Joseph P. Chinnici: When Values Collide: The Catholic Church, Sexual Abuse, and the Challenges of Leadership

When Values Collide:
The Catholic Church, Sexual Abuse,
and the Challenges of Leadership
Joseph P. Chinnici
Orbis Books: Maryknoll, NY
$25.00 236 pp., paperback
ISBN: 978-1-5075-873-7

On November 29, 1993, in Santa Barbara, California, the Provincial Minister of the Franciscan Friars (OFM) of the Province of St. Barbara, stood before a room filled with media representatives as well as some “fifty victims, parents, and concerned parishioners” to release a study report revealing that “eleven (Franciscan) friars had abused thirty-four students at St. Anthony Seminary from the period 1964-1987.”

That signal event marked a particularly Franciscan moment in the unfolding of the clerical sexual abuse scandal and concomitant institutional crisis that has rocked the Catholic Church in the United States over the past two decades. It is estimated that between 1950 and 2002, more than 10,000 victim/survivors have come forward. More than 4,000 priests and male religious have had allegations of abuse made against them. The total cost of settlements to date is estimated to be about $3 billion. The cost to the lives of victim/ survivors, their families, friends, and loved ones in terms of pain, suffering, and humiliation is inestimable.

The Franciscan Provincial Minister who stood before the world to announce and acknowledge the serious misconduct of some of our confreres was Father Joseph P. Chinnici, ofm, the author of this book. Today, some seventeen years later, Chinnici offers an extraordinary account and penetrating analysis of the events in which he himself was a primary participant and player. More than that, as a highly regarded historian and observor of the Catholic Church in the United States, he also offers something of equal, if not even greater importance: a call to create new “pathways”of dialogue out of the crisis in order to effect lasting healing and reconciliation. In doing so, the author taps deep into the wellspring of Franciscan spirituality for inspiration and direction by referencing the lives and writings of Sts. Francis of Assisi and Bonaventure (with relevant material from St. Augustine of Hippo).

This is a dense, difficult, demanding, and even exhausting book— but one which, at the same time, provides rich rewards for the reader who is willing to engage the subject matter and stick with it. Be prepared to take your time; this is not easy or light reading.

The entire issue of sexual abuse by clergy has been so highly charged emotionally and polarizing socially and institutionally, that voices of reason and reconciliation have been reduced to whispers and largely ignored in public discourse. Chinnici breaks new ground in this neglected area, charting a course that is both intellectually rigorous and ethically demanding. One hopes that this work will help to usher in a new period of calm discussion and dialogue as a counter to the sensationalism that has dominated treatment of the issue.

Chinnici’s introductory remarks provide a helpful aerial overview of the territory to be explored. Initial chapters provide a summary of the development of the sexual abuse scandal in both the American Church as a whole as well as in the particular case of the Province of St. Barbara. From there, the author moves into the broader field of interpretation. “The sexual abuse scandal can be healed only through the cultivation of trust, affection, mutual exchange, and the preservation of people’s individual dignity, ” he asserts. He argues that “a fundamental consequence of the abuse crisis has been the loss of a shared ethical space of reciprocal exchange between people.”



To help recover that shared ethical space, Chinnici refers to both Francis and Bonaventure for guidance and inspiration in a search for new avenues of communication and healing. The Franciscan value of “fraternitas”— the acknowledgment of the essential brother/sisterhood of all creation—he observes, was an important factor in breaking the deadlock of protracted social conflict between individuals and groups in medieval Italy. “Francis’s task was medicinal, one of soothing the relationships between people so that more peace could reign in the society and the Church.” (p.104). In a similar mode, Chinnici examines the concept of the Order of Love proposed by St. Bonaventure, which is “encapsulated in the Great Commandment (of Jesus)… a freely given bestowal of gifts and a bond of trust between people.” Both Francis and Bonaventure avoid the perils of a direct assault upon societal norms. Rather, they urge the more patient approach of convincing all parties to recognize and embrace those essentially transcendant values which serve to modify relationships. The Gospel imperative of love, mutual care and promotion trumps the struggle for power and domination.

Fine, but what does any of this have to do with a way out of the personal/ institutional impasse presented by the contemporary sexual abuse crisis? “A key means of healing this wound,” Chinnici asserts, “ is the discovery of a framework for faith that releases our energies to love again.” A uniquely Franciscan contribution toward the charting of that pathway “is not discovered through intellectual parsing but through companionship, humility, dispossession, lamentation, and the practice of pietas (the virtue by which one recognizes, in true humility and reverence, God’s primacy in all things-ed.).” The author is reaching deep into the Franciscan story both to recall and to remind us that this movement is essentially a penitential one. We need to recognize both our own fragility and woundedness: “Life’s center of gravity needed to become not the perfection of Christendom but the following of Christ and the embrace of his presence in his disfigured body on earth, the Church.” (p.178). In support of this argument, he provides a particularly powerful reflection on the conversion of Francis himself— in which the saint moved in his own life from an attitude of utter disdain to the recognition of the “sweetness” of his full embrace of the lepers.

Chinnici does not offer quick or facile solutions to what is, at heart, not simply the cumulative effect of private behavior-- individual wrongdoing writ large-- but rather, what he considers to be the profound breakdown of a fundamental sense of community. “The Church will be challenged… to create a consistent communal ethic of repentance, humility, … respect for a common human dignity dictated by the terms ‘brother’ and ‘sister’, obedience to the order of love, and the daily practice of pietas.” In other words, genuine reform both necessitates and impels a process of deep and ongoing personal conversion as well as meaningful institutional change.

In his concluding chapter, Chinicci writes that “the sexual abuse of minors in the Church has begun to fade from the height of its institutional charge….” Sadly, the unfolding of events in Ireland and western Europe this past spring and summer would tend to indicate otherwise. The scandals are not going away. If anything, they continue to point to the woeful inadequacy of personal and institutional responses to wrongdoing that are still essentially reactive and self-protective. Chinnici concludes by challenging us “to re-member the scandal, and by this re-membering, insert into our public discourse and life a Gospel vision of God’s goodness and who we are called to be together.” The call to conversion remains and is more compelling than ever. Chinnici’s work gives one hope that this call may, finally, be heeded.

Read this book.

POSTSCRIPT: Several of the events described in this book have been part of my own lived experience as a Franciscan friar. On the day of Father Chinnici’s public revelation of evidence of sexual misconduct, I was in the postulancy (entry) program of the Province of St. Barbara. The ongoing process of fraternal healing, reconciliation, and restitution has coincided with my formation as a friar ever since. The journey has been a long and painful one for all of us, but I believe we have emerged as a stronger, more united brotherhood as a result.—ct.

True Conversions No. 8: The Crying Tree by Naseem Rakha

The Crying Tree
By Naseem Rakha
353 pp. $22.95
Broadway Books: New York
ISBN: 978-0-7679-3140-3

For the most part, I’ve been consulting spiritual memoirs—actual auto/biographical references- as a point of departure for an exploration of the phenomenon of spiritual conversion and transformation. But a friend suggested this novel, so I thought: "Why not? What can we learn of this process from the perspective and experience of a work of fiction?"

September 20, 1983. Irene Stanley of Carlton, Illinos, will never forget the date she lost her only son, fifteen year-old Shep to a violent death: For the following nineteen years, she and her family (husband Nate, a police officer; daughter, Bliss) struggle to come to terms with his passing. During this same period, after a steep and prolonged plunge into deep depression and listlessness, she emerges energized and transformed interiorly. She not only makes the decision to forgive Shep’s putative killer, quondam drifter Daniel Robbins, but is willing to move heaven and earth if necessary to achieve her ends. She decides-- and against all odds-- succeeds in completing the process of reconciliation by meeting Robbins face to face on the eve of his execution in Blaine, Oregon: October 28, 2004

In between these two key dates, the reader is moved back and forth over time and across the continent, charting the separate development—character development, if you will—of Irene, Daniel, and prison superintendent Tab Mason (himself a victim of violent crime in his youth at the hands of his own brother). Shirley struggles valiantly: alternately rising, coasting, sinking, floundering, drifting in and out of a woozy despair only to emerge victorious at last— triumphant over her own hatred and desire for revenge.

What is the catalyst for Irene’s spiritual transformation? Novelist Naseem Kakha depicts a scene in which Irene finally hits bottom, deciding and attempting to take her own life. Somehow, in that botched effort, she experiences a spiritual awakening. For the reader (like this one) who is looking for the “God in the details”, the author offers rather slim pickings in terms of a thoroughgoing reflection or explanation. At this critical juncture in the character’s transformation, she becomes curiously vague and imprecise. If Irene is, finally, so certain that the execution of her son’s putative killer represents an act of revenge rather than one of justice, what are the underpinnings of her reasoning? What is the basis of this fundamental, life-changing insight? What is the source of her newfound strength and courage—and how does it sustain her in her subsequent struggles?




While we are left in the dark about the character’s motivation, it becomes quite clear to the reader what Irene does not believe in. The spiritual leader of her small, rural community, Pastor Samuel White is certainly kind enough as a person. With courage, determination and perseverance, he jumps to the ready to assist victims of a freak tornado which has ravaged the area. But despite his courage and display of apparently genuine Christian charity, he is ineffectual as a spiritual mentor. He responds to Irene’s insistent questioning and demands with pat and patronizing responses and a single, stubborn conclusion: a merciful God would certainly forgive someone like Daniel. But by the same token, a just God would not contest or impede the literal execution of this capital punishment. End of story.

Bereft of spiritual consolation, Irene seeks her own counsel. But what exactly constitutes her inner world? Who or what inhabits it? What principles—ethical, moral, philosophical, religious—guide and direct her subsequent decisions and actions? Granted the character has experienced a genuine life-changing transformation—a clear rupture with the habits of her own heart and a willingness to stand apart from the traditional values of family, friends, and community. But what directs and sustains all of this? Midwestern gumption alone does not suffice.

In the Reader’s Guide which follows this engaging narrative, the author poses two crucial questions in this regard: “Do you think it is necessary to have a belief in a God or a higher power to have made the choices Irene made? Do you think the ability to forgive can be learned?” Great questions. I just wish the author had dealt with them more directly in the story. This is a “true conversion” for sure—but what makes it “true”? //

True Conversions No. 7: Julia Scheeres

Jesus Land 

By Julia Scheeres 

Counterpoint, $24 
288 pages 

ISBN 1582433380

True conversions? This chilling, “coming of age” memoir by author Julia Scheeres, is more in the nature of True Confessions. Scheeres writes intensely-and graphically- about her adolescent struggles against both an abusive home situation and the strict upbringing she experienced in the Christian Reformed Church, a denomination with its roots in historic Calvinism. This book covers the period of her transition, in the early 1980’s, from the sheltered haven of a private Christian elementary school to the ‘secular’ world of public high school in quasi-redneck Lafayette, Indiana.

This is not an idealized, “Leave it to Beaver” American family. Sheeres’ father, a prominent surgeon, reportedly beats his male children on a regular basis, often on the flimsiest of excuses. Two paddles—one named “Spare the Rod”, and the other, “Spoil the Child” tell the story. Her mother spends most of her time involved in church-related work—support of foreign missionaries is her passion. She appears to be utterly indifferent to the affective needs of her children. When she does give them attention, it is usually to criticize. Her parents have adopted two African-American children to rear alongside their own biological offspring. One of the adopted children, David, is the same age as the author, and becomes her literal soul mate. The other stepbrother, Jerome, exhibits violent and self-destructive tendencies from an early age. In addition to his other behaviors, he has sexually assaulted his sister on multiple occasions.

To fill out this grim portrait of domestic dysfunction, teenagers Julia and David are shipped off to hellhole of a Christian reform school in the Dominican Republic where, according to the author, they are subjected to a daily regimen of humiliating mistreatment. Only the mutual love and concern of the brother and sister make their psychic survival possible. Eventually both siblings are liberated from their banishment, but David is killed some years later in an auto accident. The author herself ends up being excommunicated by her church and shunned by her community for her unorthodox views and conduct.

This is not a tale about religious conversion; it’s a story about survival. Survival from a loveless childhood and adolescence; survival from apparently indifferent, and even violent parents. Survival from a religious community which apparently accorded these young people little, if any, acceptance, support, or affirmation.



This grim memoir straddles precariously between necessary truth telling and compulsive self-disclosure. The reader does not really need a lengthy blow by blow description of routine abuse and humiliation to get the picture. It’s pretty clear what’s going on from the get-go. What is less clear is what is happening to the young Julia Scheeres internally, spiritually, if you will. She writes about the beliefs of others, but not about her own. Although the author describes extensively the religious beliefs and attitudes of her family and church community, she reveals very little of her own worldview or spiritual beliefs. We know what she’s ‘a-gin”, but we have no clue about what she’s “fur.” At present, Scheeres half-jokingly describes herself as a “devout hedonist, agnostic, (and) secular humanist.” Not a surprising response from someone who appears to have experienced only a mean, petty, and vengeful God as a child. Exposure of deep and still-raw wounds to the light of day may be the requisite first step in her healing process. “True conversion” may well have to wait.

June 14-21: A lot can happen in a week

About this time last week, I drove up the Coast to Santa Barbara from our friary at Old Mission San Luis Rey (Oceanside, California) to witness the priestly ordination of our brother, Luis Alberto Guzman, ofm. Since we friars all have different work schedules, I hitched a ride with Mark Beglin and Kay Sempel, two of our volunteer lay Covenant Members who live at the Mission and assist in our work and ministries. We had a great time together and made it to Santa Barbara in just under three hours-- record time-- in Kay's cool yellow Mustang convertible.




Our newly ordained confrere, Father Luis, 44, is a native of Tamaulipas, Mexico, and has been a member of our Province for more than a decade. A year ago, he finished his studies at our Franciscan School of Theology in Berkeley, before being assigned as deacon at the parish of Old Mission Santa Barbara. Luis is a fine man, and a friend, so I was keen to attend his ordination. Not only that, he has been assigned to our parish starting in July, so I had a professional interest in his ordination as well.



The beautiful twilight liturgy on June 15 was attended by hundreds of parishioners, family, friends and friars. Bishop Alexander Salazar, auxiliary bishop of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles, was warm and personable. He spoke directly to Luis and indirectly to the assembly, stressing that priestly ordination rises from our baptism in Christ Jesus. Everything a priest does is an act of service, he emphasized. Service expressed most profoundly through our sacramental life as Catholic Christians: the service of baptizing, the service of presiding at Eucharist, of hearing confessions, of witnessing marriages, of anointing the sick. As I sat in the sanctuary of the Old Mission church, I could not help but reflect upon my own priestly ministry a decade ago. Where has the time gone? But more importantly, how can I reclaim and keep alive in my own heart the tremendous feeling of peace and gratitude I experienced at my own ordination?

I stayed overnight at the Old Mission so I could attend Father Luis' first Mass at the monastery of the Poor Clares the next morning. Here, the setting was more intimate and familial. Flanked by three other Franciscans at the altar, Luis was well supported as he made his way through the liturgy. The chanting of the nuns-- unseen, cloistered behind their grill-- gave a formal and austere feeling to the event. But when the Mass was ended, everyone broke out into warm and enthusiastic applause. Luis just stood there for a moment, taking it all in, beaming.

After the ordination, I drove back to Oceanside with Friar Adrian Peelo, the third member of our team of sacramental ministers. We gave a ride to our new friar-to-be, Sam Nasada, who will enter our novitiate program at the beginning of July. We dropped Sam off in Los Angeles, stopped at Ikea for lunch, and chatted away about our plans and hopes for the parish now that we have a another priest to help out.



When I got home, I met with Brother Vincent Nguyen, who is staying with us for the summer. Brother Vincent has been commissioned to produce a full-scale interpretation of the celebrated Franciscan, or San Damiano Cross for our sanctuary. We hope to have the work completed by the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary on August 15. Meanwhile, we placed the blank form in the sanctuary this first weekend so that people would have an idea of the scale of the project. Vincent is making great progress and is generous in explaining the iconography of the Cross to parishioners and others. This is a very concrete way in which we hope to plant the Franciscan identity in our faith community.



I had scarcely unpacked when I learned that our three novices-- Friars Philip Polk, Michael Minton, and Ryan Thornton, along with their assistant novicemaster, Father Tom Frost, had stopped by to spend the night. The novices explained that they had been on the road for 19 straight days, visiting friars and friaries in Arizona and southern California. They were both exhausted and elated; they had learned a great deal during their site visits and were eager to share their insights. At the same time, they were more than ready to return home to Old Mission San Miguel (California) to prepare for their first profession of vows on July 2.



Once the novices left, there was no time to spare in preparing for weekend liturgies (we have 6 Masses-- 2 in Spanish; 4 in English). Everything looked fine until we discovered that we had no water pressure-- there was a break somewhere-- but where?-- in the line. So, we had to close all the bathrooms and shuttle people back and forth via golf cart to the Mission next door so they could use the facilities. Luckily, by noon on Sunday, we were able to plug the leak. Always something!



Today is Monday, June 21. Six of us friars decided to take our day off (yes, we get one whole free day a week) as a Fun Day. So, Friars Larry, Kelly, Andres, Mo, Adrian and myself piled onto the northbound Amtrak train together. We got off at the very next station to spend the afternoon visiting one of our sister missions, San Juan Capistrano. We were given the royal treatment by the staff at both the parish and Mission. San Juan is compact and easily accessible. Even though it welcomes more than 300,000 visitors annually, it has succeeded in retaining its identity and spirit as a place of prayer, reverence, and spiritual refreshment. We friars never seem to have enough time together, so this was a rare treat. We strolled through the Mission and its adjacent basilica , gazing and grazing. Savoring the gorgeous grounds. After an early dinner, we caught the next train back to Oceanside.



It's late. I'm tired and need to rest. It's been a great week; it's been a while since I've been able to spend this much time with the friars. But I have to admit I'm looking forward to some quieter days now to catch up with office work at the parish. Enjoy your week.

True Conversions No. 6: Irene Lape

Leadings: A Catholic’s Journey through Quakerism
Irene Lape
Brazos Press: Grand Rapids, Michigan c.2003
160 pp. ISBN: 1-58743-054-1

It’s tempting to think of a conversion journey as a one-way street. A person moves from one spiritual “home” or tradition to another, either in terms of a natural evolution or as a response to some crisis. And then, presumably, they live happily ever after. End of story. Irene Lape’s excursion, however, is best described as a two-way street, a round-trip experience, even. Brought up by socially involved, but self-proclaimed atheist parents, she first converted to Catholicism (via the Episcopal faith) as a college freshman. Before graduation, though, she had opted out again, only to re-enter the Catholic community some decades later. But not until she had had first become thoroughly steeped in the Quaker tradition.

This short, but intense spiritual memoir also serves as a sympathetic and insightful introduction to Quaker identity, theology, and tradition. Lape clearly treasures her exposure to and involvement in the Religious Society of Friends (of Quakers) as well she should. She does not leave that tradition empty-handed. In fact, if anything, she enriches the Catholic environment through both her search and discoveries. That her search is marked by openness, intellectual rigor, patience, consistency, and integrity is evident in this dense and serious chronicle—one that never lapses into smugness or self-indulgence.

For Lape, Quakerism served as a much-needed antidote and alternative to the “broad way—the popular way—of my generation, the way of ideology and political theorizing, the way of psychology, and scientific ‘positivism’, the way of doubt and skepticism of all traditions.” Like others who came of age in the turbulent Sixties, Lape was attracted to the “simplicity, integrity, and plainness of speech” of the Quakers, to the strength and beauty of their silent worship. She also found the Quaker witness to social justice to be singular and exemplary. The Friends Service Committee, for example, was proactive early on in the struggle for a peaceful resolution to the Vietnam War and consequently exerted an influence far beyond its limited membership.



That said, as much as she admired the Quakers’ stand on social justice, Lape is insistent that her decision to join the Friends was triggered primarily by her spiritual longing and search—most especially by her experience of the presence of Christ within her very self as well as within community: “My outward life was not suddenly different, but inwardly everything was changed. I saw differently.” Elsewhere, she notes that “ (The) Friends said Christ was in me. His Crucifixion was something to be joined with in the depths of my being… and he was inviting me to be joined to him, to trust as he did in the Father to bring forth something good in his own time.”

Lape’s conversion to the Friends led her both to deeper institutional involvement and to a relentless search to plumb the depths of the Quaker theological tradition. In her dogged resourcement, she pondered the writings of founder George Fox himself, as well as those of other Early Friends such as John Woolman,and Isaac Penington. She introduces the reader to the rich vocabulary used by Friends over time—a vocabulary marked by indirect discourse rather than confrontation. Quoting early Quaker sources, she writes of “leadings,” “clearings,” “motions,” “pressings” and openings” not as charming linguistic ornaments, but as apposite descriptions of the nature of the spiritual life and of God’s activity in that life.



As her own search and research into Quaker sources continued, Lape was surprised to find many of her contemporary Friends either indifferent to or ignorant of the early traditions of their own movement: “Missing from the modern way of understanding and articulating Friends’ testimonies is any kind of radical call to holiness, especially in relation to personal, sexual behavior…. or self-abnegation… (or) the sense of sin early Quakers found so important in coming into the sense of God’s new covenant presence.” Increasingly, Lape appears to have found a fundamental disconnect between the theological insights and intentions of those early Quakers and those of present-day practitioners, some of whom evinced only a hazy or remote connection to Christianity itself.

In terms of her own journey, Lape began to question the apparent rejection of both tradition and of a physically incarnate sacramentality within the Friends. This questioning, in time, led her to embrace Catholicism again in her maturity: “It seemed to me… that the Catholic Church understood better than the Friends and most other Christian denominations that Christ had not necessarily come to end outward forms and observances of religion, but to extend them in new ways that represented a real continuity of his physical presence among us.” Added to her sense of the incarnational aspect of Catholicism was Lape’s appreciation for the roots of the faith in apostolic tradition.

Grateful as she is to have found her own spiritual home (again), Lape nevertheless evinces no interest in scoring denominational points, however. On the contrary, she is emphatic that her experience and identity as a Friend were part and parcel of her process and journey: “I had come to Christ among them (the Friends). There was a dimension of the Gospel they knew about ,” she continues, “ that I had not found among Catholics, and (that) God did not want me to lose.” Elsewhere, she concludes, “ I went back (to Catholicism because I believed God wanted me to go back, and as a Friend I would have proved unfaithful had I failed to obey his voice.”

Ultimately, Lape is much more interested in the larger, more transcendent picture: “ I know that the message I responded to is a message anyone can respond to…. The work of redemption God performed through the Jews and brought to us all in Christ is a work we are all invited to be joined to. Open your eyes and see that God is in you… and acknowledge him. Serve him, obey him, let his life grow up in you. If you do, you will experience a delight deeper than any you have ever known, a depth of meaning in your life greater than you have ever imagined.” Blessed by the Quaker tradition, Lape extends and shares that same blessing with us.

Stockholm's Franciscan Heart: Riddarholmen

Over the past several decades, a number of attempts have been made to ‘plant’ the Franciscan order in Sweden, but have met with only limited success. It is unfortunate, because up until the Protestant Reformation, the Franciscans flourished in this country and throughout Scandinavia. In a very special way, the Franciscan ‘footprint’ is still physically present in the form of Stockholm’s oldest building—and one of its’ most distinguished cultural landmarks-- the former friary now known as Riddarholmkyrkan (the Riddarholm Church).

In 1268, just forty years after the death of St. Francis, friars arrived in what is now present-day Sweden. Under the patronage of King Magnus Ladulås (1250-90), they settled on a tiny island in the center of the Stockholm archipelago and immediately adjacent to the Old City (Gamla Stan). Here, on Riddarholmen (the island of the Knights), a large brick sanctuary in the early Gothic style and adjacent friary were constructed, then dedicated in the year 1300. Returning the courtesy of royal patronage, the friars provided for a burial place at the foot of the main altar for King Magnus. He was to be accompanied two centuries later by another Swedish king, Karl Knutsson. Both tombs remain in the sanctuary to this day.



According to historian Henrik Roelvink, himself a Franciscan, the friars flourished on Riddarholmen for more than 200 years. It is believed that the community consisted of up to 20 men who in addition to their other responsibilities, also served as chaplains to the nuns at the nearby monastery of St. Clare. The friars continued to enjoy royal patronage during these centuries, and the convent became famous for its scriptorium. In fact, the very first book ever printed in Sweden was the Dialogus creaturarum moralizatus/ The Moral Dialogue of Creatures, printed at Riddarholm in 1483.

With deep roots in the culture and continuous royal support, one might reasonably assume that the friars would continue to thrive, unmolested and unencumbered in their communal life and ministry. But the arrival of Sweden’s King Gustav Vasa (1523-1560) changed all of that. Under the battle cry (and cover) of the Reformation, Vasa proceeded to break the power and influence of the medieval Church in Sweden. Not unlike Henry VIII of England, he confiscated church property, appropriated altar silver (later melted down and used for the royal treasury), and closed most religious houses and foundations. For the friars, this was a traumatic event; we really don’t know what happened to the friars themselves afterwards. Following the closure of their convents (c.1527), it is assumed that most of them dispersed into the general community, either returning to their families or going into exile abroad. Now banned by law, the Franciscans and other Catholic religious orders were not to return to Scandinavia for more than 300 years.



The departure of the friars, however, did not mean the end of Riddarholm Church. While other religious houses were sacked and destroyed, Riddarholm remained relatively unmolested—physically, that is. For one thing, it contained the remains of one of Sweden’s earliest and most revered kings, Magnus Ladulås, a vital connection to Sweden’s past that it was in the interest of Gustav Vasa to preserve. For another, it had never been a parish church, so its sanctuary could quite easily continue in its role as the burial chapel for Swedish royalty and nobility—a function it has served well into the twentieth century. In time, the early Gothic structure of the church would be modified to accommodate the construction of additional side chapels for burial vaults. A large bell tower was erected, replaced in the nineteenth century by the ornamental metal structure which survives to this day.

The appearance of present-day Riddarholmenskyrka continues to reflect its Franciscan roots. For all the glory and opulence of its royal residents, this (initially simple) brick structure remains a surprisingly spare, even spartan environment. Only a collection of heraldic shields covers the wall; otherwise, the space is barren of superfluous ornament. Fragments of various frescoes can be found throughout the sanctuary, though, hinting at more extensive decoration during the Franciscan era.



It’s remarkable that after 700 years, this important memorial to the Franciscan presence in Sweden should have survived. Of course, it is just a building. One hopes for the day when the Order itself may be return, flourish once more, and leave its distinctive mark on Swedish life in terms of our presence and ministry.//

True Conversions No. 5: Me

June, 1980. I had just turned 30. My father had died suddenly the previous summer, and I was still coming to terms with his death. I felt confused, despondent, and overwhelmed. I was going through a difficult time with work and with some personal relationships. Spiritually, I was drifting. I was a mess.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I received a grant from the Swedish government to study and write about traditional handicrafts in Scandinavia. It was an unexpected opportunity; I had already done some freelance writing on the subject and was excited to have the opportunity to spread my wings as a budding freelance journalist. So off to Stockholm I went, with the intention of visiting for just a couple of months. I ended up staying in Sweden, off and on, for almost three full years. I went to Sweden expecting to become a journalist, and I left wanting to become a Catholic priest. No one was more surprised than I was myself.



Although I was a cradle Catholic, educated in parochial schools, and brought up in an especially devout family, I hadn’t been much of a churchgoer since I left home for college. I still believed in God and prayed on a regular basis, but I was ticked off at the church and stayed away from active participation and involvement, as did many people of my generation. But here I was in Stockholm, Sweden, of all places, and, after a few initially euphoric months, I began to feel like my life was coming apart again and that I was sinking. I was stranded-- isolated both physically, spiritually, and emotionally. Cut off from family, friends, work, culture, language, even food-- almost everything and everybody that I thought defined me as a person and supported my identity. I was lost and didn’t know how to get found. As all of these other supports dissolved, I realized that what kept me going was my faith.

I discovered a small Catholic church in the neighborhood where I was staying. Temporarily housed in a converted movie theater, St. Eugenia’s was open during the week, so I started to drop in for an occasional visit. I would just sit in the sanctuary and ask God for help and guidance; anything that would give me some grounding and direction in my life.



I began to feel more and more at home in church-- not just in the physical space, but also in the liturgy and prayer life of the parish. Cautiously, I started to attend Mass again, but I was careful to sit in the very last pew so I could escape out the back door right after the final blessing so I wouldn’t have to speak with anyone.
St. Eugenia’s served a broad international community and was staffed by German Jesuits. These good men made a lasting impression on me: they were intelligent, calm, prayerful men. I liked their style; they were welcoming and approachable, but at the same time discrete and a bit reserved. I screwed up my courage and approached one of the younger priests to ask for an appointment to talk about my life and spiritual search. Over the course of several ensuing months, that initial conversation developed into a more formal process of reconciliation and spiritual direction. I was now coming home in a more conscious and conscientious manner.



My prayer life was flourishing. And at the same time I was getting more clarity about what God was asking of me in terms of a vocational commitment. I was thrilled and scared at the same time. I realized that once I reconciled fully with the Church, I would have to put myself completely at God’s disposal-- to place my self and all of my gifts upon the altar. And I would have to have to come to terms with a growing desire for priesthood—a ‘secret’ I had kept from everyone, including myself for a very long time.

Eventually, all of my deepest fears were realized and I’m glad they were. I did become reconciled to the Church. I did ‘place my gifts on the altar’, and I did finally admit that I was being called to be a priest. But it’s not as if all the pieces fell into to place quickly or easily. The process initiated in Stockholm in 1980, took more than a decade to come to fruition. I moved back to the United States, found a job and apartment in the Bay Area, got connected with a parish community, sought regular spiritual direction, and began to do some volunteer work. Ultimately, in 1993, I was accepted into the postulancy program of the Franciscans in California. A lot happened in between, but my Swedish experience was the initial catalyst for my spiritual conversion, growth and development.



Over the past three decades, I have kept up my Swedish connection and contact with friends and former colleagues. I will always be grateful for the opportunity to spend time in this extraordinary place in the world. In and out of church, I have been nourished on so many levels by the hospitality, friendship, love, and acceptance I have received from people here. As I was leaving for this trip to Stockholm, one of my Franciscan brothers joked with me about returning to my ‘adopted’ country. But, actually, Sweden adopted me. Sweden gave me a home and it helped to bring me home. Amen.