AA freed him of remorse and enabled him to serve God
WHY SHOULD anyone be thankful for a progressive, incurable illness, which society regards as a disgrace, a weakness, a sin, and a crime? Why should I, an ordained priest, be grateful for an addiction to alcohol that eventually rendered me incapable of serving God and my fellow human beings in accordance with my religious vows?
I thank God I am an alcoholic because, through my alcoholism, I was given the power to surrender for the second time in my life. I surrendered first as a young man, on joining the religious order through which I serve the Roman Catholic Church. In addition to poverty and chastity, my vows included a promise to God that I would surrender my will to that of my superiors in the church. Years later, in my early fifties, my compulsive drinking brought about my second surrender–to the reality of my powerlessness over alcohol.
During most of my life as a priest, I eagerly accepted responsibilities. I became principal of a large parochial high school in the Midwest. During World War II, I served as a chaplain in the United States Army, and retired from active duty in 1946. Up to this time, my drinking had produced no problems, and I did not use alcohol to cope with frustrations. As far as I was aware, I had no serious frustrations. Gradually, my drinking increased to produce intoxication, after which I suffered from hangovers and intense self-condemnation for my “lack of will power.”
I was unaware that I had a disease, and my recurrent lapses produced agonizing remorse over what I regarded as wholly a sin–the sin of drunkenness. Despite my best intentions and daily prayers to God for help, I suffered further humiliating, agonizing failures.
In 1951, a stroke left me partly paralyzed, and my speech was impaired. While I gradually recovered the use of my limbs to a degree and regained the ability to speak understandably, I could no longer function as energetically as before. This abrupt decline from life as an active priest was frustrating, and increased my need to seek relief in alcohol. Periodically, I would go on the wagon, regarding these miserable dry stretches as punishment for my sins of excess. Then, having done penance, I could cast off the chains of reluctant abstinence and relax with a drink, until disgust and exhaustion impelled another climb on the wagon.
During one of these dry periods, I consulted a doctor at a leading government hospital. Naturally, I did not feel it medically relevant to mention my troubles with alcohol. Skillfully diagnosing my heart and circulation condition, he asked if I drank. “No,” I replied virtuously.
“Oh, father, you ought to drink a little,” said the doctor. “I’d suggest working up to three or four drinks a day. Think you could manage that?” I implied I certainly would try to choke down the few drinks.
In the late 1950’s, I promised myself to remain on the wagon for one full year. Like a prisoner confined, I circled the date of my “release” on the calendar. I now look back on that period as the most miserable year of my life. It surpassed in agony any similar period of my worst drinking, for the alcohol at least brought fitful moments of relief or oblivion.
When the dreadful year of dryness ended, I fled the rigorous Chicago winter by flying to Arizona–making sure I’d be on a flight serving cocktails. After reporting to my superiors at the monastery, I went directly to the recreation room, where I knew liquor was kept. When the other monks returned from their prayers and dinner, they found me passed out on the sofa.
When the warm but miserable winter was over, I returned to Chicago. One day, after long months of unhappy abstinence, while I was at prayer, I heard a voice say, “You are an alcoholic.”
So convincing was this impression or insight that I acted upon it without question and without panic. I consulted a pastor of my order and asked him for the name of a member of Alcoholics Anonymous. He knew of one, an attorney of my faith. I picked up the phone, called the man, and asked for help. My going to the phone was an act of surrender, but the full effect, the complete blessing, did not come till later.
In a short time, the attorney was in my room, on a Twelfth Step call. What he said made an indelible impression on my mind and heart, and God’s grace gave me the ability to understand it: “Give up, and you win.” Without God, I can’t do it; but with His help I can surrender today, and each day, one day at a time.
The attorney took me to my first AA gathering. It was a stag meeting, and I was dressed in clerical garb. Of the forty men present, I recognized six or seven who had been pupils of the Chicago high school during the years I had served as principal! Strangely, I wasn’t embarrassed, and neither were they. They welcomed me, their former principal, a priest of their faith, and shared with me in the bond of a common illness.
That was August 1, 1960, and from that first meeting these men warmed me with their fellowship, their strength and hope, and led me into knowledge of the AA program. How sublimely different was this new form of abstinence that followed complete surrender! My first deep realization of this difference came when I had been sober in AA for only six months. Again, I was undergoing a checkup by an Army doctor, one who had been treating me for many months, and from whom I had concealed my excessive drinking.
Looking at me curiously, he asked, “Father, have you hanged your medicine?”
“No, doctor,” I replied. “Why would I do that without asking you?”
“I don’t understand a few things,” he said. “There’s a general all-around improvement. Your heart, your blood pressure, your general health are much better–and I can’t explain it.”
“Six months ago, doctor,” I told him, “I joined Alcoholics Anonymous.”
His eyes widened. “I had no idea you had a problem with the bottle.”
It was then that I began to appreciate how much I owed my physical welfare and peace of mind to the AA program.
During my first year of AA sobriety, I was transferred to California for health reasons. While waiting for construction of the monastery where I now live, I enjoyed a sojourn in Tucson, Ariz., where I was presented with a tiny white flag, symbolizing my surrender. After coming to California and immediately getting active in AA, I obtained a large white flag, which now hangs in my room. It is the first thing I see each morning, and it reminds me that without my daily surrender to the fact of my alcoholism, I will have no health, no sanity, no life, and no God as I understand Him.
Since I am physically unable to drive a car, my Twelfth Step calls are limited to those who are able to come to the monastery. Many are parishioners referred by priests, but increasingly my AA friends send alcoholics of other faiths, or of no religious conviction at all.
Yes, I thank God I am an alcoholic. Through that disease, I acquired the gift of surrender by God’s grace. Through AA, God gave me something to live for. All I want is to be able to grow spiritually in the Fellowship.