the LetterBRIAN DOYLE
He rose before six that morning, same as usual, and donned his sweatshirt and went for a jog — three miles now, in a slight concession to age, rather than four.
I figured I would tackle it as soon as I got settled in the office, he says. No sense putting it off. No, I didn't worry about what to say. I knew what I was supposed to say but I also know what I wanted to say. I dictated the letter, as I usually do. I told the Holy Father that I was filled with the deepest appreciation for having received the call to be a bishop three times from His Holiness John Paul the Second, and that I was offering my resignation, and that I would await further information. The letter goes to the papal nuncio in Washington, and then he reports my resignation to the Congregatio pro Episcopis, the Congregation for Bishops, in the Vatican. In turn they report my news to His Holiness, and then the process starts. I am eventually asked to recommend a terna, three men I think would be excellent candidates to succeed me. The three names can be anyone in the world — I could even suggest you, which he can, we would have to see about your ordination.
I wasn't sad or regretful, no. To be honest there was almost a little glee, after 29 years as a bishop. When I was finished dictating the letter, I left the tape in a box by the door. My assistant Rozeanne retrieved it. Our habit is that she types up letters and gives them to me to look over and sign. In this case she waited until the afternoon to get to it.
I stared at the tape all morning but I just couldn't do it, she says. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I knew that I should but I just couldn't. Finally after lunch the Archbishop said I think you better get that letter done, Rozeanne, so I did. I gave it to him at about two o'clock. He made some tinkers and I made him a clean copy and he signed that and gave it back to me. We didn't say anything. I put it in the envelope and stamped it. I remember that the stamp had a ship on it. I walked it down to the mailroom. Outgoing mail goes in a large white bin. A postman comes for the bin. Our mail goes to the main city post office on Hoyt Street. The letter goes to Washington, and then I think it goes into the papal nuncio's diplomatic pouch for transmission to Rome.
Archbishop, I say, there are an awful lot of people who think your honesty and humility and integrity dealing with crimes not committed on your watch is what will be remembered. You said you would protect our children, and be responsible to victims, and never lie, and you kept your promises, when many other men did not.
There was a moment, says the archbishop suddenly, when I was about to sign off on the bankruptcy, which would be the first ever in the American church, but which I felt we must do, to be fair to all victims and to protect parishes and schools from closure, and I hesitated for a moment, thinking that this might well cause me to lose my job; but then I realized that if you are not willing to let go, you are not doing your job. I suppose I would like to be remembered as a man who did his job with all his heart. I never wanted to be an authority. I only wanted to be a good priest and a good man, and a teacher of the greatest lesson I know.
Right about then the Archbishop's next appointment is announced and the Archbishop and I shake hands and I look around his office, the last time I will ever see him here, and I note three things in particular: a shepherd's crook, carved for him by a parishioner; a walking-stick owned by his predecessor Archbishop Alexander Christie, who founded the University of Portland in 1901; and a drawing by a child. This last is positioned so that he could see it all day, every day. Every day, he saw a lovely drawing by a miracle. Every single day.
Reprinted with permission from the author and Portland Magazine.
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