Letter to Ann T. Clerikuhl
continued.
“Benefice” denotes either
certain property given for the support of ministers of religion, or a spiritual
office or function, such as the care of souls, but in the strict sense it
signifies a right, given permanently by the Church to a cleric to receive ecclesiastical
revenues because of the performance of some spiritual service. (Plagiarized from the “the Catholic
Encyclopedia”).
There were such things as
single and double benefices. A single
benefice was a kind of living, or salary provided for a clergyman whose job it
was to offer Mass and pray the liturgy of the hours for the well being of the
faithful. Such a priest didn’t have to live in a parish. He could do his
praying anywhere and just pop the check in the mail, please.
A double benefice included the
basic job description of praying for the faithful plus the care of souls! The
recipient of the double benefice is expected, “to preach and take care of the
religious instruction of the faithful (especially of the young), supply their
spiritual needs by the administration of the sacraments, reside in their parish
or mission, administer the property entrusted to their care, watch over the
moral conduct of their parishioners, and remove as far as possible all
hindrances to their salvation.” I
suppose that means I am supposed to peer in your window to see what you are
watching on HBO and, if need be, pull the plug or take an axe to your new flat
screen. Keep your eyes peeled. That rustling in the shrubbery in the front yard
just might be me!
For these services, I am to
be reasonably remunerated. As the French say, “One must eat”, except they say
it in French. Keeping me in fighting
weight, a salary and a roof over my head is sufficient these days. Back in the
dark ages when a man’s wealth was estimated in chickens, the living provided
the clergy was a scosche more direct. A parish might have a few acres attached
to it, a household, and a flock of sheep, a few peasants and a certain number
of barrels of wine in the rectory cellar. From the revenue generated, the
priest maintained the church and the rectory and provided for his needs and
that of his household. Had I lived then, my household would definitely have
included a lute player and a retinue of dwarves. Ah, good times.
I digress. Times have changed.
I don’t think we are even allowed to use the word “dwarves” anymore. We no
longer deal in barrels of wine, chickens, dwarves or even sheep. We deal in
little bits of plastic and computer printouts, but I remember once upon a time
in the grand old days of my youth when the medieval concept still applied. The
pastor was entitled to all the income of the parish from weddings, baptisms,
Mass offerings and funerals. He might, or might not share this income with the
2 or 3 assistants (not associates) who served under him. He also received the
Christmas collection, the Easter collection and the All Souls Day
collection. There were more prosperous
parishes called “plums” by the clergy.
These were places like Sts.
Pecunia and Prospera here in the Forest Lake district of the West Shore here in
the Frostbite Falls Parish. A pastor was expected to maintain his household
with this income, but the rest was his to do with as he chose and this
occasionally involved real estate in Boca. Most pastors were hard working and
generous. I got in on the tail end of this system. I remember a pastor who
every week would give me an envelope in which he had scrupulously divided the
income from stipends (money offered by the faithful for a Mass intention, stole
fees money received for services rendered while wearing a stole, such as
blessings, marriages, baptisms etc.). It
was all recorded in his precise hand, Stipends, Stole fees, Masses and a
category I didn’t quite understand: Fun. One day I asked the pastor, Fr. John,
a real saint, what was meant by “Fun Money”.
“Oh,” came the reply, “That’s for Funerals.” Fun Money. Oy!
Less saintly and less
scrupulous pastors than Fr. John were not quite as generous. The less it took to maintain the household in
the parish, the more one had for the winter retreat in Boca. I remember a
pastor whose life was determined by his housekeeper, famous not for food, but
for frugality. The young assistants used to come down to my mother’s kitchen
frequently. It seems that the rectory housekeeper’s specialty was boiled
chicken feet. I am not making this up. I remember another great story of a
young assistant moving into his new assignment and being greeted by the pastor
who handed him a bag of nickels and pointed to the pay phone on the wall. He
then turned and went into his room and shut the door. “Welcome, Father New
Guy.” A lot of pastors never gave keys for the rectory to their assistants. The
doors to the rectory were locked, and if you weren’t home by ten you were on
your own. The rectory and its revenues were the property of the pastor, not of
the assistant.
Assistant pastorate was a
kind of indentured apprenticeship. Young priests were not allowed to drive for
the first five years of their ministry; they were expected to “take the pledge”,
that is to abstain from alcohol for the first five years of priesthood. They
did the baptisms, the weddings, the funerals of less important parishioners,
and said the later Masses. Remember that in the old days one did not eat or
drink — even water — before Mass. If you had a Mass at 11AM on a hot summer
day, chances are you would have heat stroke, especially if it was a high Mass
involving incense. The Pastor said the 6AM Mass and then returned to the
rectory to tuck into a sumptuous breakfast of chicken feet….that is if he were
in town. Remember the house in Boca?
If a pastor had a real
“plum” of a parish he could leave the work of ministry to his assistants and, loosely
interpreting the injunction that he live in his parish, go where he pleased or
do what he wanted. I remember an old priest under whom I served as a deacon. When
he was asked, “How are you doing?” He invariably responded, “Pretty much as I
please. I’m a pastor.” Actually he was a very good pastor who loved his flock
and worked very hard. Died young as I recall.
To leave the ministry to
your assistants and the money to your personal accountant was called “hanging
up your stole.” I remember a story from
the days of old Cardinal Cody back in the sixties. When he first arrived in
Chicago he was very hands on. He would go from parish to parish all by himself
without handlers and without warning. He wanted to get to know the diocese
first hand. He was death on alcoholism among the clergy and if he suspected you
tippled a bit, you were off to rehab in a New York minute.
One afternoon he was
making a sweep of parishes on the south side, and after leaving a parish, the
assistants quickly called the next parish over to warn the assistant priests
there that the boss was on his way and they had better get the pastor, old
Monsignor James Beam, in presentable shape. It seems that Monsignor Beam
enjoyed a glass of sherry now and then….mostly now.
They got the beloved old
coot showered, combed and dressed in a clean cassock. They poured black coffee
down his throat until he could hold no more, and sat him upright in his
study. Cardinal Cody walked in and said
to old Monsignor Beam, “Monsignor, I have heard complaints that people can
smell alcohol on your breath at baptisms.” To which the old priest responded
without losing a beat, “Your
Eminence, I haven’t baptized a baby in twenty years!” This is what was meant by
“hanging up your stole.”
I can hear you harrumphing,
“Well, How shameful!” Remember that the great majority of priests I knew and
under whom I served were true servants, especially the ones who went on to be
bishops. I suppose my point in telling these stories, of which I have many more,
is that the priest felt absolutely secure once he had been made a pastor. This
was for two reasons.
First, there were such
things as irremovable pastors and moveable pastors. An irremovable pastor has
the right of perpetual tenure, not unlike an incompetent university professor.
He cannot be removed or transferred except for a reason laid down in canon law.
Even if he is accused of criminality he could not be removed except by a
canonical trial!
A movable pastor was one
whose office did not have this right, but the bishop must have some just and
proportionate reason for dismissing or transferring him against his will and,
should the priest believe himself wronged in the matter, he could appeal to the
pope and the pope usually ruled in favor of the pastor. So, a removable pastor
was in effect irremovable.
Second, people living within
the parish boundaries could not go to another parish or another priest other
than their pastor, except with his or the bishop's consent. This means; no baptisms, no last rites, no
anointing of the sick, no holy communion, no marriages and no funerals outside
their parish and no permission to be buried in a Catholic cemetery next to
Grandma Gewurztraminer, even if you had already bought and paid for the plot
and the perpetual care grave package with waterproof coffin included! If you didn’t like your pastor, it was pay,
pray and obey. That or move or join the high Church Anglicans.
People really respected this
system. In 1947, my parents moved out of a parish on the south side of Chicago
because the pastor was a horrible man. They thought their children would not
grow up Catholic under his influence. He was the pastor of Five Holy Tombs, a
parish you may have heard about in the book, Last Catholic in America. They moved into a suburban parish after
convincing the realtors that — despite my father’s family name and the fact
that he was in the retail garment business and the only gentile in his company Morris
B. Sachs — they were not Jewish.
They went to meet Monsignor O’Brien who always
stood on the church steps after every Mass. They introduced themselves as new
parishioners and started the usual small talk, at which point Monsignor O’Brien
broke in and said, “I’m sorry, but I’m not here to chat. I’m only here for parishioners
who need to talk to a priest.”
They nodded and decided to stay. They never
regretted it.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment