WHEN anyone asks what my father does, I say heâ??s a retired teacher. He did, after all, teach high school science and Latin, so Iâ??m not lying. Iâ??m just not telling the whole story: My father, married to my mother for 45 years, is a Catholic priest. Not a former priest, but a member of the clergy in good standing in the Roman Catholic Diocese of Bridgeport, Conn. Especially on a date, thatâ??s a conversation stopper.
Despite his 100 percent Italian background, my dad grew up Methodist in Providence, R.I., in a family with anti-Catholic leanings. (His grandfather, from his perch outside his grocery store, used to refer to any passing priest as â??the devil.â?) In his mid-20s, seeking to deepen his faith, my father explored different churches. One Christmas Eve, he attended midnight services at an Episcopal church, the main United States branch of the Anglican Communion. It included ritual elements inherited from Roman Catholicism. He brought along his grandmother, whose stories about growing up in Italy always held special resonance for him. When the priest held aloft a statue of the baby Jesus, she got emotional, saying she was reminded of the Catholic chapel she had worshiped in as a child. My father believed heâ??d found his place.
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