Peering into the past… Dreaming of what could be

“I do not feel discouraged, still hope and pray…My trust lies in the justice of God and in (God’s) mercy which surpasses all (God’s) other works.” Mother Theresa to Sister M. Genevieve, September 21, 1884.

Incarnation-St. James Parish was one of the first parishes in the Diocese of Trenton to be merged into one parish in 2006. It was an odd paring: Incarnation had been a territorial parish established in the late 1940s during unprecedented growth in a rural area bordering on the city of Trenton. Four large buildings on 20 acres of land welcomed the faithful in around Ewing Township. But by the end of the 20th century it had experienced decline, like most other Catholic parishes. St. James was a national parish established in 1919 for the large Sicilian immigrant community in the city of Trenton. By the end of the 20th century the Sicilian community had largely left the inner city, but remained loyal to their parish. Three buildings sat on a paved corner lot surrounded by high fencing with barbed wire. The original church and convent had already been razed. The former rectory and school were rented to other organizations. The church was only used about 5 hours a week for three daily Masses and one Sunday Mass.

By the time I arrived in 2020, decline had continued both in numbers and activities, animosity between the two once-independent parish remained, and I was the fifth pastor to be assigned since the merger. Covid gripped the nation, and I was replacing a beloved pastor who had died suddenly. One of the first things I heard from parishioners was “Father, just keep the church open until my funeral.” For many, death was looming, for themselves and for the parish.

The St. James campus is located in what has been referred to as the most dangerous area in one of the most dangerous cities in the U.S.

One Saturday morning as I was leaving St. James, I encountered a man coming towards me. He was not a parishioner. I had never seen him before. He introduced himself as Harrison, and, in the course of our conversation, he looked at the church, pointed to it, and said, “St. James saved my life.” He was not referring to the apostle James the Brother of the Lord, but to the community. He went on to tell me a bit of his story. As a teen he was constantly in trouble. His parents threw him out of the house; he lived on the streets, got involved in the growing drug trade and all that brings with it. One day a parishioner of St. James asked him to join their CYO basketball team. And that changed his life. With a community surrounding him, he got out of the cycle that was destroying him.

This got me thinking, would anyone be able to say this 50 years from now? Or were we going to just wait to celebrate the last funeral and walk away? When the last Mass is celebrated will we turn out the lights and close the doors? Would our beautiful church, rich in a 100-year-old tradition of presence on this little corner of the world join the ranks of the empty Catholic schools, rectories, convents, and hospitals that already populate the city.

The Incarnation campus had its own symbol that needed to be wrestled with. One of the largest buildings on the campus is the “old convent.” By the time I arrived, it had been abandoned and unused for nearly 10 years. And right in front of it was a large dead tree. The darkness of the building showing the lack of care, the dead tree hovering over it was as powerful to me as the sadness of the St. James community awaiting the last funeral.

The “old convent” and Harrison have, over the three years I’ve been here, become an inspiration for a new vision and a new hope for our little urban community. Yes, the schools are gone, the sisters are gone, both worship sites are visited by only a fraction of the people that once filled a thriving parish. But the presence of the buildings, and more importantly, the people who have remained, are called to be the light of Christ amid the struggles that surround our campuses, and our own homes.

The “old convent” became a special place for me. It was once the home of about 20 Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary from Philadelphia. Windows in the chapel hold the memory of their presence, as well as the stories of parishioners who knew them. As I walked through the building about a month after arriving, I wondered if we could revive the building, bring life into something that had been dead for a while now. And we began a restoration project.

But it could not remain the “old convent.” It needed to be new. And we decided to name it the Theresa Maxis Center for Formation and Mission. I began to tell the story of Mother Theresa, someone I’ve come to love and admire since I’ve become close to a number of IHM Sisters who have helped form me as a religious and a priest. To promote a woman, a woman of color, a woman of great courage and strength who was not a stranger to marginalization, discrimination, rejection, who remained faithful to her call, is important. The people of the parish, and those in our neighborhoods could see themselves in her.

Moses said to the Israelites at one of the most difficult and challenging times in their history, “I have set before you life and death, the blessing and curse. Choose life, then, that you and your descendants may live: (Deut. 30:19). This is what faces us as a parish. Are we going to only wait for death, or will we live into the Christian hope that life springs from death?

The movement toward life is not easy. It requires looking at our history and honoring it without enshrining it, opening a dialogue within the parish and beyond in the neighborhood, and a renewed vision of what discipleship would look like if we heeded the words of our patron, St. James, “Be doers… and hearers… of the Word.” These words from St. James have become our vision and our guiding purpose.

We are now in the process of revisioning what it means to be a parish — and it will look quite different from the traditional model. We must take time to listen — we must lament what has been lost (something that has not been done since the merger), we must listen to the “joys and hopes, the griefs and anxieties” (Gaudium et Spes) of parishioners, former parishioners, former Catholics, neighbors and partners in mission and community, with open hearts and open minds. We must listen to the voice of God who speaks to all of us, not just the clergy. And then we must explore what it means to be “doers” of what we hear — what actions and programs will come out of our listening and walking together.

It will be a long process. But so far, we are finding this an exciting process and we are already seeing the fruits of it as people are drawn to join us in the dialogue and visioning.

The author and activist James Baldwin wrote: “One discovers the light in darkness, that is what darkness is for, but everything in our lives depends on how we bear the light. It is necessary, while in darkness, to know there is light somewhere, to know that in oneself, wanting to be found, there is light” (Nothing Personal, Beacon Press, 1991).

Each day I find glimpses of light — in the words and actions of the parishioners who are waking to a new purpose of mission — beyond waiting to turn the lights off after the funerals

Sometimes glimpses are enough.

Many years ago, I had a powerful experience of what glimpses can do. The Trinitarians once owned a large property in Pikesville, MD, formerly owned by the Howard family. Before we sold that part of the property, I had the opportunity to host IHM Sisters from Scranton who were missioned in the Baltimore-Washington area for a day of prayer in a mansion on the property. We read from Mother Theresa’s life that “she was taken to the door of the drawing room in the Howard home outside Baltimore and told that the visiting English major was her father. It seems she did not speak to him, but went back again and again to look at him. She never mentioned whether he saw her or not, or even whether he knew of her existence” (Pilgrim Let Your Heart Be Bold, p. 11).

After we read it, one by one the Sisters went to the door of that parlor and peered through the opening. What did they see? What did they hear? Some smiled, some cried, all of us were silent. We had the chance to peer into the past, and yet dream of what could be.

Like Mother Theresa, we might have to go “back again and again” to the door and look “again and again” as we listen, pray, speak to one another, dream, and act. From death into life.