For many people, the name of Archbishop Rembert Weakland brings to mind only connotations of scandal — the titillating tale of a prominent priest disgraced. But that whiff of dishonor barely begins to tell the whole story. / In these pages Archbishop Weakland recounts his life from his childhood in rural Pennsylvania to his retirement from the archbishopric in 2002 at the age of 75, all in the context of the Church that he long served. Weakland takes readers with him to Rome, where he discovered the splendor of a whole new intellectual world, and then to New York for his extensive musical study at Julliard and Columbia University. From his early days in the priesthood to his struggles with pontiffs, Weakland details how he learned to become a leader and minister to his people and how his famously liberal beliefs affected his ministry. While he presents an honest account of the scandal he is so often recognized for, the complete picture beyond rumor and accusation may come as a surprise to many readers. / Throughout his memoir Weakland describes with poignant honesty his psychological, spiritual, and sexual growth. Candid and engaging, A Pilgrim in a Pilgrim Church offers a fascinating inside look at both Pope Paul VI and Pope John Paul II even as it tells the story of a life fully lived.
A Pilgrim in a Pilgrim Church
Memoirs of a Catholic ArchbishopBy Rembert G. WeaklandWilliam B. Eerdmans Publishing Company
Copyright © 2009 Rembert G. Weakland
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-0-8028-6382-9 Contents
FOREWORD.......................................................................................ixPROLOGUE: Broken and Re-glued Milwaukee, Wisconsin (May 2002).................................31. Inheriting Coal Dust in the Veins Patton, Pennsylvania (1927-1940).........................232. Thirsting for Knowledge St. Vincent, Latrobe, Pennsylvania (1940-1948).....................413. Absorbing New Worlds Rome (1948-1951)......................................................634. Experiencing a Second Novitiate New York-Milan (1952-1957).................................765. Transitioning from Old Church to New St. Vincent (1957-1963)...............................916. Testing Challenges of Leadership St. Vincent (1963-1967)...................................1117. Adjusting to the Eternal City Rome (1967-1973).............................................1278. Traveling the World Over (1967-1973).......................................................1609. Applying the Wisdom Learned (1973-1976)....................................................19010. Ministering in the Last Years of Pope Paul VI Rome (1973-1977)............................21011. Learning to Be an Archbishop Milwaukee (1977-1983)........................................23512. Drafting "Economic Justice for All" (1981-1986)...........................................27313. Sorting Out Positions Milwaukee-Rome (1983-1988)..........................................29314. Balancing Conflicting Models of Church Milwaukee (1989-1996)..............................32615. Struggling toward the Finish Line Milwaukee (1996-2002)...................................369EPILOGUE: Final Reflections....................................................................417ACKNOWLEDGMENTS................................................................................424INDEX..........................................................................................427
Chapter One
Inheriting Coal Dust in the Veins Patton, Pennsylvania (1927-1940)
Father Len dropped me off at my sister Barbara's condo in Hollidaysburg, Pennsylvania, outside of Altoona. From there it would be easy to visit Patton, where I was born and grew up. Nestled in an Appalachian valley, the small town was founded in 1893 as a hub for the offices of the surrounding soft-coal mining companies. And it was a small town: the 1920 census reported 3,628 inhabitants. Yet, Patton boasted a hotel and movie-house - the only ones for many miles around - in addition to its twelve churches and twelve bars. The biggest church was St. Mary's on the hill, the parish that played a special role in my family's life: the Weaklands were all baptized there. I learned my first lesson in ecumenism at St. Mary's when each year the pastor would ask a few altar boys to take candles around to the other churches as a Christmas gift.
Most of our friends and neighbors were Protestant and no one ever said we Catholic kids could not associate with them, although we were not permitted to attend the summer revival meetings held in tents outside the town to hear the famous preachers and gawk at renowned faith-healers, like Katherine Cullman. Nor were we permitted to make fun of any of their religious manifestations, not even the Holy Rollers or the snake handlers. There was one well-liked Jewish family, but the town was essentially white and Christian. The only African-Americans we ever saw were the few young black men who came to suction out the outhouses of homes without indoor plumbing. We kids followed behind in amazement, staring at their black skin beaded with sweat and covered with white lime.
My father and grandfather owned the Palmer House Hotel at the town's main intersection. There my mother gave birth to me on April 2, 1927, and carried me up to St. Mary's Church herself-so she told me-on Sunday, April 10, to be baptized and given the name George Samuel after my maternal and paternal grandfathers. The name Rembert, by which most people know me, was given in 1946 when I pronounced my first vows as a Benedictine monk. I was child number four in a family of six children, preceded by two sisters and a brother, and followed by two more sisters. I was the last born in the hotel since soon after my birth we moved to a normal house. Apparently my mother did not feel that raising kids in a hotel was a good idea.
In 1929, a financial crisis closed the Patton Bank and marked the beginning of the Depression with its catastrophic effects on Patton and all the surrounding towns. That same year a disastrous fire almost totally destroyed the Palmer House Hotel, causing financial ruin for the family and forcing us to move to the Flats, a poorer part of town. The fire took its toll on my father by first killing his spirit. Mom said he spent much time with his friends in the few unheated rooms of the burnt-out hotel, drinking and lamenting. It was a bout with pneumonia that brought him down on April 3, 1932, the day before his thirty-fifth birthday and the day after my fifth, leaving a wife and six children, the oldest nine, the youngest six months.
That fifth birthday is one of my first clear memories. Like any kid, I looked forward to being the center of attention for a few hours that day. Instead, something seemed wrong: no one was around, no one seemed excited about my birthday, no signs of festivities were evident. My mother had deposited my younger sister and me in the home of strangers where, in the evening, she came to hold me a bit and lay me down to sleep. Next day we two were brought back to our own home in the Flats where everyone was upstairs in my parents' bedroom. Despondent and unhappy, I could hear the murmur of soft voices. We two kids were quietly ushered into the room.
Every detail of the events that followed, every aspect of the room, everyone's actions are still vivid in my mind. My father, Basil Francis Weakland, coughing deeply, lay dying, struggling to stay alive. Although the curtains were drawn and it was dark in the room, I remember how every piece of furniture was arranged, how the candles on the bedstand that kept sentinel by the crucifix flickered and cast odd-shaped shadows on the wall, how the priest had withdrawn to the side, how Dr. Cooper kept busy doing something that was not helping. Finally the coughing changed to the dread sound of a death rattle and my mother, sobbing, fell on the body of my dying father.
Later relatives criticized her for permitting the younger kids to witness this scene. Yet the memory of it has caused me no sleepless nights. Although not truly understanding the significance of it all, I was always glad to have been physically present at a moment that was to affect our futures so profoundly.
Although the church services left no traces in my memory, the interment at the cemetery did, perhaps because the burial ceremonies did frighten me. My father was given a military funeral, which was punctuated by deafening bursts of gunfire over the open grave followed by eerie echoes from a distant hill; a bugle near the coffin mournfully sounded Taps and, after an aching pause, the subdued echo came back. All this was so perplexing and strange that I hid behind my mother's skirt till it was finished and a military man came over and stiffly gave her the triangularly folded flag...
