A tale of two priests. The things that you say and do, and the responses that you get.

[There are 1350 words in this piece.]

Do you feel, generally, that you can predict the kind of response that you will get to the things that you say and do? Or is there usually a level of uncertainty there? Do you care? This subject occupies my mind far more than previous posts on this site would suggest. I have never written about it here before.

In general I feel a degree of uncertainty about the responses that I will get to the things that I say and do, and indeed write. There are people I know well who have never been directed towards these words. I cannot predict the kind of responses that they will give. These could range from very favourable to the complete opposite and everywhere in between. And the responses could differ dramatically over time.

This uncertainty dictates how I converse with people. I am not a controversialist. I do not want to shake things up, to “move fast and break things”. I seem to have spent rather a lot of my time trying to fix things instead. I try to be careful with my words and have noticed that certain people in my life will quibble and question and pick up on them, but will let the same things go if said by someone else. And this relates even to simple statements of fact, not opinions. For example, you could have an enjoyable afternoon watching the 1979 Walter Hill film “The Warriors” and note that it was edited by Susan E Morse. “Oh, Susan E Morse,” you say, “She edited lots of those Woody Allen films in the 70s and 80s…” But your viewing companion will say, without thought, “No, that’s not right. You’ve got that wrong. Woody Allen’s editor was … Hang on. Um. No. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it was Susan E Morse.” But that’s another story.

This piece has been prompted specifically by recent news about the death of a priest who served in our parish many years ago. My sister had a nickname for him: “Chuckles”. It was ironic. The priest in question rarely cracked a smile. He always came across as very serious indeed, grumpy even (if you’re inclined to make such judgments). We encountered him many times when the children were small and he had been chosen to say the rather chaotic Family Mass of a Sunday morning. It always looked like it was some sort of penance for him. We used to joke that he must have done something wrong during the week and been punished for it by being given the Family Mass. Other priests seemed to enjoy the chaos, or at least tolerate it. Not “Chuckles”. Or so it seemed to us.

We knew better than to try to engage with him before or after the service. Matthew Chapter 18 offers us the following: “I tell you solemnly, unless you change and become like little children you will never enter the kingdom of heaven … Anyone who welcomes a little child like this in my name welcomes me.” Not everybody follows this advice.

One Sunday in late December, the month after my son’s second birthday, I took him to an evening mass. We sat in the side room adjoining the church. It has glass doors and a large glass window so that you can see and be seen from the altar, and from the front half of the church, but most of the noise is cancelled out. There are speakers so that you can hear the service. If they are not switched on, you can’t hear what’s going on. Parents with toddlers were encouraged to sit in this side room, especially if the children were inclined to run around, or make noise. My son sat on my lap for most of the service, singing away happily. His vocabulary was very small, but his singing voice was excellent. We wondered if he had perfect pitch. He could sing along with almost anything, in tune and note-perfect: hymns, show tunes from “My Fair Lady”, “Communication Breakdown” by Led Zeppelin, Jeannie C Riley’s 1968 classic “Harper Valley PTA”.

The last of these has a special place in my memory. My mother loved it, and we grew up with it. We sang and even danced along with it throughout my childhood, and well into my 20s. Before he turned two, my son was singing along with it, and with me, one morning. The tune, not the words. I realized that it was the first time that he and I had sung a tune together that I had also sung with my late mother. She died many years before my son was born.

On that Sunday evening in late December my son was singing the tune to “Happy Birthday to You” over and over again. It seemed to be stuck in his head. At the end of mass, “Chuckles” came into the side room, on his way to the sacristy, glared at my son and said, “He’s got to lot to say for himself, hasn’t he?” These words could have been uttered with a friendly voice and accompanied by a smiling face. They were not. They were spat out and did not encourage a response. I was not inclined to offer one, and was certainly not going to apologize for my son.

The next time I took him to mass we went to a different church, 10 minutes’ drive away, to avoid the possibility of a repeat performance. A repeat performance from the priest, as I’m sure you realize. I believe that everyone should be encouraged to sing, especially when they’re young, even if they’re not much good it.

I thought that there was a side room separate from the main part of this other church but there wasn’t. There is a space just inside the front doors, with glass doors leading into it. It was cold there, and you couldn’t hear much from the altar. The baptistery, at the back of the church, was as far away from the altar as we could get, and we sat there throughout, able to hear and be heard. Once again my son sat on my lap and chanted away happily.

At the end of mass the priest walked down the aisle towards the main entrance, ready to meet and greet the parishioners as usual. Then he turned left to where we were, heading straight towards us. “Not again,” I thought. Forgive the cliché, but really my heart sank. The priest looked at my son, then at me, smiled and said, “Is this the delightful young man who was singing Happy Birthday to Jesus all through mass? Wonderful…”

My son’s behaviour had not changed from one week to the next. The responses we got were completely different and both came from ordained priests serving in West London. The next time I saw the second of these priests I introduced my son to him and told him the story. Not the first bit, ending with the words “He’s got a lot to say for himself, hasn’t he?” The second bit, with him describing my son as a “delightful young man”. He was now 11 years old and had just started secondary school. I told him how grateful I was for his kind words. Self-effacingly he said, “Well, it’s probably the last time I said anything nice about anybody …”

Perhaps, now that he’s gone, “Chuckles” is being remembered fondly by thousands of parishioners for the kind words that he said about them and their children during his time as a priest. If I recall anything along these lines, I’ll let you know. But I am grateful to him for providing such a clear example of how the same behaviour from one person can prompt such contrasting reactions from others, even from people engaged in the same line of work, as it were. May he rest in peace.

“Do not judge, and you will not be judged yourselves; do not condemn, and you will not be condemned yourselves; grant pardon, and you will be pardoned.” Luke 6: 36-37

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