SEPTEMBER 2020 O


ne spring day when I was in 5th grade, shortly after lunch, I was working on my Palmer Method penmanship—no easy task


for a left-hander—when Sister Helen Regina, IHM, whooshed into the classroom unannounced and glided over to my desk. She handed me a long skeleton key and said that I was to hurry over to church and learn to play “Tantum Ergo” on the organ by 3:00 p.m. for Benediction because our music nun was ill.


Tis was a great day. (No more penmanship!) I figured I had about two hours before 600 students would descend upon the church with lunch pails, school bags, beanies and blazers. I hoped my amateur organ attempts would be more beautiful than my handwriting. Once in the vestibule, I began the ascent up the forbidden spiral staircase to the locked door at the top and inserted that very unusual skeleton key that would open the door to the holy of holies—the organ loft!


I tiptoed across the creaking floor, scanning the sanctuary from a bird’s eye view known only to choir members (mostly men and boys) and the organist. To arrive at the organ console on the far side of the loft required walking past rows and rows of organ pipes—mostly façade, but enough real wood and metal to evoke due reverence. Upon arrival at the console I unlocked the roll top desk still so familiar to organists—and voilà! Tere it was: two keyboards and a pedalboard that would eventually come to feel like additional limbs.


I flipped a switch (once I found it) and stood in awe as a mighty rush of wind filled the instrument with a spirit of life. And somehow, I knew I was home.


Called to Service


Another memory: this one took place just after college graduation. It was almost the seventies, and many of us graduates still felt the call posed by the late President Kennedy’s inaugural speech, “. . . ask what you can do for your country.” Some headed for the Peace Corps, Job Corps, Head Start, Legal Services for the Poor . . . Others, like me, headed into the cities to teach. At one interview, a principal in a particularly difficult school asked me why I wanted to teach there. He enumerated the challenges, and after all the bad news, looked


me in the eye and said, “I hope you’ll come, we need you.” Saying yes to that invitation gifted me with an experience of riches amid poverty that made an indelible mark on my soul. Tis experience would shape my dream of Catholic worship for life.


Fast forward to 1978, and another memory. Tat was when the first convention of pastoral musicians took place in Scranton, Pennsylvania. NPM’s founder Virgil Funk and others planned for a gathering of 600 people at Marywood College. In the end, around 1700 people—priests, musicians of every kind, and liturgists from all over—converged on the campus. Among the keynote speakers were Dr. Alexander Peloquin, Father Lucien Deiss, and a new young group, the Saint Louis Jesuits. Te venerable James Hansen was the cantor. Te prophetic title of the convention was Musical Liturgy is Normative. Go figure. We had no clue what we were doing.


“Within each of us, there is a story about a call and a response to music ministry.”


Why was Scranton so special? Why were participants so filled with gratitude? Perhaps it was joy at no longer feeling isolated. And we had a name! Let’s not underestimate the importance of being named and claimed. For over 40 years, members have been called and are claimed by NPM as a particular kind of disciple of Jesus Christ—pastoral musicians, called to proclaim the gospel, to pray, to lead, and to serve out of love using their musical gifts.


For the grace of baptism to unfold, we need a community of believers. NPM provides us with such a community—a community united in our belief in Jesus, our passion for ministry, and our love of music. (Not necessarily in that order—but we’re working on it!) I am so grateful for the people whom I have met throughout my lifetime in pastoral music because of


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