I loved Fr. Brook.....eventually.
Very occasionally a parish goes a little off, kind of like sheep that have eaten fermented apples or bad herbs. In these cases the diocese in her kind wisdom sends in a shepherd who knows the value of a rod and staff and knows how to use them. Such was Fr. Brook.
He came to us and within a year of his coming the parish had regained its balance. He accomplished this as far as I could see mainly by three gifts that he had. First of all he was a tall man with a mane of blond hair and the face of an irritated Viking warrior. He never smiled that first year and he was a fearsome sight. This alone was enough to straighten up at least a third of the parish.
Secondly, he had a voice that was created by the dear Lord to boom orders over the roar of an angry sea. That moved a few more.
But for a considerable number the balance was reached during Lenten stations of the cross. For my dear non-Catholic friends I'll explain that the stations are a very old prayer from the first century of Christianity in which the followers of our Lord retraced the steps of His passion through the streets and hills of Jerusalem. During Lent we recreate this journey around the church interior. At least fourteen times during this prayer the priest genuflects and kneels at each station remembering the suffering of Jesus for our sake.
That first Friday of Fr. Brooks' first Lent at the parish we were all gathered in the darkened, silent church, conscious of our own sinfulness and the generous, painful sacrifice of Jesus. In the midst of this silence Fr. Brook genuflected at the first station. I was startled out of my meditations by the loud cracking and crunching of his knees. Clearly this was an old football player with some extensive damage to his knees and perhaps ankles and hips because it was almost impossible for that cacophony of bone on bone to be coming from just his knees. Startled, I peered at his face illuminated clearly by the candles held by the acolytes. Nothing. No expression at all. All around the church he proceeded, crunching and crackling and not a wince, not a groan. Nothing.
The news spread quickly and attendance at stations grew every week. There was no way any hearing human being could watch the solemn, stoic suffering of this giant in faith without shivers of admiration. He easily could have cut out the genuflection and replaced it with a profound bow (and sometimes my cowardly nature prayed ardently that he would) but he never did.
Week after week he suffered his way through the stations and as Lent progressed more and more of the parish cheered him on silently in our hearts. By Easter we were convinced that he was a hero of the faith and a much stronger individual that anybody we knew, inside or outside the parish.
Resistance to his uncompromising style crumbled like day old biscuits. Peace was restored and order reigned. Obedience without the loss of honor was not only possible - it was inevitable.
