Diary of a city priest: why be a priest in the midst of today's crises? Father Dominic Grassi shares what keeps him going and loving his vocation.

It all came into focus for me one night in a neighborhood italian restaurant. I found myself sitting like a silent referee between two close friends whose paths were diverging right before my eyes.

Over the years we had shared much of our priesthood. Working together as teachers and administrators of the high school seminary, our creative talents and styles complemented one another. Even after our ministries had taken us to other assignments, we looked forward to our dinners together, when we would "solve all the problems of the church" before dessert arrived.

Over time our friendship had sustained us. One of us had moved from being a radical teacher to becoming a bishop. The other had just returned from a six month sabbatical after abruptly ending his pastorate in a vibrant African American parish. While he was away, he had made the choice to leave the priesthood. Simply stated, he had fallen out of love with the priesthood. Issues such as the ban on married clergy and on women priests and the ongoing racial injustice in the church made it impossible for him to be a public minister anymore.

This was our first dinner together since our friend had returned from his sabbatical. All I could do was watch in silence as two worldviews collided. One view was that the church had abandoned the poor, had denied women their rightful place, and continued to oppress minorities by condoning injustice. The other view was that the church was the bastion of truth, the stronghold of faith, and the institution that would protect us from our own self inflicted chaos.

Before long, napkins were being tossed, voices rose. Finally, each shook his head in disbelief at the other's intractable position. It was then that they both turned and looked at me, remembering suddenly that I was sitting between them.

At that moment I realized how miserably alone I felt. Clearly my priesthood had led me to a place different from theirs. I was not ready to abandon the priesthood, nor did I want to accept what it had become lot too many people. What I did know for sure was that mine was no longer the priesthood into which I had been ordained in the heady, hopeful, and naive decade of the 1970s. But then again, I also realized that I am no longer the person I was then.

I knew in my heart that this would he the last time--after countless movies and dinners and discussions--that the three of us would ever talk about the priesthood from anywhere close to the same perspective. Years ago, our perspectives had grown out of our shared experiences. This was no longer true, and I was filled with sadness. For some inexplicable reason, God has called me to be a priest. In fact, I have been that priest tot more than half of my life. I will always be a priest. What that means, and will mean, I cannot say for sure. But given what God has done for me and asked of me over the years, I know that the priestly life will never be dull.

What is more important and just as inexplicable--is that I know I will never be abandoned by the God whose unconditional love is at the very core of the gospel I preach. This one belief holds me securely when hardly anything else feels safe.

I admit that this life was more enjoyable when I lived it in the midst of other priests who shared my vision. The argument in the restaurant is just one example of how the once-common vision among priests has become fractured. No matter what happens to anybody else, however, I am still called--by name--by God, who loves me.

Today the Catholic priesthood has a high and mostly negative profile: pedophilia, mismanagement of funds, broken celibacy promises, gay priests. Clergy-bashing takes place at almost any Catholic gathering. We are paying the price for having been placed on such a high pedestal in the past. Now we know the damage that has been done.

The current headlines and media attention have shaped somewhat my intention to remove any mystery or melodrama from people's perceptions of a priest's ministry and life. Neither hero nor saint, but also neither tragic loser nor addicted idealist, I am just an ordinary person who still finds incredible joy, profound awe, silencing mystery, and overwhelming peace as a priest.

So often, smack-dab in the middle of pain, God's grace burns right through. Those are the unpredictable moments I live for. They are what fill any priesthood with life and meaning.

Liturgy for one

Years ago, I was helping out at St. Germaine Parish, celebrating Mass on weekends and filling in as the pastor needed me. One Sunday morning I arrived late. The suburb's annual marathon had succeeded in blocking every route to the church. I ran into the sacristy with few minutes to spare before Mass was supposed to begin. The congregation evidently was also having trouble getting to church. It was almost empty.

Not surprisingly, I was distracted and angry, so I made a quick decision to just get through the Mass. As the opening hymn concluded, however, I could not help but notice a young woman in the very first pew. How sad and troubled she looked. How deep in the struggle of prayer she seemed to be.

I knew at that moment that I would have to celebrate the best Mass I could for her and try to say something in my homily that would make a difference in her life. As the service proceeded, I couldn't tell what kind of impact my words were having on her. But I did end Mass satisfied, feeling that I had given it my best effort.

This could have been one of those countless nondescript moments of ministry that would fade away over the years. But it came back to me in a surprising way long after the moment had passed.

I had applied for and been named pastor of a struggling urban parish. I was graciously invited by the pastor at St. Germaine to say farewell to the congregation. I would celebrate and say farewell at the last scheduled liturgy, and a brief reception would follow for any who wanted to attend.

I was surprised by the size of the crowd in the church and even more so by the number of parishioners who used up some of their Father's Day to stand in line in the hall after Mass. There were lots of embraces, kisses, and envelopes, all more than I had expected. I drove home thanking God for my experience at that parish.

My first two weeks as pastor in the new parish were extremely rocky. There were lots of surprises, precious little warmth, and innumerable rumors flying through the air.

On my third Sunday afternoon there, after three unrewarding liturgies, I sat in my room and looked out at the rain. It seemed as good a time as any to open the cards I had received from the people at St. Germaine.

The very first card I opened contained a note. I did not recognize the name signed at the bottom. A woman thanked me for helping out at St. Germaine and wished me well for my new assignment. She was certain I would have success there and told me why.

She acknowledged that I probably would not know who she was or remember a particular Sunday morning some time ago when she sat in the first pew. She described how difficult it was for her to pray that day and how mightily she was struggling to find God. But during my homily she felt as though I were celebrating Mass just for her. The words of my homily brought her much peace and a sense of God's unconditional love for her. She thanked me for that special Mass and assured me that I would reach the people of my new parish in the same way.

The memory of that Sunday years before came flooding back. Obviously, I have no way of knowing if this woman who wrote me was indeed the woman in the first pew to whom I had dedicated my Mass. But I choose to believe that they are one and the same and that God used her to tell me that everything would be OK in the new parish.

Was it her or not? It's a wonderful mystery that will never be solved. And neither will the mystery of why God continues to work through me to minister to others and then in turn ministers even more to me through these same people.

Little Gloria and the Glory of God

People's lives are filled with pivotal and life-altering moments. As one who ministers to others, I am often called to share in these personal experiences of change. And in a mysterious way, I too am changed.

I experienced this mystery intensely with one family in particular. I was invited into their lives by the 11-year-old daughter, who called the rectory. As we talked, I was impressed by how mature she sounded. Her parents were not comfortable speaking English, so she had become the family's spokesperson. Thus it was left to this child to tell me that her new baby sister was born not only prematurely but also with many other problems. The prognosis was not good.

Would I be able to come to the hospital to baptize her? I knew I shouldn't ask more questions than necessary, so I told her to tell her parents that I would be there.

When I entered the hospital, I was sent directly to the neonatal unit. I immediately recognized the parents. The father attempted a smile, and the mother looked terribly weary. They appeared older than most couples with newborns. Fortunately, their English was much better than my Spanish. And their young daughter was there to bridge our gaps.

With sadness in their voices, they told me their newly born daughter was not expected to live another day. Aside from being born prematurely, she had seriously underdeveloped organs, a damaged heart, and Down syndrome-related complications. There was no chance of survival. But the family was at peace because I had arrived to baptize her.

The compassionate and competent nurses prepped us. We scrubbed down, put on our gowns and masks and gloves. I was given a small sealed bottle of distilled water to use to lessen the threat of infection caused by bacteria. The mother would be the one to hold her baby. I was given only three minutes, the maximum amount of time she could be out of the incubator.

And so we began. The mother, with the first gentle smile I had seen on her face since I had arrived, indicated that she had dreamed of this moment. It was the first time she had been allowed to hold her child.

I asked the parents what name they had given their daughter. "Gloria," the father replied without hesitation. He then explained that she was an angel poised to return to God's glory. He was smiling and crying as he shared these words with us.

A moment later, the little child of God, now christened Gloria, was back in the incubator, struggling for each breath. Her sister looked at me hopefully as I was leaving. "Now Gloria really is going to be an angel, isn't she, Father?" I assured her that she already was. That night Gloria died.

A few months later, the parish celebrated Confirmation. It was a warm, uplifting liturgy. I was proud to be the pastor of this group of young people proclaiming their faith before the congregation.

When the bishop asked one of the seventh-grade girls what her Confirmation name was, she stepped forward and replied proudly, "Gloria." The bishop selects different students to stop and talk to at more length--every fourth or fifth one. I wanted him to hear Gloria's story, so I stopped him and prompted him to talk with her further.

She told the story of her baby sister, who had lived for only a day. "My sister is the glory of God," she remarked earnestly, "and a true saint." The bishop told her that she could not have picked a better name. As he confirmed her with the sacred oils, I stood there with tears in my eyes.

At the deathbed of a child, in that most difficult of situations, I was able to encounter a couple's deep faith, a faith so strong that they were able to share it with their other child, whose Confirmation name will always remind her of the gift God gave to her and to her family and to me, if only for a brief time.

In my life as a priest, I have learned that sometimes grace comes not from my own efforts to help others find God's love in the difficult situations in life but from the awesome way people's faith touches me and ends up ministering to me. Now, every time I hear the name Gloria or hear the "Gloria" sung, I am reminded of the faith of a family and their angel now in heaven, who is truly the glory of God. And because of that I am able to believe just a little bit more.

FATHER DOMINIC GRASSI is pastor of St. Josaphat Parish in Chicago. This article is excerpted and reprinted with permission from his new book, Still Called by Name: Why I Love Being a Priest (Loyola Press, 2003). To order copies, call 800-621-1008 or visit www.loyolabooks.org.