Two-Wheeled Evangelist (part 1 of 2)

It always began so innocently. At each day’s end I would ride off of the Katy trail on my bike, dripping wet and exhausted, looking for lodging. The first person I encountered each day would begin a friendly conversation with obvious questions one always asks an exhausted cyclist who appears to have ridden a very long way: “Where did you ride from?” and, of course, “Where are you going?” And then, in every case, the conversation quickly arrives at the same point: “What are you studying in Saint Louis?”

“I’m a Catholic seminarian,” I answer. What follows that revelation is usually uncertain. The person may be pleased to see a man in service to the Church, or they may become upset at me because of issues they have with the Church. But it’s never boring after I utter the word “seminarian.”

As I pedaled my way across the Midwest God repeatedly placed in my path Catholics who were confused, angry, apathetic, but at least curious in every case. The situation was unique. They could tell me anything or ask me anything. My relationship to them did not matter a great deal because it was so temporary. They were honest, and I did my best to be God’s instrument of healing, teaching, and charity. In the process my vacation ended up being a working vacation, in a sense.

Four days into the ride, I rolled into the small Missouri town of Hartsburg. I checked into the Globe Motel, a comfortable bed & breakfast with about six rooms. The owner, whose name I have sadly forgotten, fetched me a glass of cold lemonade as I answered her questions about how diocesan priesthood differs from religious priesthood. When she was satisfied with my answer, she shifted the conversation to her many cats, of which she is very fond. As we chatted another guest arrived. Like more than 90% of the guests at this, the only lodging in town, John was a cyclist like me. He and I talked briefly as the woman readied our rooms.

I soon formed the impression that John was financially well off, yet somehow dissatisfied in life. He was out riding the Katy trail alone because he’s retired and had a need to fill the emptiness of his calendar with recreation. But the recreation lacked meaning and purpose. It consumed his entire life, but he was not fulfilled. At least that was my general impression … I don't really know.

After a shower and a bit of relaxation I meandered down the street and explored the town on foot. The sun was hot and threatening clouds loomed nearby, but it was a comfortable afternoon. The town bar was attracting a few patrons. A motorcycle pulled up in front and I thought, “cheater.” You’re supposed to pedal that thing. An old “Katy” railroad car in a park caught my attention. It probably once rolled down the path I’m now pedaling across Missouri, but has long since been retired. This is a nice little town, I thought. And I’ve already seen most of it.

As I stepped onto the front porch of the café, I was greeted by a few women relaxing there and chatting. We exchanged pleasantries and I walked into the restaurant, surprised to find precisely zero customers. The women followed me into the café and filed into the kitchen. I realized they were the kitchen staff, relaxing before the dinner rush which, apparently, consisted of me.

I took a seat in a booth and ordered my meal. To occupy myself in the empty restaurant while I waited, I opened up my prayer booklet and proceeded to pray evening prayer. I had brought it along just for the purpose of occupying myself during that awkward time of waiting, alone, for the food to arrive from the kitchen.

Before long the food appeared and I enjoyed it like only a hungry biker can. Then just as I was placing an order for dessert (something I almost never do) John arrived in the café. I was not surprised, this being the only restaurant in town. He asked if he could join me, and I welcomed his company. This is one of the joys of bicycle touring: visiting with other cyclists and meeting the locals.

When he checked into the Globe Hotel and we first met, we covered all the introductory questions. He knew I was a seminarian, preparing for the Catholic priesthood. Now at dinner he jumped right in with, “So do you think priests will ever be allowed to marry?”

My own response to this question was the typical utilitarian one. I replied with something to the effect of, “The priesthood is a complete self-gift to Christ and the Church. It’s too much to ask a man to be both a biological father and a spiritual father. The work of a priest requires getting up in the middle of the night to run to the hospital, to be available whenever his people need him. That’s too much to ask a family to endure. A wife would become jealous of the parish.”

While that is often very true, in my heart I have never been satisfied by that answer. It was the best answer I could give, but I knew it was not the basis for a healthy, celibate life in service to God. I kept on thinking, “there has to be more to it.”

John and I talked for an hour, or perhaps even two, about that issue and a dozen others related to Catholicism. He was lost and probably still is. He may not even realize it but he does not know the beauty of Catholicism. He’s missing out on so much: truly Christian marriage, the value of charity, the power of the Church’s Sacramental life, God’s mercy, and even His love. I lamented how far astray this man has wandered. I desired to show him what I know of God and God’s work in the world, through His Church.

I encountered that desire over and over as I was bombarded with questions by Christians in every town along my way. The distance these people have strayed from proper understanding of Christ and the Gospel was, honestly, shocking and disheartening. What the Church preaches is good, true, beautiful, and holy. It seems as if nobody I meet on the streets and trails knows that.

Next time, in "part 2," I hope to write on how I've discovered a better answer to John's question about why priests cannot marry.