When I went to seminary, I had a dream of what being a priest would be like. The picture in my head lived somewhere between The Mass of Saint Gregory by Annibale Carracci and Father Barry from On the Waterfront. I imagined myself standing at the altar, deeply aware of the in-breaking presence of God, then going out into the community and standing up for light, truth, and hope against oppression and darkness.
In reality, I spend a great deal of my time going to meetings, fielding complaints, making sure that there is enough toilet paper in the men’s room, and poring over monthly budgets. Much of this is necessary, of course, but it is not exactly the romantic life I imagined. Even the things that I once waxed poetic about can become common place. I remember a time when I knew exactly how many Masses I had celebrated, and I still trembled whenever I touched the chalice and paten. Far too often now, I approach the tools of ministry as if they are nothing more than tools, as common as a wrench or a pencil.
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