GRACE: Habitual grace is the permanent disposition to live and act in keeping with God’s call.

 Habitual grace [is] the permanent disposition to live and act in keeping with God’s call.  Catechism of Catholic Church, 2000.

“I think you’ve swallowed too much of John Dewey’s philosophy, Trevor,” said Father Sean Owen stuffing his pipe. He peered at me through his granny glasses perched on his nose. He likely wondered why in a Catholic university, I had chosen an atheist for a major paper.

“How much change,” I asked trembling in his office; he was the proctor on my floor in Dalton Hall.

“About half the essay,” Father answered. “You’ve got work to do, Trevor, before graduation in May! He jammed his pipe with pungent tobacco; the smoke drifted out an open window.

“Okay, Father, I said, rushing from his office back to my room where I collapsed into my chair at my desk. I eyed my calendar: April 1st, 1963.

At this time last year, I had received my Bachelor of Arts at St. Mark’s and could have taught, but I returned for an Education degree. I even left my parents’ home temporarily in January and moved into residence to work on my major essay. But first I had to see Father Alward, the Purser, who joked, “Most people here want to move out! “I paid the fee, wishing Father Sean Owen had never moved in.

The university library was in the basement of Dalton. Adjacent to the library was a study hall with rows of collapsing tables vintage WW II. I chose the top row; I left my books and papers; few sat in this row.

I was indeed steeped in the philosophy of St. Thomas Aquinas. For Catholic universities in the sixties, Aquinas was the sole focus.  Our text was so revealing of this attitude: Thomistic Principles of Education, but I sought out other texts.

I sat in the seminar leafing through a secular book I had ordered through interlibrary loan. Carrying his tweed hat, Dr. Owen entered the room; he hovered over me like the Grand Inquisitor.

 I looked up as a red flush travelled up from his roman collar, under his heavy black glasses to his bald head. “Mr. O’Malley, I trust your book falls within Thomistic boundaries.” Suddenly a breeze from the window blew the book jacket on the floor: Progressive Education in America. Learning by Doing.

Dr. Owen curled his lip. “Mr. O’Malley, are you aware of damage this philosophy had done in our schools. So little for the mind.”

I felt like a heretic. But later in my room I started a rewrite which after three weeks, Owen approved, and I received my Bachelor of Education in early May.

 I still wanted to thank Father Owen, but he was not in professors’ procession into St. Mark’s Auditorium. In my cap and gown, I rushed over to Dalton, but the workers were clearing out his office. The Education Department, I thought, but a colleague said Father Owen had cleared his office, and without a word left, carrying a box of his books.

Strangely Father Owen’s disappearance had an unnerving effect on me: I had to connect with him for my own peace of mind.

I was on campus getting my article ready for publication, when rumors of Father flooded my mind: the Bishop defrocked him; he returned to Ireland for further study; he left the priesthood and married.

Later, in June beloved Sister Angela Ida who had taught me history of education and supervised my practice teaching in local high schools passed away. Her funeral Mass was to be held in St. Mary’s Chapel in the women’s residence.

The morning of the funeral the staff, clerical and lay, sat in the middle pews. I had slipped quietly into the back. Then shuffling into a far pew on the right was a man carrying a tweed hat; a pipe poked out his sports jacket. No roman collar. “It’s Father Owen!” I gasped.   

Father O’Shea, the celebrant, exhorted just before Communion. “Let us exchange the peace of the lord.” The Staff shook hands but ignored Sean Owen.

“No,” I muttered, slipping over to Sean whose eyes lit up.

“Trevor, my best student!” he said hugging me. I sat beside him and then received communion, but Dr. Owen just hung his head. Back in my own pew, I ruminated over Owen. I had to approach him at the end of the Mass. We sat quietly in the back pew. I looked up at the sanctuary lamp that seemed to be brighter now.

“I am here for you, Dr. Owen

 “Thank you, but its just Sean now. I teach only in Intersession.

“Oh, I see.” I did not inquire.

In June I audited Owen’s course “Grace in the Modern World.” In the very first class he described grace as a divine gift that empowers us through the ups and downs on the road to salvation.

I smiled and whispered, “Amen.”