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Scared to Life
To a believing Catholic, would the sight of a priest be more
frightening than the prospect of an unprepared death?

By Diogenes

When I tell you that my Uncle Harry is a good man, you must understand that I am speaking out of sentiment, rather than making a strict moral judgment.

No one has ever had trouble distinguishing between Uncle Harry and Mother Teresa. Words like “discipline” and “penance” and even “moderation” do not fit easily into a sentence alongside Harry’s name. My uncle had a mission in life: to enjoy himself.
But to give the man his due, Harry has gone out of his way to make sure that the people around him enjoy themselves, too. He genuinely loves people, and he has a knack for entertaining the young and old alike. It was Harry who took me to my first baseball game, and I doubt I will ever forget that night—the hot dogs, the popcorn, the lusty cheering for the home team, and then the companionable ride home in his convertible, with the top down and the music blaring. On a more serious note, it was Harry who, day after day, visited the nursing home where my father was slipping under the influence of Alzheimer’s disease. Invariably my uncle was able to raise the spirits of his older brother—even long after Dad lost the capacity to understand who was talking to him.

That is why I say that Harry is a good man: he cares about other people. But as he would be the first to tell you—since he is also an honest man—he would never let his care for others interfere with his primary mission. He was ready and willing to entertain, to amuse, and even to comfort his neighbors, provided only that he could entertain himself in the process. But when the time came for sacrifice or commitment, Uncle Harry would always flash his charming smile and disappear.

Last call

I have no doubt, then, that Uncle Harry genuinely cared about the young women who would arrive with him at our family picnics. But there were limits. One after another, those lovely young women reached the conclusion that Harry could please them best by buying a diamond ring. When that moment arrived, the relationship was doomed. The blonde would disappear, and at the next family gathering a redhead would take her place on Harry’s arm.

As the years passed, and my adolescent envy faded, I realized that Harry’s behavior was not altogether admirable; in fact it was nearly pathological. I began to see why my parents, despite their affection for Harry, always spoke of him with a note of disapproval. I noticed, too, that my uncle was aging. His hair was thinning; his stomach definitely was not. His nose, red and bulbous, testified to his undisguised fondness for the bottle. His efforts to attract younger women were becoming grotesque.

But again, give Uncle Harry credit for honesty; he recognized these weaknesses in his own character. From time to time he would admit that he had been leading a frivolous life, and “needed to get right with God.” I vividly recall the evening when my father scolded Harry for neglecting his religious observations. “If you were better acquainted with the Last Gospel, and not so well acquainted with Last Call, you’d be much better off,” Dad said. In one of his rare moments of solemnity, Harry nodded his agreement.

One last chance

By now you may have noticed that in speaking of Uncle Harry, I tend to slip into the past tense. You see, the bon vivant is no longer with us. Today Uncle Harry lives alone in a nursing home, confined to a wheelchair. His mind is still clear, but his body is failing.

When the doctors told me that Harry had terminal cancer, my first response was to call the Catholic church closest to the nursing home. I explained that while my uncle had not practiced his faith in years, I had no doubt that he remained a believing Catholic, and would want to receive the sacraments before he dies.

To my horror, the priest replied that he did not like to make unexpected visits to patients in nursing homes. “It frightens them,” he told me. “It makes them think they’re going to die.”

“But Uncle Harry is going to die!” I exploded. For that matter we are all going to die, and if a priest shrinks from that hard truth, he is in the wrong business. But my arguments were to no avail. The priest would not disturb the superficial calm of an elderly man, even to save his soul.

A few hours later, I arrived at Harry’s room with another priest—a personal friend of mine—in tow. Far from being frightened, my uncle was delighted to see the Roman collar; I knew Harry well enough to recognize the relief that flashed across his face as he realized that he would have a last chance to make his peace with God.

Now Harry is ready to die. But I wonder about that priest who lives just around the corner. Is he ready to die—and to give an accounting for his failure to administer the sacraments? Wouldn’t it be an act of charity for someone to frighten him, before it is too late?

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