I FEEL I SHOULD WRITE SOMETHING ABOUT my final Sunday as a parish priest. I expect to continue my priestly activity, at other altars in the company of other pilgrims and of the same angels, archangels, and long-departed comrades, but never again will I preside over a habitual gathering of people whose lives I have been privileged to share at their most drastic and mundane moments, whose faces I have memorized and whose names I routinely forget, even when I am familiar with their whole life story. Never again will I experience the flood of joy that comes when a stranger finds a place within the community, or the peculiar brand of disappointment when a trusted 

member decides that they must withdraw. 

    Years ago, while I was pastoring a church in Indiana, I had a dream about driving an old rickety car and pressing so hard on the brake it felt like I was putting my foot through the floor but the car was still rolling slowly toward a sheer cliff. After waking reflection I concluded the dream was about St. Timothy’s, Griffith, and my priestly role there. I was not in control, and never would be.

      That insight does not constitute an excuse for lack of effort. Just the opposite. The careening car may have its own agenda, but it still has to be driven to go anywhere. 

      Once again the car has gone over the cliff with me in it. And we are all occupying another age, having crashed and burned and emerged “whole and sound, and innocent of a great offense”. Well, if not exactly innocent, at least still intact.