerically, the cutoff is about 25, but is better described as one of responsibility. Lecturers and senior TAs and parents see the concerns, while less experienced people focus more internally. This was a very interesting observation.
Anger at the handling: More than the appointment, I am extremely frustrated at the way diocesian administration and media relations handled the situation. Although I am severely tempted, this is not the proper forum to name names and enumerate errors. What I will say is that I expected my church to give the same honor and witness that I demand of myself. Calvert House could make no public statement, though the Director of Media Relations found the time to nit-pick others' quotes in the Maroon. This was a time to talk about evil and repentance and conversion. I could have easily had 25 students give intelligent quotes about sin and redemption and the solid job Father Mike did. Instead, we hid from the press. Instead of a strong leader or team to speak at Masses and help with concerns, we got a lawyer. If the church isn't going to stand up and take account, why should I offer my time and energy? If it's not living the Gospel example, how can it be my Church?
What have I learned from these two weeks? Rather painfully, the main lesson is that becoming a priest does not grant a lot. The man gets the ability to perform sacraments. It doesn't make him super smart. It doesn't make him a great leader. It doesn't make him a good administrator. It doesn't make him a great preacher. It doesn't make him a nice guy. It doesn't make him extra strong. It doesn't make him immune to temptation. It doesn't protect him from error.
As a boy, I automatically deferred to my priest, Father Figurelle. That was the right practice; 10 year old boys should challenge adults on very few things. I deferred to lots of authority figures. Now, it's 20 years later, and I'm in a much different position as manager, lecturer, and leader. Part of becoming an adult is learning to understand authority, learning when to defer, when to question, and when to wield. Very few people get it fully, and I am certainly not one. But I have learned that the Catholic Church is not exempt from an examination of authority.
I must be careful here, because there are places where the Church and its representatives have obvious authority. I have no right to try to consecrate a host or absolve a sin. But there are other situations where I do have the right to question. In fact, I'll go farther, and say that sometimes I have the responsibility to suggest and take charge within the Church. This is a very controversial statement with many people, who interpret obedience wrongly as total submissive deference on all matters of faith and practice. The obedients make themselves stupid. They expect the ordained and the administration to be omniscient and sinless. It is clear that the church does not know all and does not escape evil. If you've forgotten, just read the first section of this page again.
I am angry at the organization of church. And this anger is justified. When I was younger, I used to think anger was always sinful, that it never leads to positive results, only pain and bitterness. Father Hehir, my counselor at the time, reminded me otherwise. He made me study John 2, where Jesus turns over the tables around the temple. Father Hehir was right. We are to be slow to anger, and try not to let the sun set on it, and realize that anger is not fully God's righteousness, but there are examples of outrage serving the purpose of good. If I look at the money-changers in the temple as administrators, lawyers, and media relations, the time is right to turn over some tables.
I am an adult now, by saying that. I have assumed the power to punish and lead; I must also take the power to restore and forgive. Right now, I am too bitter; it is too painful to take communion in this diocese, or any Mass in Calvert House. The restoration will take time. By Dr. King's definition, I have forgiven Father Mike; his past is no barrier to our personal relationship, although the worldly consequences remain. I would ask him again for a recommendation. On the other hand, I have not reached the accomodation with the diocese; the barrier remains. I don't know when I will. The wounds are deep, and the price was steep.
On Sunday, the 20th, as I sobbed through another payment, one of the spirituals from earlier rang through my head. Based on a line of Jeremiah, a man angry enough to form the basis for the word jeremiad, it's a song of hope and restoration. Perhaps it's a good ending.
There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sin sick soul.
Some times I feel discouraged,
And think my work's in vain,
But then the Holy Spirit
Revives my soul again.
There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sin sick soul.
Illusion written 13 February 2005. Broken written 16 Feb. Feelings written 18-19 Feb, and Restoration written 20-21 Feb. The first two section quotes are from the 11 February episode of Joan of Arcadia, "Romancing the Joan", written by Barbara Hall. The third, about Christians, is from On Being a Christian by Hans Kung. The fourth is from Too Late the Phalarope by Alan Paton. The song, There is a Balm in Gilead, is number 648 in Gather Comprehensive from GIA Music, and in Ritual Song it's number 764.
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