Of God and Country (eBook)

CHAPTER 8

SANTA
BARBARA

After a few days of rest, reflection, and hours of discussion, we all went with the friar to the famous mission. He treated us to a grand tour of the grounds, with panoramic views of the holy shrine. We walked through the arches, chapels, and lush grounds and sat in the garden courtyard. While discussing worldly things and touching on spirituality, the friar said, “We should soak this moment in and realize we are truly alive and we are just at the beginning of life.”

We continued walking, and I sensed Father Theo’s eyes on me as he lagged. JohnJohn, Alice, and I were engrossed in conversation. He looked at us with incredible intensity. Later, he told me he saw intangibles in me, such as intelligence, an infectious personality, leadership, etc. I was surprised to find myself becoming more relaxed. I said, ‘I feel calm here.’

“This,” he said, indicating the world around him, “is my life right now. Assisting others in pursuing biblical knowledge by offering guidance and interpretation in the hope that it will be beneficial, but more importantly, by simply being present.”

“Serving humanity,” I said. “I mean, that is a lot.”

Father Theo invited me to a class where I could learn more about his way of life.

“That is an option,” I said. Alice and JohnJohn exchanged odd looks when they heard the priest’s overture to me.

Father Theo continued. “It is a simple class. A lecture.”

“What exactly would it entail?” I was curious. “What is the obligation? What is the catch?”

“No catch and as much time as is required,” he replied. “There is no obligation to do so. That is not the case. You listen and ask questions to learn more about this mission and how things work here.”

JohnJohn spoke up. “We will stick around a few more days, maybe a week or so.”

I looked across the courtyard gardens, sober, clear-eyed, and in thought. I squinted at the sound of music in the distance. “What exactly is that music, Father Theo? Where is it coming from?”

“The Friars are rehearsing for an upcoming event. The nuns from the neighboring convent are joining the performance. All are excellent singers.” I peeked in to hear better.

I remember walking over to the great wooden doors of the old Mission Church. I slipped in and stood alone in the rear. I believed Father Theo, Alice, and JohnJohn were just outside on the steps. I stood and watched a nun sing a moving rendition of “The Only One Who Can”—a slow, emotional ballad with deeply touching lyrics, a prayer. She seemed to sing directly to ße, and I got choked up several times. It was wonderful. The grandeur of the cathedral and the penetrating quality of her vocals—it was mystical:

Father, I ask you this

Because I believe you care,

Father, will you please tell me

What it is that’s causing me this pain?

I’m so alone and want to die

I’ve given up. I don’t know why

To live today is too much to bear

So please, Lord, will you send someone who cares

’cause there’s no one else to ask

’cause there’s no one else that can tell me, tell me

’cause there’s no one else that can help me to understand

So please Lord will you lend me your guiding hand.

My emotions were inflamed as the adrenaline rushed into my heart. My breathing increased. The space inside that church started swirling around me with colors that appeared to be hallucinations or fantasies. A thick fog suddenly appeared, and as the nun sang, her crucifix created an eerie atmosphere that made my skin dance. It was as if the mist itself held secrets waiting to be uncovered. Out of this wretched haze came rage, anger, and then stillness. A universal silence backed into my soul, becoming more organized as it crept along. I took a gallant step through the fog of this existence. I focused on the crucifix, and soon the music subsided. I returned to the courtyard and saw Friar Theo and the others standing in the sun. They walked toward the fountain in the courtyard’s center. Friar Theo approached me, looked closely into my eyes, and said, “You seem troubled, Artie, more than you show.”

“I’ve had a constant ache in my heart.” I looked down and said softly, “It’s like I am being punished for my ambition. I left my parents and made bizarre youth blunders, this accident in San Francisco, that crew, Chief, and all these issues.

It feels overwhelming and confusing as if I am lost and unsure of my direction, especially after the sudden passing of my mother.”

“I am disheartened to hear this. The blues are hard to navigate.” He paused. “Nothing lasts. We inherit the desire to move forward as positively as possible.” Another pause. “Is this angst locked in or locked out of your heart?”

“I can’t say,” I replied.

We heard the music again. “That song touches me so deeply, I can’t express my feelings.” We stood still and just listened. “Remember, son,” he said, “those who live in fear are in a jail all alone.”

“It seems so enormous, Friar.”

“Don’t confuse your will with God’s.”

The music faded, and the rehearsal ended. I went back inside the church to be alone. I sat down. I just had to think.

Within days, I went back to the church, again alone. My stomach was twisted, and I felt abandoned. In silence, I just stared and stared at the altar. Then, with my eyes closed and a feeling of stress rumbling inside me, I pondered the uselessness of my private universe. A slow calm grew within, gradually engulfing my entire body. I let out a breath and became tranquil. I stood abruptly, twirled around, and stretched, putting my arms above my head. I reached high, toward the heavens. I stretched again and took several deep breaths. I turned around and walked out of those enormous Spanish doors.

A gigantic flood of emotions flowed over me. To put it simply, I had a decision to make. Only forward progress was possible. But what path I was actually on—and what was the next step? It had been a long time coming, but the vision of what my life was meant to be became clear. Talking with Friar Theo had helped significantly. He was like a guide or shaman, just what I needed then. His profound perspective on values, beliefs, arts, politics, and social justice was crystal clear to me. I was now a pupil of the friar. Father Theo gave me his old Bible, with his handwritten notes scribbled among the text. I had made my decision.

John and Alice departed to Los Angeles in a passionate and tearful farewell. I was anxious for change, and they were prepared for their future.

To become a priest, I had to put in at least eight years of school: some fun times and lots of hard work. I acquired lasting friendships. I painted in oils and sang in the Padre’s Cloister, a vocal choir. We even recorded an album of Spanish Christmas songs on RCA Records.

Our studies were not just theology and advanced Catholicism but everything in the world. We studied all things imaginable and unimaginable with a Catholic slant. In any case, it was a well-rounded education. And then, finally, I became Father Benedict Henderson. It was a happy ceremony when I was ordained a Franciscan priest in 1939, with St. Benedict as my chosen patron saint.

My first appointment was mission work at an Apache reservation in Arizona. My favorite memories are from the Whiteriver Saint Francis Mission. I arrived during a wild sandstorm. The wind was howling, but I remember hearing a solo flute playing in the distance. The melody was lonely. Then, I saw the silhouette of a small boy dressed in Native American attire. As the wind subsided, he approached and asked: “Do you like sand?”

“Not this much,” I replied.

“Do you like to fish?”

“Certainly.”

“Do you have a wife?”

“No, but I have family,” I said. That seemed to satisfy him for the time being. Then he asked, “Wanna go fishing?”

“Maybe in the morning,” I told him.

These people were one with nature, and that was eye-opening after all the academics I had just gone through—profoundly spiritual and naturally aware—these lessons I respected and learned well. The boy and I eventually went fishing at a small stream, a secret little brook he knew about. His name was Naiché. He and his little girlfriend, Bina, and I set out to fish. We all caught some very nice trout. We laughed and laughed and had a great time. He asked me if I liked it at the reservation, and I told him I did. I told him my boss wanted me to go to a big-city parish. I wanted to stay here. “I am at home here.” They both liked that answer.

In the courtyard, under the shaded trees, I frequently sat with the native kids. We would clown around, wear masks, and be silly. I would play guitar and sing songs like “Old MacDonald Had a Farm,” “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” and “Danny Boy,” and they would teach me Apache songs and music along with their dance rhythms. It was great fun. We would sing at the top of our lungs, dance, and laugh. The children loved to laugh.

During my 16-month stay, I laid the groundwork for the definitive Apache-English Dictionary. They called their tongue Athabaskan (Na-Dené). I did ultimately decide to leave, though. Every day, I would get mail from Phoenix, including the newspaper. I kept in touch with the world, which was getting ugly then. Friends abroad would alert me through the letters I received about global issues. I realized that we, as...