I was honored to know a holy priest for a few years. He died in 2019. Don't misunderstand what I mean by "holy." He didn't levitate on waves of sanctity. He wasn't so "spiritual" that he only spoke in hallowed aphorisms. No, he was a prize-winning pugilist in the ring of life. He'd worn the cassock for 50 years, 48 or so of them as a Melkite Greek-Catholic, which is a tradition that might just blow up your ideas of what it means to be a Christian. Fr. Joseph had baptized, married and buried ("hatched, matched, and dispatched," as it were) generations of people, and he was there to roll with their punches every step of the way.
He became like a, well, father to me. In the best sense. He was good. He bridged the divide between theology and reality, which I didn’t even think was possible.
One of the things I respected about him the most? His hands. They were powerful and inexplicably rough, although I never saw him chop wood or something like that. I once had the weird thought that if he were ever to come at me with a right hook, that meaty club could shut my lights out before I even hit the ground.
And I think he loved our little church men's group more than almost anything.
In one of his talks to the men back in April of the year he died, he talked about how a man's mission is to provide, protect, and preserve. It was funny because it sounded like he might be a secret fan of Ryan Michler's "Order of Man," whose motto is, "Protect. Provide. Preside." I was into that at the time - even a paying member of the "Iron Council."
I loved that he said it, and with that particular "spin." Michler's "Preside" has something to do with being the king and leader of the household. Father's "Preserve" had more to do with keeping the Tradition alive, especially in the home. I might be putting words in his mouth, but I think I'm on track here. He was talking about the capitol-T Tradition - that is, the faith tradition that sustained and challenged all of us. Being the “spiritual leader of the domestic church" one might say.
I served at his last Liturgy. The powerful man was reduced to skin and bones, but he still had the fire, and he used it to give one last homily. Two men stood to either side of Father Joseph, holding him up. Another man held a bowl that he could vomit into between labored sentences. I stood just behind him and the iconostasis, amidst a record number of other men serving. All of his sons wanted to serve at what we knew would be his final liturgy, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.
Why am I thinking about this right now? Well, I could sure use his wise, hopeful and joyful counsel right now, that’s for sure. But I know it’s something else. A thought is forming. A mission? The mind does this thing in the midst of chaos - it grabs threads of disparate situations and ties them off into a neat, comprehensible bow.
The fun and exquisitely ironic thing about writing a blog on the subject of rebuilding life in the midst of chaos, is that prudence demands one not elaborate on the specifics of said chaos. So, I won’t. Suffice it to say that the daily ration of merde sandwiches has included some real culinary triumphs lately.
The infernal garçon brought servings of something very close to, but not quite, betrayals. Someone did a thing more as a result of fatigue and fear than anything else. Another person close to me (although apparently on an outbound vector, I fear) overrode all the safeties and did another thing based on that first thing.
It hurt. A lot. And it made me wonder (briefly) what, exactly, I’m fighting for.
The silver lining? Heroes emerge. One was another radical priest, (radical in the sense of conspicuous bravery in the face of freakish odds) stepped up and into a tough situation despite his own personal pain. There’s the man from another faith tradition who’s made it his personal mission to help people in their darkest moments. Then there’s the guy I’ve never met who always checks in at precisely the right moment.
It’s something I’m seeing over and over, these unassuming, incognito commanders of the Faith stepping once more into the breach. So much so that I wonder if something is happening, or if I’ve just been blind all my life. Probably both.
It brings to mind the last thing that Father Joseph told me. He was literally on his death bed when he took my soft little marketer’s hand in his hammer of a fist. “Protect the church,” he said. He gave the same final message to other men in the community, too.
The next time I saw him, he lay in a simple wood coffin emblazoned with the words, “Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us.”
I didn’t know what he meant at the time - did he mean our parish? The broader Church? I couldn’t think of anyone less qualified to do anything for anyone, although I was pretty good at lighting the fire pit for the men’s group. But now…I wonder. I think father was asking the men - all of us - to stand tall and remember Joshua 1:9: “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged; for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.” So many of the problems in our communities come from the fact that the men have forgotten the grave and terrifying responsibility we bear. To:
Protect. Provide. Preserve.
We ought to have it tattooed on our hands.
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Yes, he was indeed a very special priest. I was a parishioner there back in the late 1990s before I was received into Orthodoxy, and I have known quite a few priests over the years (Latin-Rite Catholic ones, a few other Eastern Catholic ones, and then Orthodox ones) and I have never come across anyone who was quite like Fr. Joseph. He was, in a way, unique.
In that second picture, is that a younger Joseph?