Thank you, Lord. Can we keep him?

A seminarian’s skill with the tetherball crowd hinted at greater things to come

By George Valadie

I first met the young man on the playground where I was principal. He and the other students were doing battle in a wild and woolly game of tetherball.

He was older, though. Bigger. More mature than the others.

He should have been. After all, most of them were in fifth grade, learning what fifth-graders learn before becoming sixth-graders, then high-schoolers, then whatever lies ahead.

He, on the other hand, actually, was a young man, a college grad, an adult and a seminarian, learning what seminarians learn before becoming deacons, priests, … and bishops.

And having every bit as much fun as they were.

He was good with the kids on the playground. He was good with the kids in his parish. He’ll be good with the kids in his diocese.

Bishop Mark Beckman. Welcome to the Diocese of Knoxville!

We met because as a seminarian, he had been assigned to live for a brief stint with a pastor in a parish. It happened to be ours.

I’m not sure what his days were like, but he chose to spend several of his afternoons wandering through our After School Care program, goofing off with some goofy kids while he waited for fall semester and they waited for their rides.

In those days, my wife had been invited by a teacher to join her as one of two adults charged with keeping a watchful eye on the 30-plus kids who needed their care from 3 to 5:30 each day.

So, she actually got to know him first. And it didn’t take her long to realize he was special.

But please know my wife is a true romantic at heart. And believes everyone has and should find the love of their life.

One afternoon, while chatting with our pastor, she offered, “You know what, Father (Monsignor Al Humbrecht)? I really like Mark Beckman. He’s such a nice guy. And I think he’d make a wonderful husband and father, don’t you? I can just tell.”

But Father, knowing where this was likely headed, quickly replied, “Now, Nancy, you know the qualities that would make him a good husband and father are the same qualities that would also make him a good priest.”

The romantic had to admit he was right and wise, so she abandoned any thoughts she’d been conjuring of finding him a match.

Fast forward 20-something years, and Bishop Beckman is absolutely certain he did indeed find the love of his life. Now he gets to share it with all of us.

“Tell the truth, before you got the phone call, though, did you ever have an inkling of an idea?”

“No. None. Never. But there is a backstory about that.

“When I was at St. Henry’s (Nashville), I was lucky enough to have Father Pat Kibby join us as associate pastor. And right after Bishop (Richard F.) Stika’s retirement announcement became public, Father came to me and said, ‘If you ever get a phone call from Washington (the papal nuncio’s home), just don’t answer it.’

“We laughed. And I never thought about it again.

“And then almost a year later, on a Sunday morning not that long ago, I noticed I had two missed calls on my cell. Both were from Washington. Neither had left a message.

“And right then, Father Kibby’s words came rushing back to me.

“Still, it seemed far-fetched, and I actually do have some friends in D.C., but I hadn’t spoken to them in a while and realized I didn’t have any of their numbers. It was probably one of them.

“Oddly, back in 2018, I had actually communicated a little bit with the nuncio (Cardinal Christophe Pierre) when three of us local priests were asked to be in charge of the liturgy for Bishop (J. Mark) Spalding’s installation as bishop of Nashville.

“Then, the next day, on that Monday morning, while I was on the back porch saying my prayers, my cell rang, and I saw his name pop up.

“I jerked. I threw my phone down. Literally. And I jumped up and ran inside the house. I had to laugh, though, because I realized I had just done exactly what Father Kibby had instructed: I had refused to take his call.

“I did call him back. We talked. He told me. I breathed, but not much.

“I’d already had to cancel one appointment to return his call, but then—after I settled in a bit—I decided I needed to go ahead and meet with the next couple of counseling appointments I already had scheduled.”

Bishop Beckman didn’t realize it in the moment, but his next words revealed much about the future with our new shepherd: “I wanted to go ahead and meet because I needed to quit thinking about me.”

God is good!

“How did it feel? Did I have a clue? It felt like I got hit by a truck. I couldn’t breathe.”

The road to the priesthood winds differently for all who are ordained. Inspired by different people at different times, some know early on, some lie prostrate before the altar much later in life. One priest was ordained at age 91.

But it has to start somewhere.

When I was a student at the same grade school where seminarian Beckman hung out for a short stop, Bishop James D. Niedergeses was then pastor at our church and school.

He taught us how to be altar servers and handed out our report cards. Once, he came to class and had everyone answer some random questions … random to everyone but him.

One such question asked, “Who has ever thought about becoming a priest or a Sister?” And then for the next two years—whenever a new priest was ordained—he would load up the Sisters’ station wagon with five or six of us gangly junior high guys, take us to whose-ever ordination in whatever city, deposit us in a pew to take it all in, and then buy us dinner on the way home.

Bishop Beckman’s call was less in your face but way more powerful. It, too, began in junior high at Sacred Heart Parish in Lawrenceburg. His was a call that never left.

There he encountered an associate pastor who was all in. He took kids on picnics and participated in youth-group activities of all kinds.

But more than just the fun, he was introduced to a prayerful man who seemed able to have meaningful relationships with people young and old—without a spouse or children of his own.

Bishop Beckman’s personal journey to priesthood ordination lasted 12 years. And he readily admits—and I’m guessing this is true for most on the journey—there were moments (perhaps years) of uncertainty.

Is it possible to be truly happy without a spouse and family? For a moment in my own way-back-there-in-the-past, I had pondered that exact question and realized I could not be.

He pondered the same. For a while. And no bishop wants to ordain a man who isn’t sure.

There was a time when our kids were younger—and chaos was the order of most days—when Nancy and I thought about offering our family as a ministry for the Church.

Our idea was to arrange for a willing priest or seminarian to come spend a weekend in our home, and in turn Nancy and I would find a local hotel with a pool and a drink and some much-needed respite. We would get a break and in turn could almost guarantee our guest’s commitment to celibacy would be forever confirmed.

Kids can do that for you. Happy to be of service … but no one ever called. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

“When a nuncio calls, are you allowed to say ‘No, thank you?’”

“I asked that,” laughed Bishop Beckman, “but he said, ‘No!’

“But I did tell him I wasn’t at peace with it and would call him back in an hour. And when I called back, I told him I still hadn’t found the peace I was seeking and needed and asked if I could call him again in five hours.

“I prayed. I talked to my spiritual adviser. I prayed some more.

“You know, it was kind of funny. I had taken 12 years to decide about becoming a priest. But I had five hours to decide about being a bishop.”

Good priests come from good moms and dads. Some actively pray their children will seek a life in the Church. Some are satisfied watching it unfold. Most pray their children will just be happy.

But all know when something’s up.

Lois and Jimmy Beckman did.

As one would expect in such circumstances, then Bishop-elect Beckman was sworn to secrecy for a brief bit of time after being called by the nuncio. He could inform the archbishop; he could call his own bishop.

When he finally got to tell his folks, “I called mom and told her I wasn’t going to be able to go hiking with two of my brothers, but I was hoping to slip into town for a quick dinner in Lawrenceburg.

“She said, ‘Great! I’ll have spaghetti’ because she knows it’s my favorite.

“I was hardly in the door when she said, ‘OK, spill it!’

“We went and sat on the back porch, and I told them about the call from the nuncio. And mom said, ‘I just knew it!’

“Not to be outdone, my dad said, ‘Well, I knew two or three years ago, but I just kept it to myself.’”

His Father in heaven has known it, too.

Dear God—We have prayed for a shepherd after your own heart. Thank you … can we keep him? Amen. 

 

George Valadie is a parishioner at St. Stephen Church in Chattanooga and author of the recently released book “We Lost Our Fifth Fork … and other moments when we need some perspective.”