Msgr. John O’Donnell

Memorial Mass Homily

04/26/2019

No one knows a man as well as his wife does. She knows the good and the bad, the pretty and the pretty pathetic, the incredible and the incompetent, in a word, she knows all sides of her spouse. Since most Catholic priests are not married, the Catholic clergy’s equivalent is a priest’s secretary, which common parlance would call “work wife.” And so when I wanted to get some material for Msgr. O’Donnell’s memorial Mass, I sat down to visit with Kay Geisbauer, Dorothy Sullivan, Cindy McNally and Virginian Ricketts, all of whom would feel honored to be Msgr. O’Donnell’s work-wife. We talked for almost three hours, and every few minutes they would preface a comment with, “But you cannot write this story down,” which, of course, are the only stories I am going to share in this homily.

First, let me share a few facts with which you may or may not be familiar. Monsignor’s parents were both from Ireland, but they met and married in New York City. The family moved to Philadelphia, where the little monsignor was born on January 29, 1928. His charming personality and his cheerful priesthood were the products of Catholic schools, which he always loved. He entered St. John’s Home Mission Seminary in Little Rock in 1946, and was ordained a priest on May 27, 1954 by Bishop Albert L. Flectcher. He served in many parishes in the diocese, but clearly his favorite was Immaculate Conception in Fort Smith. He saved the best for last, and that’s why he retired from here in 2006. He was the last Irish pastor, perfect for this parish originally named St. Patrick and populated by immigrants from the Emerald Isle. He followed in the footsteps of great shepherds named Monaghan, Walsh, O’Connell, Horan, Desmond, Gallagher, (another) Walsh, and beloved Galvin. In 1996 Msgr. John O’Donnell strode onto the sacred stage of this church like Fred Astaire staring in the movie “The Sky’s the Limit.” Those are the facts of his life. Everything that follows will be mostly fiction.

One thing that the four ladies mentioned many times was what a gentleman Msgr. O’Donnell was toward women. He called all women, “Darlin’,” opened the door for them, insisted the ladies walk in front of him, and of course, he was charming and witty. More than one woman secretly considered him a “Father-what-a-waste,” because any woman would consider him quite a catch. Once on vacation he was relaxing by the swimming pool in his shorts, no shirt, and surrounded by fawning female guests, who could not imagine in a million years they were flirting with a Catholic priest. And of course O’Donnell did not tell them his little secret; he was having too much fun. The following morning, when monsignor walked out of the hotel in his Pontiff 3, Roman collar and full cassock on his way to Mass, their jaws dropped. But I’m sure several still followed him to Mass.

Whenever monsignor left the church office, he remarked to Kay, “I’m going out into the vineyard,” which was anywhere and everywhere he happened to be, even the sitting at a poolside. When he returned from vacations, he brought the staff gifts from his travels. Monsignor knew that when people take a priest out to eat, they never let the priest pay for the meal. So, at the end of a meal, he would excuse himself, pretend to go to the bathroom, but on his way to the little priest’s room, he gave his credit card to the waitress and covered the meal. St. Paul taught the Ephesians spousal love, saying: “Husbands love your wives, even as Christ loved the Church and handed himself over for her to sanctify her.” And that is how Monsignor O’Donnell loved all women, just like Christ loves the Church.

Now, monsignor would be the first person to admit he was not perfect. But he was one of those smart shepherds who firmly believed that God’s grace and transform a struggle into a success, and a blunder into a blessing. One area where monsignor knew he needed a little help was in hoarding. His desk was constantly cluttered with papers, books, notes, gifts, cards, etc. And when there wasn’t room on top of his desk, he tossed papers, pens and paraphernalia on the floor. But his hoarding habit became the inspiration for an article published in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette about Lent. Let me share his closing comments: “I keep thinking that if only I kept on top of what’s cluttering up my life, then the spiritual pack-rat syndrome wouldn’t be a problem. Maybe this Lent as I think about throwing-up, throwing-out, and throwing-away, I’ll also, just as importantly, plan to re-place, re-store, and re-fill the hole in my soul with those gospel treasures that won’t gather rust, dust, mold or moth, and I’ll never get tired of hoarding!” In other words, Monsignor O’Donnell could turn a vice into a virtue, and he always left you laughing.

Another area where monsignor might have had to polish his halo a little was he enjoyed a good drink. He loved to eat lunch at Little Rock’s Flying Fish restaurant, and he did not hesitate to order a beer or wine. Every meal is much better with a little merlot. He would even order a martini occasionally, but always in moderation. Is martini and moderation an oxymoron? But after all, he was only obeying the injunction of St. Paul in his first letter to Timothy, where the astute apostle advised: “Stop drinking only water, but have a little wine for the sake of your stomach and your frequently illnesses.” That’s in the bible, folks, a verse every Catholic should memorize. Dorothy Sullivan sometimes gave monsignor a little wine to wash down his pills in the nursing home when he had trouble swallowing, and both the pinot and the pills were equally medicinal. John O’Donnell obeyed both his work-wife and the Word of God.

And finally, Monsignor O’Donnell was a priest’s priest, meaning he had the heart of the Good Shepherd. John 10 describes Jesus, the Good Shepherd, who says: “I came so that they may have life and have it more abundantly.” Monsignor O’Donnell lived life abundantly. His nickname in school was “wiggles” and he excelled in boxing and in dancing. Boxing requires a lot of dancing. He started the St. Patrick’s Day Parade here in Fort Smith and was the inaugural Grand Marshal. At parties and fundraisers, he was the first to step on the dance floor, which the ladies loved. Pay attention, gentlemen. He started the Lenten ecumenical services with other churches, and enjoyed lunch with Protestant pastors. Whole families, like Sub and Judy Ollie’s, converted to Catholicism after just the first time they heard the monsignor preach.

Monsignor wrote a moving introduction to the 150 year anniversary book commemorating I.C. parish. Surely he was being autobiographical when he wrote: “All of the foregoing simply means that we shall emulate the example of our forebearers and broaden our shoulders with continuing works of Grace, Peace, and Service to the end that our children’s children will look back and bless our memory. We can insure and assure that they will bask in the glory of the bright legacy that we preserved and passed on to them.” Those broad shoulders belonged not only to the parish but also to the pastor. Monsignor O’Donnell, like the Good Shepherd, led many into verdant pastures, and being Irish, he knew a verdant pasture when he saw one.

Indeed, the good monsignor even timed his passing from this valley of tears into the peaceful pastures of paradise on Holy Saturday (April 20), the precise day when the Good Shepherd – who is also the sheep gate – opened the Pearly Gates. Dorothy shared this little-known detail about monsignor’s funeral arrangements. He had requested that Tony Reith build his casket made from plain wood, and that’s the casket he will be buried in next Wednesday in the Priests’ Circle in Calvary Cemetery. Popes often request the same thing as a gesture of humility, which the cardinals obediently do, placing the body of the pontiff in a plain wooden box. But then they place that box inside an incredibly ornate and opulent sarcophagus. We may not have a splendid sarcophagus to lay monsignor’s body in, but our sentiments of love can sanctify and beautify his box far more than silver or gold.

Let me leave you with a lyrical poem that Msgr. O’Donnell himself wrote tying together both Christmas and Easter, called “Bethlehem’s Gifts.” I hope you hear his voice rather than min as I recite it:

Dear Jesus, Gift to me, / Let me wrap myself in Thee, / Tie me with the ribbons of Grace, / Swaddle me in Thy holy place, / Weave for me the garment of glory / That I may serve that old, told story / Of peace on earth, good will to men, / Until in triumph you come back again / And lift us up as gift to Thee, / And rhapsodize for eternity –  / In Emmanuel and Trinity. Amen.

May Jesus Christ, the eternal Shepherd, usher John O’Donnell, the earthly shepherd, into verdant pastures. And may the Risen One give peace and comfort to monsignor’s work-wives, and to the rest of us, who love and will miss him.

May the road rise to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face.

The rains fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

Praised be Jesus Christ!