This essay was originally posted in 2019 at the time of the release of the film American Prophet on Amazon Prime.
Today is Pentecost.
This is a story of Pentecost.
A few years ago, when I was preparing to move from New York City back home to Detroit to shoot my short film American Prophet, I experienced a period of intense doubt and misgivings about what I had planned to do. I wondered if it was wise to leave NYC and embark on such a crazed project—a movie about hockey-playing priests—and if I would be better off working in the big city where the film industry was thriving and where I had spent nearly a decade building a life for myself. I worried that a film based on the life of Bishop Thomas Gumbleton could not do justice to his legacy, and I worried that the film might be seen as my full endorsement of the Catholic Church, with which I had many issues with regards to women, race, power and colonial history.
I was due to leave the Monday after Pentecost, and spent the weekend packing my final items. As I inventoried my clothing on Saturday evening, I turned on National Public Radio and listened to an interview that featured a priest and author I admired on the program On Being. The interview was an in-depth conversation about faith and the definition of love, and so I half-listened with mild interest as I folded, distracted by the amount of packing I had yet to do.
Then the reporter asked Father point blank if he thought women should be priests.
I paused in my packing, straining to hear his answer. For Catholic priests, any support for women clergy would incur punishment from their superiors; the ordination of a woman in the Catholic Church is grounds for excommunication. I had always hated this fact, which had played a large part in driving me away from the faith of my family. I knew that many good priests trapped by this rule were frustrated by a choice between speaking up for women and a threat to their ministries, many vital in poor communities. To ask a priest to answer such a question publicly is to ask him to endanger his life’s work. Despite this, I held out hope that Father would say something to say about the Church’s injustice and misogyny. I waited to hear him come to the defense of women.
Father cleared his throat nervously as he chose his words carefully.
“I know of many people who would like to see women as pastors,” he said.
“But do you think they should be priests?” pressed the interviewer.
“Well,” Father said. “As I said, there are many people who would like to see women in clergy. Many people have opinions on that question.”
“But you yourself?”
“Many people have opinions on that subject.”
There was a long pause, and it was clear no further answer would be forthcoming. The reporter moved on to ask about a different topic. But I did not bother to listen to the rest. I was livid.
I balled up the clothes in my hands and shoved them into a box. Fuck all this, I thought. Why the hell would I give up my life in NYC to produce a film about a Catholic priest? The Church that fundamentally denies women like me the priesthood, on the grounds that we cannot embody Christ? The Church responsible for the sexual abuse of children? The Church that excommunicated women priests but not its own pedophile predators? Fuck. This. Shit.
I snapped off the radio and curled up in the bed with tears of frustration welling in my eyes. I can’t do this, I thought. This whole thing is crazy. Leaving NYC will be a huge mistake.
I had resolved earlier that day to attend Sunday Mass the next day for the last time at the church north of Columbia’s campus that I had been attending as part of my writing research. But after this interview and in the midst of my fears and frustration, I vowed not to go. Screw that, I thought. I curled up and wept myself to sleep.
******
In the morning, I felt a little better. I knew the previous night’s tears were a manifestation of my fears of moving home, but I was determined to shake them off. My choice had been made, and I was moving back to Detroit. As I rose, I also became aware that while asleep I had dreamt in the night—strange, deep dreams that I could not remember, but felt as if they must have been ultimately uplifting. I could not say how or why or what happened, but I was grateful for their healing.
I looked at my clock: 9AM. Okay, I thought begrudgingly. I owe the Divine at least a thank you for all that has happened to me here in this place. I’ll go to Mass.
I felt strangely compelled by some instinct to go to church, which had never happened before. I dragged myself out of bed, washed up, caught the bus up Broadway to 121st Street and walked stealthily into Corpus Christi Church, a tiny parish sandwiched between apartment buildings on a nondescript street. Across Broadway from the church was Union Theological Seminary, where I would write in the afternoons to avoid the crowds at Columbia’s Butler Library. Union was famous for its distinguished faculty and alumni, including Reinhold Niebuhr, who had taught there, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German theologian who had been executed by the Nazis as part of the Resistance plot to assassinate Hitler. The windows above the seminary entrance were part of the set of rooms called by the students the “Prophet’s Chamber”, where distinguished guests were housed. One of them was Bonhoeffer, who had been invited to teach at Union, but ultimately returned back to Germany after making the agonizing decision to join the Resistance there rather than flee the country. I liked to imagine the shade of Bonhoeffer looking through the windows above, contemplating his fate.
As was my habit, I was late for Mass, arriving soon after the first reading and taking my seat in the back. The other Catholic churches near Columbia were unappealing, spectacular in design but cold and musty in feeling. In contrast, Corpus Christi had its own elementary school, and held a children’s Mass on Sundays featuring students who did readings and served at the altar. The pews were filled with families and squirming children, and so it had a warmer sense of community than many other parishes I found in New York.
At the rear of the church was a small alcove that contained a stone baptismal font, enclosed by a gate. It was at this baptismal font that Thomas Merton, the famous Trappist monk and writer, was baptized while a student at Columbia. I had read about his wild life before conversion, his university days and travels that some say produced an illegitimate child in his book The Seven Storey Mountain. It was therefore comforting to me to be in a place that welcomed the sinner and led to new life of contemplation. It was here that Merton had been seized with divine inspiration, a call to the faith that was inexorable and complete. Lightning had struck the young man years ago in this church, and it was moving to be at the site of his transformation.
In the pew, I was weary, tired by my late night and dreams, of which I could not remember but felt acutely. Whatever I had dreamed, it had rejuvenated yet exhausted me, though I could not recall what had happened to make me feel so drained.
I only noticed then that the congregation was dressed gaily in red, and that the priest and servers were also wearing red albs and stoles. The altar was draped in a red banner, and red flowers were clustered at its foot. The day was Pentecost, the last day of the Easter season, and the parish was celebrating the presence of the Holy Spirit as it had descended as tongues of fire on the disciples as they were sent out into the world to share the Good News.
The priest, a tiny man with round glasses and an Einstein-like shock of white hair, mounted the lectern and opened up the Scriptures. The congregation stood respectfully as he read us the Gospel for that day:
When the time for Pentecost was fulfilled,
they were all in one place together.
And suddenly there came from the sky
a noise like a strong driving wind,
and it filled the entire house in which they were.
Then there appeared to them tongues as of fire,
which parted and came to rest on each one of them.
And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit
and began to speak in different tongues,
as the Spirit enabled them to proclaim.
And suddenly, in the pew, I bolted upright. My dreams from last night came rushing back upon me, vivid and clear, unmistakable in their veracity. The images exploded in my head, and my mind’s eye reeled as they unfolded in my memory:
*****
I was sitting in the pews near the altar dais of St. Leo the Great Church in Detroit, my home parish. Sunday Mass was in progress, and on one side of the altar sat Bishop Gumbleton, accompanied by the Eucharistic ministers. He wore a green alb, which I knew indicated Ordinary Time in the church calendar. And on his head was a white miter.
I thought this unusual, as the bishop did not like to wear what he jokingly called his “funny hat”, as per his dislike for formality and pomp. He only wore the miter for formal occasions and confirmations, which called for the majestic presence of a bishop in regalia. I wondered in the dream why he was wearing it.
I looked out into the congregation, and before me were rows and rows of parishioners, reaching out into infinity. The walls of the St. Leo sanctuary were the same save for the back wall, which appeared to have another church attached to it. That church was entirely different in architectural style, featuring sloping roofs and dramatic columns. The parishioners in that church also filled the pews, and behind them stretched another different church, filled to the brim with people. Another church appended that one, hundreds and hundreds of thousands, reaching into infinity. I could hear a low, echoing murmur of the crowd as they seemed to anticipate closely the Mass to come.
The bishop walked forward to deliver his homily, Bible in hand. As he stepped to the edge of the dais, he motioned to one of the ministers, who came to him and began to adjust the lavaliere microphone on his robe. I could see the bishop’s mouth moving but could not hear his words. The microphone was malfunctioning.
We waited for a minute, but gradually a low murmur began in the huge congregation. Two ministers came to him and began adjusting the lapel mic. The bishop attempted to speak, but nothing could be heard. He turned to the audience, gesticulating, but the murmur grew louder and people began to call, “We can’t hear you!”
“There’s no sound. The sound’s not working!”
“There’s something wrong with the mic!”
I glanced at the parishioners, who were beginning to shift in their seats, threatening to leave. The ministers tried to work faster, to no avail.
After a few more frantic moments, the bishop gently waved the ministers away. He turned from the lectern towards the pews—and walked up to me. In his hand was the broken lav microphone. He smiled as he put it into my hands.
I looked into his eyes, and down to the mic. Suddenly, I knew what to do, and with a few adjustments put the broken pieces together. I handed the mic back to the bishop, who fastened it onto his alb. He smiled and patted my hand in thanks.
He then turned to the congregation. “My brothers and sisters,” he began. “Can you hear me now?” His voice echoed through the sweeping arches of the multiple churches. The crowd clapped joyously.
“We can hear you now,” they called. “We can hear you!”
The bishop turned towards me and smiled.
Then I woke up.
*****
Back on the pew at Corpus Christi, tears coursed down my cheeks. Around me the children and congregation were singing, all dressed in red, honoring the solemnity of a Holy Spirit that had struck the apostles and Mary with divine inspiration:
There appeared to them tongues as of fire,
which parted and came to rest on each one of them.
I knew then that the universe needed me to do the work it had inspired me to do. To pay tribute to a bishop whose life work included advocacy for women, the defense of children from abuse, the care for the poor and marginalized and love for the LGBT community. A person who, despite the worst violations of the institutional Church, embodied a distillation of the Gospel message to “love one another”. Fear, doubt and uncertainty would test me, but I was prepared to fight.
When the service ended, I walked out of the Church, renewed and at peace. I paused by Thomas Merton’s baptismal font and reached in between the bars, touching the stone rim. “Thank you,” I whispered. And I left.
*****
Years later, the vision of the Prophet came true.
The premiere of American Prophet was held at the Detroit Film Theatre, a glorious art deco masterpiece within the Detroit Institute of Arts that holds more than a thousand seats. After years of writing, research, fundraising, preproduction, principal photography and post-production editing, the film would finally be screened for the Detroit community and the hundreds of people who had donated and volunteered to make the film happen. In anticipation of a large audience I had asked the DFT if we could screen the film at their venue and miraculously they offered to do so, for free.
I arrived for the premiere in a state of panic, beset with intense anxiety that only increased as people greeted me warmly. I had arrived with the bishop himself, who was promptly swept into an enthusiastic crowd. Cast members and production crew members mingled, laughing over memories of the shoot. Donors and family members ran forward to congratulate me as we walked into the auditorium.
As I greeted guests, I saw that the entrance of the DFT was in a state of loud commotion. Astonished, I watch as more and more people walked through the doors into the theater, hundreds of them streaming in from a clogged lobby where DFT staff struggled to direct them down the aisles. In disbelief, I turned to see the mezzanines and balconies filled to the brim with people who had come from all over the United States just to see the film. The DFT ushers ran frantically down the aisles, desperate to find empty seats for the people crowding in.
The audience noise was overwhelming, filled with excitement and anticipation for the film, but after a long delay the head usher declared the theater filled to capacity and the lights went down as the film began. The crowd hushed itself quickly and watched as the opening credits unfolded across the screen.
I sat next to the bishop, gripping my arm rests as the scenes flashed by. I anxiously glanced over to him, but he was watching quietly and I could not read his face in the darkness. When laughs erupted from the audience for jokes and comedic bits, I jumped inwardly, never having experienced such a reaction during the long hours of editing. When drama rose and the audience gasped at the final action scenes, I was amazed to see people responding to the film, experiencing a story that had once only played through my head during my days in New York.
When at last the credits began to roll, I gently took the bishop’s arm and we went backstage behind the screen to wait for the film to end. As the last notes of the soundtrack faded, we walked onstage and the audience got to its feet, showering us with thunderous applause and cheers.
A stagehand ran out and handed me two microphones. “One for you and one for him. The ushers are asking that you please tell the audience not to crowd the reception in the gallery,” he said. “And we can’t take too long with the Q and A.”
“No problem, “ I said. “I’ll be brief. It’s him they want to talk to.” And I handed the microphone to Bishop Gumbleton.
*****
Since the premiere of American Prophet, the film has gone through a long festival run, screening at events ranging from international festivals to church basement gatherings. Audiences have been responsive, with some moved to tears. Requests for DVDs and copies have been constant.
Though assured by many that the film is beautiful and moving, like every director and artist every time I’ve watched the movie it has been with a critical and an unforgiving eye, seeing only errors on my part as the filmmaker. I have dreaded releasing it for home viewing, convinced that others will see the errors and failures of my inexperienced direction, engendering only disappointment. I am at times overwhelmed by these fears, whatever artwork I attempt.
But today is Pentecost. The vision I had years ago demands that I continue to amplify the bishop’s voice beyond the confines of my ego and anxieties. A prophetic dream came to me not once, but many times, first to inspire my writing of the film, to move me from New York to the uncertainty of Detroit, to strengthen me through a difficult editing process, to give me completion as the DFT audience applauded a tribute to the bishop’s life and work.
The very last scene of the film takes place in a church, filled with parishioners dressed in red, singing joyously. And so I release the film today, on Pentecost, in gratitude for a holy spirit that has blessed me for many years with fire and love and inspiration. I hope others encounter that spirit as well, in whatever they do.
