A Life Reviewed | My Permanent Loss of the Permanent Diaconate - Part I
In which Teófilo ponders the fact he'll never serve as a deacon.
I first want to thank all my new subscribers or followers. I’ve noticed the influx coming from my good friend, , whom I also thank for recommending my work.
You’ve caught me in the extended tail-end of my autobiography, where I try to make sense of it all. I invite you to start from the beginning, and see my writing evolve. I welcome every constructive criticism. Thank you for deigning my humble publication worthy of your time and attention.
A Quest Launched
In 2005, after graduating from the National Intelligence University and once again proving myself at the NDIC, I began searching for a way to reclaim my calling to the diaconate—a vocation I couldn’t shake, no matter how far I’d drifted. I knew that my previous ordination created canonical obstacles and we had to remove them. I thought that after so many years, the Church would want to heal what I'd started. After all, if God was merciful to me the Church had no choice but also to be merciful to me. Little did I know then that a long, dead end road awaited me, though one in which I learn to discern God's will for me.
First Attempt: Set Up to Fail
In 2006, I reached out to my local Pennsylvania diocese and asked to join their diaconate program. I explained to them my situation in detail, leaving nothing out. The program director encouraged me to apply to the program which I did right away. Not soon thereafter, I stood before an admission board made of local priests. They were congenial and I caused a good impression. The diocese notified me my election as a diaconate candidate late in the spring. I was to start the course in the Fall.
That first year was wonderful. Learning was a second nature to me, and I dove into Scripture and all things sharp and refined with great joy.
But at the end of the year, the program leaders pulled me aside and, without giving a clear reason, suspended me for two years. They made me think they’d use that time to sort out the canonical issues my case raised. But they only admitted to this explanation after I'd suggested it myself. Thus I believed and trusted them, and waited.
In the meantime, I became an oblate of St. Benedict attached to St. Vincent's Archabbey in Latrobe. I wrote a Personal Rule of Life to bring order to all the disparate aspects of my spiritual life. In that way I formalized the life of prayer I follow to this date.
Of course, I kept working in the NDIC and in the military. I travelled a lot. Chris had married and his first son was born in 2007. Jon was in high school. Mercie was ailing from a condition I'll speak to later in this work. I was busy.
The two years of waiting ended in 2009 and I hadn't heard anything from the leaders of the deacon's program. I couldn’t wait any longer, so I emailed the program director to remind him we’d reached the deadline they'd promised. He agreed the deadline had come and welcomed me back into the program. I asked if the diocesan canonical judge had handled my case like they seemed to promise when they suspended me. The director answered with an emphatic no.
That should've been a red flag.
Then I made a strategic blunder. I emailed someone expressing my joy that the diocesan bishop had relented and that he'd reinstated me into the program. Or it may have been I posted it on some forum where it was visible. Someone then took it upon themselves to forward my boast to the program director and my pastor, making it look as bad as possible.
The program director called me and seriously said I’d been careless in what I'd written—and that the bishop had nothing to do with letting me back in. He said he had no choice but to suspend me again.
Even my pastor disowned me. I had no chance to defend myself or rectify what I'd said. He withdrew his support from me. They left me with no recourse. I was out. Again.
I took courage in that I've only earned another suspension. I decided to wait and see where the affair would end up. I waited for six months. Silence.
I finally chose to walk away for good—tired of waiting and worn down by their back-and-forth decisions that only left me frustrated. I emailed the director a missive stating my withdrawal from the program. I asked them them to grant me from thereon what they've given me for the previous two years: total silence. This, they've done to the present day.
Part I Epilogue
A few months later, I ran into Monsignor Michael Servinsky at my local parish. He was the man whom the program director had told me would research my case, but never did. I introduced myself and told him jokingly that he had now a face to the name. This was one of those many occasions in which my straight-faced joke delivery failed me again. He didn't get my humor.
He looked at me, gave me a gritty smile, and said: "Oh, you were the one who withdrew from the program!" I don’t remember what else we said, and it took me a while to grasp what he'd meant. Then it became clear to me: they weren't at moral fault because I'd been the one who quit.
Monsignor Servinsky never thought that he and the program director had set me up to fail. He never thought my potential canonical impediments required his immediate attention. My leaving the program lifted any burden of conscience they might’ve felt—they were off the hook, and they knew it.
I quit the program to save what remained of my dignity as a Catholic Christian and a human being.
I thought matters would improve once I got settled within my northern Virginia diocese, that I would get a better treatment. That’ll be my next story.
Simply thank God and offer it up. Easy