On Tuesday the pastor of my parish celebrated the 50th anniversary of his ordination, and I was fortunate enough to attend. Three bishops attended as well, at least thirty priests, and a few hundred parishioners. It was a grand and glorious event.
There must be something bittersweet about celebrating 50 years of anything. Fifty years is a great accomplishment, but it is also a very long time, and anyone who celebrates 50 years put into anything knows that the fifty years has to be the bulk of what anyone can give, and that the commitment is in its twilight. During the Mass Father mentioned all of his immediate family members who had died before he reached this landmark -- I counted both parents, two brothers, and a sister. No doubt there were others, friends, more distant relatives, many priests. To make it so far, and to leave so many behind, this is what the sacrifice of fifty years really means.
It is not entirely different from graduation, another event of this season; proud of what you have accomplished, nostalgic for what has passed. Nonetheless, to put 50 years into anything is a monumental accomplishment in any age, let alone our own, where we throw out anything that is more than five years old.
At the reception after the Mass, when I congratulated Fr. Flannery, his response was to ask me how long I had been practicing medicine. I had to think about it, since when you are in the thick of things you tend to lose track of wins and losses. Including my four years of residency -- a fair thing to include because I really was practicing medicine as a resident, in the strictest sense a student no more -- it has been 17 years this spring.
"That's great," he said.
Yes, great. Seventeen years gone. I doubt I will ever make fifty in this business. But that's the sign of a great teacher and minister. You intend to remind him of what he has accomplished, and instead he turns it around and gets you to account for what you have done.