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to walk away, he hears one of the men whisper, “He used to be a priest.” And then the scene changes; the atmosphere quickens as a different voice raises, the woman’s: “A priest?” The injured demands a chance to confess. Caleb tries to redirect her focus, but she is insistent. The scene continues:

“Once a priest, always a priest.… It is indelible,” she said.

I assumed I knew what she meant: how the soul is marked by sacraments, and nothing can erase the mark, no omission or commission, no thought or word or deed, and the power I’d been given remained, regardless of belief.…

I hadn’t felt holy for over twenty years, and I knew too well the old lessons of sacred objects that required, for their touching, consecrated hands.… But I’d told myself—I had to—that grace cannot be weakened by anything a human being does or disbelieves. It runs on, a pure thing, in spite of, as well as because of, us.

Caleb bows his head and they begin the old familiar words. The broken woman offers up the things she needs to say, and then the broken priest gives order to her suffering by assigning a penance. Caleb finishes by forgiving and blessing her.

“Pilamaya,” she said when I finished.1

That final italicized word, pilamaya, is Lakota. It means “thank you.”

Brennan has never stopped doggedly reminding us of our deepest longing—that grace, God’s unconditional love for us, runs on, pure, in spite of, as well as because of, us. He has been a priest among us, giving indelible order to our suffering. Once a priest, always a priest. But he has also been broken among us, time after time, forgiven and blessed, as we all are.

Thank you, Brennan.

John Blase

Notes

1 Kent Meyers, Twisted Tree (New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2009), 234, 237–39.

Now there’s no more crowds and no more lights,

still all is grace.

Now my eyes are wrapped in endless night,

still all is grace.

Now I pace the dark and sleep the day

yet I still can hear my Father say—

“all is grace.”

It was easy as a younger man

To squander in the far off land

Where sin was sin, like black is black.

But older brother sin is white,

this doubt that creeps me up at night—

“does Jesus love me still?”

Now I take my meds and hear the game,

still all is grace.

Now old friends drop in and bless my name,

still all is grace.

Now a prodigal I’ll always be

yet still my Father runs to me.

All is grace.

PHOTO GALLERY

Me (5 months)

Mom, me (3), and Rob (4)

Me (4)

Rob (15), Gerry (5), and me (14)

Rob (back left) and me (front middle)

in a lake in Canada where we spent

many summers with family and friends

Mom and Dad

Grandma Anna

Manning (middle)

with husband, William

(right), and cousin (left)

Dad, me, and Mom near the seminary in Loretto, Pennsylvania

Me and Gerry

Mom, me, and Dad

Me with my nieces Katie and

Mary at Christmastime

Me officiating Gerry and Art’s wedding

Dad, Mom, and me at Christmastime

Me and Roslyn with Dr. Francis MacNutt

Roslyn and me on our wedding day

Me and Roslyn

A birthday celebration

The first Notorious Sinners gathering

Notorious Sinners: Gene Barnes, Alan Hubbard,

John Peter Smith, Devlin Donaldson, and me

Notorious Sinners: Lou Bauer, Paul Sheldon, John Eames, Alan Hubbard, Mickey Elfers, Paul Johnston, Butch Farabow, me, Bob Stewart, Ed Moise

Preparing Communion at a Notorious Sinners gathering

Art (brother-in-law), Gerry, and me

Having ice cream with my agent, Rick Christian

LETTERS

I (John) was privileged to sit with the Notorious Sinners in August 2010 in Vail, Colorado. Brennan was not physically present at their gathering, but his spirit was definitely there. I immediately liked these men of different ages and backgrounds. They radiated something I believe they’ve learned well over the years—grace. I invited each of them to send me a “Dear Brennan” letter for this book. When they asked what the parameters were for the letter, I said, “There are no rules.” They seemed to really like that.

And remember, my sentimental friend,