As I posted yesterday, retired Seattle Archbishop Raymond “Dutch” Hunthausen died this past Sunday. He led the Catholic archdiocese of Seattle from 1975 – 1991. From the moment I met him, I found him to be impressive. He was the least power-driven pastoral leader of stature that I have ever known. One year when he came to confirm our young men and women at the parish where I worked as the Pastoral Associate, I saw a middle-aged woman before Mass drop to her knees, grab his hand, and kiss his ring. Caught off guard, and noticeably embarrassed, he hurriedly helped her to her feet, and managed somehow in one brief moment both to be gracious to her and yet to discourage that kind of treatment. Perhaps it was this lack of pretention that accentuated his substantive faith and appealed to me in a world gone mad for fame, power, and exposure.
I remember another year when he agreed to come and talk to the parish youth group. They closed the door for mutually agreed confidentiality, and he joined them on the heavily pillowed, carpeted floor. Removing his clerical collar and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, he asked the teens what was on their mind and before they answered he prefaced their conversation with a comment that they could ask any question they wanted and he would answer as honestly as he could. But then he emphasized that he wanted to hear what they thought about the issues they raised as well.
It became immediately clear that he was with them as a dialogue partner, traveling companion, and person of faith and not merely as their bishop. There was no air of episcopal posturing or ecclesial distancing with the mechanical prattling of canned answers to difficult and heartfelt questions. They raised questions about sexuality, inclusion, the church’s stance on women’s ordination, and homosexuality. They talked about the difficulty and joy of living the Christ-life, war, non-violent resistance, and the bishop’s decision to withhold the portion of his income tax that went to military spending. And I suspect they left with a glimpse of what it means to be church and a more expansive understanding of the term holy communion.
As John A. McCoy wrote yesterday in America magazine, Archbishop Hunthausen “may have been the epitome of the Vatican II bishop—pastoral, ecumenical, inclusive and relevant.” In that same article, McCoy, who worked closely with the Archbishop and wrote a biography about him, recalls a favorite story that Archbishop Hunthausen liked to tell when he visited Northwest parishes. I will retell it in the first person as the archbishop. It went something like this.
Once, when I was making the rounds and visiting churches throughout the diocese, the parishioners of a small-town parish hosted a potluck picnic for me in the city park across the street from the church. I took a paper plate at one end of the table, served myself some fried chicken, baked beans, and fruit salad and then looked for a place to sit. All the tables were occupied. So I found myself a spot on the lawn next to a youngster who was wolfing down the meal.
The boy, who had no idea who I was or what an archbishop is or does, chatted away with me about his school, his friends and his new bike. When he paused for a moment to eat some more, I asked him: “Where’d you get that tin plate? Everybody else has a paper one.”
The boy motioned at a house across the street. “At home,” he replied. “I saw there was a picnic going on, so I got my tin plate and came on over.”
Archbishop Hunthausen liked to tell that story in homilies and while leading retreats. He thought it illustrated God’s message: We are called to share with anyone who comes along — whether a bishop, a bag lady, or a boy.
For an excellent article on Archbishop Hunthausen click here.
♦ John A. McCoy’s book is titled A Still and Quiet Conscience: The Archbishop Who Challenged a Pope, a President, and a Church (Orbis Books).