Rosary on Tap

In the spring of 1989 I became acquainted with a fellow named Chris who had several defining and somewhat anomalous characteristics: Chris was an Episcopalian who really wanted to be a Catholic more than anything.  Chris also envisioned himself becoming a priest; however, he had an equally strong desire to marry his girlfriend and have her serve beside him in his ministry along with a brood of children.  Lastly, but still I always got the feeling that it was a high priority, Chris had an overwhelming love for the Rosary.

I don’t know for certain what finally became of Chris.  Our acquaintance was short lived—I lost touch with him after about a year—yet the friendship, at least in being a kindred soul lives on to this day.  However, the short time that I knew Chris had a lot to do with what would happen in my life in the days to come.  Chris and I knew one another from frequenting the same beer hall.  Our best conversations, perhaps I should say my best instruction from Chris, occurred in that setting.  It wasn’t exactly the locale for “high church” theology as prying ears would often point out to us.  Often others would join our table and add to the excitement of discussing the faith we held in common. We met over the course of many months for nightly conversations on religious topics.  Throw in a couple pitchers and it would become quite interesting.  Once a fellow asked Chris, “How can you guys sit in here, amid all the drinking, vulgarity, and cigarette smoke, and discuss that stuff night after night?”  Chris simply told him, “Because it’s what we love.”

Over the years the conversations I had in that unusual colloquium have mostly receded into the blurry region of half-memories, that is, except for one.  On one particular evening Chris brought a rosary and as the usual group gathered he said tonight I’ll teach you how to pray the Rosary—“the Roman Rosary.”  I sat and listened with great interest as Chris explained each prayer, each mystery.  It was the kind of life-experience that had depth, value, and a place in subjectivity where humanity and the divine mingle: it was an experience of heart, one not to be forgotten.

Two years later I returned for a weekend visit knowing that I would encounter a different world from the one I left behind.  The tyrant change is no respecter for the cherished past.  I inquired about Chris and I was told that he and his girlfriend had gotten married and moved to the east coast to teach English at a parochial school.  By this time in my life I had become Catholic—it was my first year as a Catholic, and as I recall the visit was shortly following my Easter entrance into the Church.  That weekend I had brought a rosary along.

I decided to visit the locale of those salient conversations of a couple years past, but I didn’t find anyone who had been a part of the midnight theology club.  Perhaps out of nostalgia I picked out the same table and sat waiting a short while for patrons to arrive—it was still fairly early in the evening.

In the summer of 1988 I had the privilege of becoming friends with a young Iranian—an ethnic Kurd—who had grown up in Brooklyn—Ahmad was his name.  Ahmad was a mathematician and had helped me get through some higher math that I needed to graduate.  When I returned that weekend to visit, Ahmad was the first person I knew who stopped by to say hello, though he had never been part of our theology discussions.  Most of that group had moved on, including myself.  After only a short catching up I told Ahmad that I had become a Catholic recently.  I knew Ahmad was Muslim but I didn’t know how serious he was about it.  When I told him that I was Catholic he asked if I had a rosary.  I took out my beads and handed them to him.  I asked him if he would like for me to explain the prayers, but he declined.  He said “No, I just want to hold them.”  Ahmad sat there and held my rosary in his hand for better than an hour—he just wanted to feel the bead in his hands.

As we sat there I thought of Chris; I thought of my first experience with the Rosary, and I thought of my prayers in the park that I wrote about in the last post.  I remembered that I too had at one time just wanted to hold the beads in my hand. What God had planned for me I didn’t know.  It’s funny that going on 20 years later God's plan is still being fulfilled.  God is still telling me to have faith and he's showing me how he uses the created order to strengthen our faith in him and to prepare our hearts for eternity.  I think through the Rosary, and even somehow through the beads alone, I have learned a great deal about communing with others; that is, about relating with both ordinary folks and great saints—even relating to the perfect example of prayer, Our Lady who prays for us always and shows us the way of prayer. 

My Rosary story isn’t finished yet.  It’s an ongoing story of connectedness in my life.  Even better, it’s the story of us all and our being connected mystically to one another.

Now, just one last thing before I finish for the night.  As I was wrapping up with my regular Tuesday evening religious education class tonight I found a pamphlet in my son's book entitled "How to Pray the Rosary."  It was identical to the one that came with my first rosary.  While I know that this find was a coincidence, it is nevertheless full of depth and meaning, a message of affirmation; a message full of grace.

Comments

[Gabrielle]

dd, I've reread your rosary posts a number of times over the last few days, because there was much to absorb. I found them so moving I went in search of a book that I inherited from my family, called, "This is the Rosary", by Francis Beauchesne Thornton, with an introduction by Pope John XXIII. I remember reading parts of it as a child.

In the first chapter, the author talks about "beads for praying" having been in all the major religions, in Hinduism, in Buddhism in India, Japan, China and Tibet, and even in Islam in the first two centuries after Mohammed. He says, "It is interesting to note that the practice of repetitious prayer follows and grows with the emergence of meditative religions."

He talks about prayer beads being used in two ways: either as mere counters with some talismanic importance, or, as is the more important way, as an instrument of release into contemplation. And it just struck me that this tactile presence of the beads in our hands is something so historically universal, so sacred; something, for example, that Ahmad might have felt but couldn't quite place. With the Rosary, while the prayers themselves are important, it is the meditation on the Mysteries that is moreso, and it is the meditation, especially on the Sorrowful Mysteries, which most often leads people into contemplation. The Rosary is so powerful, as we know all prayers to Jesus through Mary are.