A Life Examined | My Permanent Loss of the Permanent Diaconate - Part II

In which Teófilo concludes his quest for the Permanent Diaconate.

(Continued from Part I)

I first want to thank all my new subscribers or followers. I’ve noticed the influx coming from my good friend, Addison Hodges Hart, 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

Art generated by Substack’s AI.

Move to Northern Virginia

In 2012, just after I got back from Afghanistan, we packed up and left Johnstown for northern Virginia. The closing of the NDIC precipitated our move.

In the Book of Genesis we see how God called Abraham from Haran to a new land he'd never seen. He left a comfortable life in obedience to God's promise. I saw our own move to Virginia in this light, the opening of a new chapter in our life. I also thought that my dream of becoming a deacon would become reality here in Virginia. "Maybe God will make me a deacon here and that's why He's making us move." It turned out that our move was within God's will, but for other, very important reasons.

A Last Attempt

I waited four more years to try again. I wanted to be well-established and active within a parish. I joined the Knights of Columbus and kept building up my career and my faith.

It was then in 2016 when I wrote a letter to the bishop. Since Pope Francis has made 2016 a holy year dedicated to mercy, I phrased my letter as a request for mercy. I asked their mercy to overlook my sins and heal my situation. I shared my whole story to the bishop, leaving nothing. He in turn gave the letter to a senior diocesan priest for action.

I answered all the questions the senior priest had for me. I gave him the certificate from my earlier ordination and the texts the other bishop had used in that ordination. I half-expected him to say my first ordination was invalid and that I was free to start fresh here. Instead, he told me he'd found my ordination was valid.

I was surprised by his finding. I thought he would find an invalidating factor. But he didn’t, which meant I was a deacon, validly yet illicitly ordained according to Catholic canon law. I had to chew on that one a bit, and deal with its consequences.

The senior priest also said that in cases like mine, the diocese usually waits five years before doing anything. He also warned me that they would reach out to my prior diocese and ask for my records. His tone was ominous, but I believed in their kindness. I buried the warning in the back of my mind, and thus I waited.

In early 2020, I saw in the local Catholic news that the diocese was getting ready for the 2020–21 diaconate class and was looking for new candidates. I noticed they made no attempt to contact me--not even to ask if I was still interested. I grew tired of waiting, so I reached out to the diocese again. My request reached another senior priest responsible for diaconal vocations. He scheduled a meeting in his office for the afternoon of February 5, 2020.

My "Life Journey" Up To That Moment Falls Short

I entered the office with great misgivings, not knowing what to expect. On one hand, having this meeting bode well. The priest could've made me wait the remaining one full year, or rejected my request by phone, email, or letter. But, I perceived neither joy nor hope in his summons. As I sat in the waiting area, I saw the first priest—the one who had confirmed my earlier ordination—walk out of the office. He was carrying a bunch of notebooks and binders under his right arm. Our eyes met, but his were without visible recognition. He had finished a meeting with the priest I'd come to see.

Not long afterwards the senior priest came out to get me and I followed him into his office. He received me courtesy. I attempted light talk by remarking on a rosary he had placed over a furniture. I had the same one, a "manly" rosary made with parachord and steel beads. The rosary was inside a small off-white bag made of cloth. He didn't pursue the matter.

We sat down by the table across from his desk. He led us into prayer asking for the Holy Spirit to enlighten us. Then, the following conversation took place (this is not a transcription):

- I regret to tell you that we have no openings available for you in the diocese at this time.

He smiled an empty smile.

- Openings? But, what about starting from the bottom, from the beginning?

- In that case, I'm sorry to tell you that your life journey isn't compatible with what we're looking for in deacon-candidates in this diocese. And as long as I'm here...

He smiled another empty smile and didn't finish the sentence. He meant me to finish his sentence with you'll not be accepted in my mind.

- Ah, we've come to the real reason!

I immediately doubted his first reason. No spots for me in a diocese where the Hispanic population has increased sharply in the last 10 years? Either he misunderstood my request or spouted a white lie to help me come down easy.

I closed my eyes. He brought me here to decline my request--I thought. Well, at least he had the courtesy to tell me to my face. But why not tell me 4 years ago?

- I know this is hard--he said. But you can remain involved...

I snapped my eyes open and looked at his sharply at the incoming patronizing remark. He noticed it. A brief pause followed which I interpreted as my turn to speak.

- There's not going to be any mercy, then?

- It isn't a matter of mercy--he started saying. But I interrupted him, which startled him.

- But it is a matter of mercy!

I held back, then did what I knew Puerto Rican men sometimes do out of sheer frustration—I slammed my hands on the table. That also startled him.

- Thank you for seeing me.

He said something perfunctory as I rose to leave. I had an empty water bottle with me so as I left I went to the reception desk and asked for a waste basket. I felt his eyes following as I threw my empty bottle into the basket and walking out, not once looking back.

I drove home and went into my bedroom. Everything was dark I stayed there awaiting my wife who was out running an errand. I prayed, turned on the lights, and started reading a book. The rejection didn't hurt me as much as the first one, over a decade before.

A week later, I wrote a letter to the senior priest, summing up what I believed had happened in our meeting. I spoke about our mismatched expectations for each other. I admitted my own mistakes and what they could've portend, from a certain point of view. I told him about the healing and mercy I'd expected from him in the Church's name, but had failed to gain. I told him that, no matter how he'd arrived to his decision, I accepted the decision as coming from Christ himself.

I also told him this:

Regarding the reference to my “life journey”, forgive me, Father, but you do not know anything about my life journey: about the joys, sorrows, pains, and triumphs that have come with it, particularly the pains and sufferings that have made me, to steal some words from the late Fr. Henri Nouwen, “a broken healer”. Instead, you chose to compress my entire “life journey” into a mistake and wound, the same ones I sought to heal and make whole. I thought that was unfair, but it is what it is.

I didn’t really expect a reply, but I still waited the usual ten business days—just in case. But nothing ever came in. I'd burned the bridges.

I came to recognize that I would never act as a Catholic deacon on this earth. I would not climb the altar of God, read from the Gospel, or pray for the people. I would never preach from the pulpit. I would never raise the consecrated blood in the chalice with the priest as an offering to the Father. My heart will desire to do all this, always. But my will to do died, and only the Lord can rise it from the dead.

For what I've seen He has no intention to do this. I submit myself to His holy will for me even in this. I offer up the pain and inner struggle as a sacrifice of praise—for my Mercie, for my children, and for the salvation of my own soul.

I'm responsible for the steps I took that ended in my diaconal ordination in 1993. I shouldn't have done it, despite external circumstances. The discerners that came later would've been amiss had they not seen this as a "red flag." They could never be certain that I would leave the Church again at the tiniest provocation. In a Church still healing from decades of scandal, those choosing candidates for Holy Orders have to be extra careful. I understand.

Still, even though they were instruments of God’s will in my life, I can’t excuse them from owning the mistakes they made with me. Their main mistake is that they delivered form, but not function. They’re satisfied they carried out the discernment God required of them—but only in form. They failed when it came to understand and heal me—their function. They failed to take my vocation seriously. They let me flail for years at time only to say "no" indifferent to the hurt they caused me.

I wrote all this with no ill will toward anyone involved in my failed diaconate journey. I forgive them all, for all. I ask forgiveness from them and from the Lord in anything that I've been amiss throughout the process. I write this so that future discerners and mentors don’t repeat the same mistakes when guiding others through a path like mine. Chances are, future candidates will be more worthy of the diaconate than I ever was—and they’ll deserve better.

The best thing that happened after I moved to Virginia was that my youngest son met the love of his life. After their marriage they would give us two beautiful granddaughters whom I treasure. They have brought us untold joy in our retirement years. That would've not had happened had we not moved from Pennsylvania to Virginia. Just for this, the move has been worth it, with or without the diaconate.

I praise the Lord for all things, and thank Him for His gifts to me. In your Kingdom, with your permission, I’ll be your deacon.