The Resurrectionist

Some of you who read my blog may remember a gentleman by the name of Walter "Bud" Ober, a parishioner of St. Martin of Tours parish here in Louisville. Several of those who knew him in our parish nicknamed him "The Saint of Saint Martin's", and from my own personal acquaintance with him I am strongly inclined to agree. Indeed, among the handful of truly holy people whom I have been privileged to know in my life, I can think of few more worthy of canonization than Bud Ober.

I met Bud some seven or eight years ago at Saint Martin's, during a time in which I was Catholic in faith, but had not yet entered sacramentally into the Church. At the time, the already frail and elderly widower ran the Perpetual Eucharistic Adoration Chapel, attended Mass seven days a week, led Rosary prayers before and after noon Mass Monday through Saturday, led the Divine Mercy novenas, and on Fridays led the Stations of the Cross.  I remember him, as his health failed, wearing a neck brace, bent almost double, shuffling slowly up the aisle to find his pew, looking for all the world like a corpse in pain, only to raise his head and fix one with the most youthful and truly joyful smile one can imagine. The Spirit blazed and shone within his aging body, and I quickly became aware that when I was around him I was standing in the presence of holiness of a rare and beautiful degree.

Bud Ober is not the point of this post today, which is about another man, but I mention him here because I owe him something. Several things, actually-- his prayers, his kindness-- but one day he did two things for me changed my life forever. At that time I hung out at St. Martin's, soaking up what I could, though I could not yet receive the Sacraments. I had largely been alone in my journey towards the Church, and had at that time spoken only once to a priest. I was not yet familiar with priests; I saw some for whom I had great respect, but I deemed them to be "different", as though from another planet. St. Martin's parish was blessed with no less than four priests during this time, which was the reason for the great number of Masses celebrated there (some seventeen or more a week, I believe). The pastor was Fr. Frederick Klotter, and he was assisted by three retired priests from the Congregation of the  Resurrectionists: Fr. Charles Scheinbackler (who said the Latin Mass into his nineties), Fr. Ray Hoffmann, and Fr. John Lesousky. The last two celebrated most of the daily Masses at St. Martin's, and I saw and heard them both regularly, though I  never spoken to either one of them.

During those days I was very lost, afflicted with severe OCD and religious scruples, living an unguided ascetical lifestyle that was dangerous to my mental health, and which later proved to be rooted in mental illness. Crushed and burdened, I entered St. Martin's one day, somewhat near despair, filled with the maddening horror (against all Catholic teaching) that I had somehow committed the sin against the Holy Spirit, and was already doomed to everlasting hell, an eternity of emptiness and separation.  I could find no solace, no hope, and so I turned to Bud Ober, pulling him aside after the noon Mass, and asking him if we could talk for a while. He took me to the Saint Gregory chapel in the back of the Church, and I poured out all my troubles to him, hoping that here was a man who could offer me guidance, wisdom, and hope. He did, but not in the way I expected. I do not remember that he said one direct word to relieve my situation, but in his wisdom and simplicity he did two things which I will never forget.His only advice was to tell me, "You need to talk to a priest". He then took off his scapular and gave it to me, leading me in a short Marian consecration. Then he left me with the promise that he would arrange to introduce me to one of the priests, either Fr. Hoffmann, or Fr. Lesousky. Little did I guess that day how great was the Hand of God.

Now I had seen both of the priests he mentioned celebrate Mass, and I had heard their homilies. I knew which priest I wanted to meet-- Fr. Lesousky. If there ever was a man who looked and sounded like one of the saints of old it was surely Fr. John. He exuded reverence and sanctity. With his gleaming snow-white hair, strong jaw, and rich, oratorical voice he has always reminded me of a clean-shaven, Catholic Gandalf, bridging the gap between darkness and light, and thundering against the forces of evil, "You shall not pass!" Here was the man who could help me! Like Padre Pio, or Jean Vianney, he would surely read my soul, work a miracle in my mind, and with magnificent wisdom and Divinely inspired advice would dispell the darkness and set me free.
 
I returned to St. Martin's a day or two later (my memory of these events is sketchy now), and Bud told me that he would introduce me to the priest after Mass. I felt a twinge of disappointment, for the priest that day was Fr. Ray, not Fr. John. No doubt Fr. Ray was a good man, but his voice was less inspiring than Fr. John's, his homilies were short and simple, read from a sheet of printer paper; also, I was scrupulous and judgmental enough to imagine that the good priest's slightly portly bearing was an indication of overindulgence and a soft lifestyle.

Nonetheless, he was kind and welcoming and we talked by the tabernacle for some thirty minutes to an hour. He listened to my fears and scruples, and to my dismay seemed to think that I was overdoing my asceticism. The only thing which I clearly remember and took from that meeting, is the memory that at one point he told me, "It's okay to go out and have a beer with your friends." I was mildly shocked. Perhaps I expected a miracle, perhaps some paradigm-changing penance, perhaps some perfect prayers to say, something more austere, more "holy" to my mind. I confess that I went away a little disappointed, blinded to the work of God, with no idea that I had just been given my Father and my confessor, straight from the hand of God.

Holiness comes in many guises, and the Spirit works in many ways. I had, and have, so much to learn. At least in hindsight now I have begun to see that it is God, and not myself, Who best knows what I need. I did not need a miracle then, I needed humility; I was not ready for majesty, I needed mercy; not heroic works of Charity, but small steps of trust; not fasts and penances, but gentleness and patience. And holiness, what of that? It was there as well, cloaked in simplicity, and I slowly learned that Fr. Ray Hoffmann was one of the holiest men that I have ever known. The saints of God express perhaps one or so of the attributes of the Divinity. There are those who overturn the moneychangers tables and sweep the temple clean. There are those who stand against the Pharisees and call them out as hypocrites and snakes. There are those who raise the dead and walk on water. And there are those who say to the woman caught in adultery, "Neither do I condemn thee." Father Ray was one of these. No condemnation did I ever receive at his hands, no judgement, no wearying of patience, no end to mercy.

He was not a man given to deep theological discourses, or to severe ascetical practices. He was rather the quintessential parish priest; always with a smile and a quick joke, always humble, always trusting, always simple (in the best meaning of that word). I never saw him troubled or perturbed, never angry, never sad. He was like the calm, unruffled water that disguises great depth.

In spite of my initial disappointment, I had at least made contact with a priest, so I called him again not long after that. And then again. And then it began to become a habit. I confessed to him, even before I entered the Church and could receive sacramental absolution. I did almost all the talking, and he listened. I poured out my troubles, my sins, my fears. I tortured him with my scruples, I argued with him when he told me I was being too hard on myself. Like all people with scruples I could not trust, and was convinced that I was always right. I must have worn him out. I must have been the most frustrating child. I called him too late sometimes. Sometimes I felt that I needed to confess two or three times a week. I would talk sometimes for over an hour, going over the same ground, re-explaining, arguing, doubting. Yes, I am quite certain that I wore him out. Often, too, I would make an appointment, and then go off the deep end, returning like the proverbial sow to the mud, to a profligate and un-Christian lifestyle. I would not cancel my appointments, I would simply not show up, sometimes for a month or two. All the while I lived a morally bi-polar life, swinging from scruples to decadence, and back again. And then, one day, I would call him and ask if I could drop by for a while. And then I would repeat it all over again. And never once did he rebuke me, or show anger at the shoddy way in which I had treated him. Never did he chastise me, or turn me away. Never once was he less than welcoming, less than patient, less than kind. He became a rock and light to me, and I can still see him, still hear his voice in my mind. He walked with me through my greatest darknesses, my deepest pains, my most overwhelming fears. He saw my hopes, my joys, and the Hand of God in my life. He married my wife and I, he blessed our apartment and our van, he heard my wife's first confession when she entered the church, he lived to see all three of our children, and we named our little Ezra Ray after him.

He was in his late seventies when we first met, in his eighties when he contracted cancer. He told my wife and I in private, and made it clear that he wanted it kept quiet and did not want a big deal made of it. He never lost his sense of humor. When I asked him rather bluntly once (because you can talk to a priest about things like death) what the prognosis was, how long he had, he laughed cheerfully and said, "Well, you've still got time to buy bananas and they'll ripen." In fact he lasted much longer than any of us expected, though he was moved from the rectory at Our Lady of Lourdes to assisted living, and became steadily more bed-ridden. His health continued to weaken, his hearing began to fail, but he remained mentally sharp and his spirits never seemed to dim. My wife and I slowly sought out a new confessor, but continued occasionally to still go to him, receiving absolution at his bedside.

After long months his condition seemed to improve somewhat, and the cancer went into remission. I began to think he might hold on for a long while. I called him about three weeks ago to set a time for confession, but my plate was very full and I had to cancel. I figured I would reschedule soon. I never guessed that time had run out. He passed from us three days ago, on Wednesday night, the eve of the traditional Feast of the Ascension. I cannot help but feel deep sorrow that I did not see him one last time. As I examine my emotions, I do not feel despair or overwhelming sadness. I am glad for him, for he had fought the good fight, and it was time for him to leave his bed. He was a man at peace, a holy man, one of the Father's true children. He was deeply devoted to the Rosary and to Mary, and I have no doubt the Blessed Virgin stood by him at the end. But for myself I hold some sorrow, for I miss the man that guided me so long, though it is no small thing to know I have a priest upon the Other Side, still there to pray and bless. I can truly say of him, that I have no idea where I would be now had God not sent him to me. Perhaps lying in a gutter. Perhaps something worse.

Like any Catholic should, I will say some prayers for him, lest he spend even a minute in Purgatory, but I do not think he will. He was a holy man, a model of patience and humility. He was God's gift to me for a time, though I did not guess it when we first met, when he suggested I go and have a beer with my friends (God bless you for that, Fr. Ray!). He was the son of a baker who fed me with the bread of life. He was a valiant man, who by the Grace of God, had long triumphed over alcoholism and defeat. For all his simplicity he was no fool. He was deeply acquainted with the human condition, and deeply acquainted with the Love and Mercy of our God. He knew me better than I knew myself, and knew what I needed when I could not see the truth. He was one of those who entered into the mystery of the Incarnation, and showed to me the Love of God in human form.

There is a line in the Requiem Mass which requests for the departed, "Let the standard-bearer, holy Michael, bring them into holy light." So be it. And "Grant them eternal rest, Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them." May you be triply blessed for all you did for me, and may your reward be great. Now rest in peace, my Father, my confessor, and the greatest man I have ever known.