The Eccentric, Brilliant Mystic

I was delighted, this past Saturday at the NY Encounter, by presentations about Monsignor  Lorenzo Albacete and Simone Weil. A starker contrast can hardly be imagined: the obese, cigarette smoking, disorganized and disheveled, fast-food-gorging, comic-scientist-theologian-Manhattan sophisticate-celebrity, Puerto Rican Monsignor friend of St. John Paul the Great. And: the austere, ascetic, Jewish-atheist-convert, anorexic (physical and spiritual), (Spanish) revolutionary failure, genius-philosopher, martyr-for-the-suffering, non-baptized (as far as we know) mystic. But then I realized: underneath, they are the same "form"...the eccentric, brilliant, mystic. This is absolutely one of my very favorite human types. 

"'Brilliant" is clear enough: their superior intelligence, conjoined to sterling character, tender heart and fierce spirit give them wisdom and extraordinary insight. "Mystic" is straightforward: they have been possessed by the love of God. "Eccentric" is more elusive, puzzling, and fascinating. The word means strange, odd, unconventional. Etymologically it means "out of center." Morally it is not good or bad. Oftentimes it describes behavior or personality that is harmless, but charming or endearing. But it can also imply disorder and underlying pathology. 

And so, for example, Albacete ate too much; Weil too little. Both failed the temperance test. But so flaming was their passion, affection, devotion, wisdom, faith, courage, and charm that those imperfections pale by comparison. They add to the attraction and fascination, like a slight beauty mark on the face of a stunning woman. Besides Albacete and Weil, my favorites: (BTW women outnumber men 6-5. No toxic, patriarchal misogyny here!)

- St. Charles de Focauld. The only canonized saint on my list. Spoiled, fat, rich boy; heroic military commander of Foreign Legion in North Africa; ground-breaking anthropologist, disguised as Russian Rabbi, of the Sahara; stern, rigorous monk-hermit-missionary; renown across the Sahara among the Bedouins for his holiness and generosity but murdered without a single disciple or convert.

- Caryll Houselander. Hard-drinking, heavy-smoking, tough-talking, English writer of sublime, inspirational spiritual literature. She fell in love and was spurned by a spy (who was basis for James Bond) and never married. Solidly Catholic, she was flamingly (small "c") catholic in finding Christ everywhere, way beyond ecclesiastical boundaries. Untrained in the discipline, she was renown during WWII for healing of those suffering emotional/psychological torment.

- Ivan Illich. The intellectual hero of my youth, erudite, anarchistic, Croatian-Jewish-Monsignor, laicized but faithful to his vows of celibacy and Liturgy of the Hours, mind-bogglingly radical critique of the bureaucratic Church (especially the self-satisfied Irish-American branch), and of modernity as technocracy. 

- Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin. Peter was the quirky, erudite, self-taught bookworm that gave the centered, solid Day the Catholic Worker vision of traditional piety, works of mercy, radical pacifism, and Christian anarchism that was entirely eccentric as fueled by love of God and the poor.

- Brennan Manning. Least likely to be canonized, this charismatic preacher/writer left the Church and the priesthood, married and divorced, remained trapped in his addiction, died of alcoholism, but dauntlessly proclaimed the unconditional love of Jesus Christ, for all us unworthy sinners, and was buried in St. Rose Catholic Church, Belmar, NJ.

- Heather King.  Recovering alcoholic-sex-love addict; survivor of multiple abortions; another writer of sublime, inspiring literature who rivals Caryll Houselander in her Catholic depth and catholic breath.

- Elizabeth Anscombe. Another odd, British genius like Houselander; best friend, protege and  executor for Ludwig Wittgenstein; mother-of-seven and happy wife; cigar-smoker; anti-war and anti-abortion and anti-contraception Catholic and radical (like Day and Maurin).

- Rose Hawthorn. Daughter of the literary giant, she left her husband to take care of the poor dying of cancer. An outlier, a puzzle, a challenge for us standard-order Catholics.

In my personal life, I have been drawn to and have drawn to myself similar, if more modest types: odd ducks with deep faith who delight me and bless me with mutual affection and respect.

In 1970, the year after college and before marriage, my best friends in Manhattan where I studied theology with the Jesuits and taught ESL in the South Bronx were: Gilbert Davidowitz, erudite linguistic researcher, Orthodox Jew, severe neurotic, tender friend and roommate; Tony Petrosky, another roommate, my boss at Puerto Rican Community Development Project, guitar-playing, pot-smoking, peace-exuding Hippy who lived in a tent for 3 years spending only $10 the entire time; and George Lissandrello, ex-seminarian-roommate, sensitive, antique-furniture-renovating, deeply spiritual and insightful, so-interesting, participant in the lower East Side gay community, victim of AIDs. 

My best friend ever (except my wife) was John Rapinich: beatnik friend of Kerouac and Ginzburg, convert, charismatic, artist, book worm, uncle to my children, little-big-brother to me, NeoCat, deep Catholic, free spirit. 

And I number among my best adult friends about 8 "maverick priests" (subject of a prior blog essay) who are each, in more modest proportion, eccentric, brilliant mystics. 

In heaven I aspire to spend a lot of time with these folks. I am not one myself. But I pride myself that I am odd enough, smart enough and pious enough to recognize one when I see one!