Hope dwells in each individual’s ‘walk on water’ stories

f stories come to you, care for them,” Barry Lopez wrote in “The Crow and the Weasel.”

“And learn to give them away where they are needed. Sometimes people need stories more than food to stay alive.

That is why we put these stories in each other’s memory.”

My life changed forever in 1981.

I had become a Roman

Catholic priest in 1963 in Rome.

I resigned from my position on the bishop’s staff in the Diocese of Allentown and married Monica in 1981.

You had to have been Roman Catholic decades ago to imagine the trauma when a priest decided, as we used to say, “to leave.”

That may have changed somewhat. It was a walk on water. Hope that you would not sink, that you could actually create a new life. Especially in the locale where you had served as a priest.

Catholic priests who resigned received no severance. They lost their retirement program. They were expected to disappear.

Think RC witness protection program, lest a priest who married scandalize the laity. Ha!

I did think about disappearing. One of my close friends, also a Roman Catholic priest, was the brother of the founder and chairman of MCI Communications. Bill McGowan offered me a community relations position in Phoenix where MCI was opening an office.

A few months later, when I hadn’t yet disappeared, my best friend from the bishop’s staff was given the task of inviting me to lunch and telling me that the local bishop heard I was looking for work in the area.

If I continued doing so, I was told, he would block me.

I was not ashamed of anything in my 18 years as a Catholic priest.

I asked my friend to tell the bishop that I had been seeking employment both locally and outside the diocese, but from here on, I would seek employment only in the area so as not to live my life under intimidation.

My response included the fact that The Morning Call, where I was wellknown from my work for the church as media liaison, had asked me to write my story … and if the bishop interfered in my life in any way, I would work with the newspaper where I had a credible reputation.

I chose not to have my story published.

I found work locally, eventually at the Episcopal Diocese of Bethlehem where, years later, I was received as an Episcopal priest.

Many of you have your own “walking on water” stories. I’m sure. You could tell stories wherein hope dwelled. Tell someone. Tell me. Put your story in someone’s memory.

I promise you this. In our relationship with God, hope and trust are more crucial than is faith, too often thought of in terms of belief. Belief is so overrated.

Hope — trust, wonder — is where we live our relationship with God and with one another.

And hope dwells in the experience of our stories.

You may be familiar with C.S. Lewis’ “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.” The book and/or the movie.

Here is my favorite part, from the book:

Four children entered the land of Narnia through their uncle’s wardrobe. One followed the wicked witch who gave him Turkish paste. Three took shelter with Mr. and Mrs. Beaver. Mrs. Beaver told the children about the mighty Aslan, the metaphorical Christ figure, who would make all things well in Narnia where it was always winter and never Christmas.

When the children discovered that Aslan was a lion, one of them wondered aloud, “Oh, but is he safe.” Mr. Beaver replied, “Safe? Who said anything about safe? Of course he’s not safe. But he’s good.”

“If stories come to you,” Lopez wrote, “care for them. And learn to give them away where they are needed."

Canon Bill Lewellis, an Episcopal priest, retired since 2010, served on the staffs of two bishops of the Episcopal Diocese of Bethlehem for nearly 25 years and on the staff of the first bishop of the Diocese of Allentown for nearly 15 years before that. blewellis@mac.com