(1922-2001)
The English writer, G.K. Chesterton, once said, “I
didn’t know that he had lived until I read that he had died.” For me that’s a bit true in regard to Mr.
William Schuett, Sr. Almost all the specifics I know about him I read in the
long obituary in yesterday’s newspaper.
I read about his legendry leadership in the
financial community. I read about
humble beginnings “ as a child of the Depression who came up through the army,
and scratched his way to the top.” I
read about humble beginnings as a realtor and real estate developer in a small
office on South Thirteenth Street. And
about his rise right up to the top as
President and CEO of Security Savings and Loan.
Of course, as I read the long obituary, I chose to
alight upon those matters that interested me the most; as, for example, the
establishment of the William G. and Betty Schuett Family Foundation, which
contributes locally to educational and artistic causes, to organizations such
as the Boys and Girls Club, and to aid for the homeless.
These are some of the specifics I picked up
yesterday reading the newspapers. But
even before reading the newspaper, I already had a few specifics of my
own. I do not have many but the
specifics I do have are solemn and sacred.
You see, every Sunday I celebrate the 10 A.M. Mass at Old St. Mary’s
(“Old” is part of the official name).
It’s a grand old Catholic Church that still has all the statues and
niches and curly cues that old Catholic churches used to have. And everything there is well
maintained. A group of devoted women,
lovingly called the “Mops,” every Thursday polishes up this house of God and
makes it shine. A lot of people like to
come to Old St. Mary. There you don’t
feel lonely, because so many statues of the saints surround you. And if the sermon is boring you can always
look around at all the art, and all the curly cues and niches, and all the
statues of saints. Even when the sermon is good, you can easily find yourself
wondering who the saints are, and what did they do to deserve a niche. In fact, there’s one statue of a saint way
up in the apse of the church, and there is a dog at his side. People wonder particularly about that one,
especially we dog lovers. And then
there are those magnificent stain glass windows (bet you any money they were
made in Germany). The windows could
easily keep you busy through a hundred boring sermons.
It was into this temple that Mr. Schuett made his
appearance one Sunday morning at the ten o’clock Mass, perhaps a little less
than a year ago. He came with his
oxygen tank. He didn’t hide in the back
somewhere. Instead he came right up to
the front, and found a place on the right hand side (facing the altar) near the
side aisle. He was impeccably dressed,
of course, but by now he was meager of face and frame. By now he was weary unto death. Some times he would have to rest his head
and elbows on the pew in front of him.
It’s easy to do that if you’re in the back of the church but not way up
front before the whole congregation.
After Mass the priest always walks down the aisle
to the front door of the church, and then turns around and faces the faces, and
greets them as they go out. Some of the
faces are happy, some are angry, and some of them are neither here nor there;
they might have been sleeping during the homily or just wondering who is that
saint way up there with the dog? One
Sunday I met Mr. Schuett at the front door of the church. He was one of the last to exit. In the homily that Sunday I had used an
Italian word, I believe it was “pazienza.”
“Patience.” He was delighted to
know that my origins are Italian. And he was happy and proud to speak in
Italian with me. And I was happy that
we could converse in that beautiful language.
And it being Old St. Mary’s, I thought maybe his surname was Bussalacchi
or Fiumefreddo or Mariano. No. It was just a good German name with five
consonants and only two vowels: Schuett.
The obituary yesterday shed light on this German with good Italian on
his lips. It read: “He served in the
army in WWII in North Africa and Italy. “
And another quote says, “He loved music, especially Italian opera.”
Again one Sunday after mass we met at the front
door of the church. And though I had by then known his name, I didn’t know the
story that went with the name. But I
did know him well enough by now to do something that took a little courage:
“Mr. Schuett,” I said, “when it comes time for Communion the whole congregation
gets up and communicates, and you remain behind in your pew, isolated from the
rest of us. The Bread of Life, the
Bread of the Eucharist,” I said, “should not divide but unite us. It is, after all, the Bread of unity.”
When a man
is weary unto death, and he carries his oxygen with him, and he rests his head
on the pew in front, and is meager in face and frame, such a one is well
disposed for the Bread of Life. So I
freed him from whatever he thought kept him back, and I invited him to break
bread with us. I admit I was a bit
anxious to know whether I had stepped over some line, or whether he would take
up my invitation, which really was neither more nor less than the invitation of
Jesus himself, who said, “Come to me all you who tired and weary, and I will
refresh you.” Well, the next Sunday I
was gone but returned for Mass the Sunday after that. Came time to break bread, and there he was before me, with a big
smile on his face, and as he received the Bread of Life, he whispered, “I saved
this (a kind of first communion) for you.”
That bit of courage turned out to be a blessing for him, as he later
told me. It was also a great blessing
for me, for that’s religion at its best.
And it is a kind of relief from religion at its worst, which divides and
excludes and makes war instead of love.
On another occasion, after Mass, at the front door
of the church, after all were gone, we greeted each other in Italian. I had concluded the homily that day with a
quote from the poet Browning: “Grow old along with me; the best is yet to be:
the end of life for which the first was made.” Mr. Schuett asked me, “Do you know what the next and last line
is?” I did: “Our days are in His
hands.”
My favorite pope, Good Pope John XXIII, once said,
“Any day is a good day to be born, and any day is a good day to die. He died on 29th day of June. For Catholics that’s the feast of St. Peter,
and everybody knows Peter stands guard at the pearly gates of admission. And here comes Bill carrying his good works
with him. But legendary business man that he was, he has also under his arms,
just to make sure, a toaster and a waffle iron, just like in the good old days
when he was putting Security Savings and Loan on the fiscal map.
Any day is a good day to die. Any day is a good day to be buried. We bury
Mr. Schuett on the third of July. And
that’s a particularly good day, because tomorrow, the Fourth of July, is
Freedom Day. He came to old St. Mary’s
weary unto death; he now cries out, “Free, my God, free at last!” Free not just from the suffering, but free
also from all those labors that took him from South Thirteenth Street right up
to Security Savings and Loan. Free now
from labor and free now for rest, Eternal Rest.
Betty and
Bill Jr. and Kate, grandchildren, Emily and Billie III, brothers and sister of
Bill Sr., Freedom Day is also a good day for you to be burying your husband,
your father, your grandfather, and your brother. Let Freedom Day, let the Fourth of July, speak to you at this
moment of freedom from tears that are
unavailing and freedom for the kind
of tears that are willing to be consoled; freedom from the grief that immobilizes you and freedom for the kind of grief that’s willing to
let go and get on with life. Even
willing to celebrate the Fourth of July tomorrow, even though he’s gone. Let the Fourth speak to all of us about
freedom from the exaggerated busyness of making a living, but which leaves us
no prime time for living.
And let the gospel with its story of the wedding
feast at Cana of Galilee, where wine flowed freely, remind us of this man who
used to say, “Life’s too short to be drinking cheap wine.” And let the story remind us also that we are
all earthen vessels standing in a row, waiting to be filled with water and a
miracle. We are all earthen vessels
standing in a row, hoping against hope, and believing with faith that the best
wine is being saved for last, and that in the meantime “our days are in His
hands.”