The class of '57

BY CAROL EISENBERG | carol.eisenberg@newsday.com

June 3, 2007

For starters, there was no church. Which meant that every other Saturday night, Rev. James Hannon packed several cartons of bread, wine and books into his secondhand Ford and drove over to the Syosset Theater on Jericho Turnpike.

"It was a big potato field," he recalled of Holy Name of Jesus parish in nearby Woodbury, created in June 1962, after a German farmer bequeathed his land to the church. "That's all we had."

As the movie house employees swept up spilled popcorn after the last movie and hauled a portable wooden altar onto the stage, Hannon set out the bread and wine. The next morning, he and the pastor preached to the hundreds of Catholic families living in the subdivisions sprouting up where farms had been. They began the first Mass at 7 a.m. and always finished in time for the Sunday matinee.

Hannon, the son of a New York cop and "a stickball boy from Brooklyn," as he likes to say, was one of seven men ordained for the newly formed Roman Catholic Diocese of Rockville Centre in 1957. He and his classmates were the best and brightest of a Catholic generation, the pioneers who fashioned a church out of farm fields and pine barrens during one of America's greatest social upheavals, the move from cities to suburbs.

Like many Catholics of their generation, these men believed there was no higher calling than this -- to hear confession, forgive sin and carry the gospel. If some of their parishioners wondered whether they should make the sign of the cross when they went to the movies, the priests were not disturbed by their makeshift surroundings. "As the years went by, I could hardly believe it," Hannon said. "That I had made it. That I really was a Catholic priest."

The members of the Class of 1957 were not solo trailblazers. They worked alongside a small army of nuns who had taken their vows that same year in convents in Amityville and Brentwood, among other places, and who staffed the schools, hospitals and social service agencies that came to define Catholic life on Long Island.

Changing church

"We kind of grew up with the diocese," said Sister Jeanne Monahan, now 79, among the oldest to take vows with the Dominican order in 1957.

And grow up they did, in sometimes surprising and idiosyncratic ways, as roller-coaster changes rocked both church and country. After spending years perfecting Latin, the priests learned to celebrate Mass in English, facing the people. The nuns packed away medieval-looking habits and wimples for modified habits, then for lay dress, and many returned to using their given names.

Amid throbbing debates over civil rights and the Vietnam War, once-docile Catholic flocks began to challenge authority and inevitably extended that questioning to church teachings, especially about birth control and the role of women. At times, it seemed that priests and nuns went from objects of reverence to objects of curiosity, indifference and even disdain.

But for those men and women who remained with religious life -- and a majority did -- the changes deepened their sense of calling and of the church itself as the people of God.

"If they would take me again, I'd do it all over," said Msgr. Edmond Trench, 77, one of three members of the Class of 1957 still active as priests. (Three have died. One left the priesthood in 1976.)

"It's been a blast," the priest exclaimed, his blue eyes crinkling with delight. "I'd be willing to start at the beginning. That's how much happiness I've had."

A different country

Hannon, Trench and Monahan came of age in not just a different church, but in a different America.

In the 1950s, the church's authority among U.S. Catholics was unquestioned, its dogma sacrosanct. If "Rebel Without a Cause" and "American Bandstand" were making ripples in popular culture, those forces had not yet touched the church.

Three-quarters of Catholics went to Mass every Sunday (compared with about a third today). Seminaries and convents were brimming with aspirants; and the rhythms of life at the Seminary of the Immaculate Conception in Lloyd Harbor seemed as immutable as the wake-up bell that rang every morning at exactly 20 minutes to 6.

"The bells sounded for every single thing," recalled Trench, the son of a bus driver from Rockville Centre. "Beginning of class. Meals. Chapel. It was a very regulated life, much more so than now."

The idea then was to cultivate spirituality by removal from the world, not engagement with it. The seminarians, who wore long black cassocks, were forbidden to read newspapers and had no personal radios or televisions. "The grand silence" was observed from end of night prayers to after breakfast. "We had really a great camaraderie," Trench recalled. "And I think it was a good preparation, to be very honest with you. You couldn't come and go the way you wanted."

In the "crypt" downstairs, they rehearsed Mass in precise Latin, practiced the exact movement of thumbs and fingers, and how far the arms should be spread apart at what moment of the Mass.

Life in the convent was if anything more regimented.

Sister Anthony Therese Roncallo described "a lot of scrubbing of floors," in the Dominican novitiate. "We were more or less directed, 'Do this at this time.' or 'Do that at that time.'"

She recalled chafing at the proscription against reading newspapers and confides that as she peeled potatoes, she sometimes glanced at the headlines in the old papers in which they were wrapped.

A year with many changes

Then, in 1957, the world began to shift. The Soviets launched Sputnik. The Dodgers announced they were leaving Brooklyn. And on Holy Thursday April 18, New York Cardinal Francis Spellman blessed the holy oils, then broke the news that Pope Pius XII had decided to carve the giant Brooklyn diocese in two.

For the 28 men in the graduating class at the Seminary of the Immaculate Conception, the announcement spurred frenzied speculation. Until that moment, all had expected to spend their careers within the Brooklyn diocese.

One seminarian took a poll: Where would they go if they had a choice? Hannon was one of only five to pick Brooklyn. But Long Island appealed strongly to most of the men. It meant the suburbs, big highways, space.

Word came a few weeks later that they would go to the diocese where their parents lived, which put Hannon on Long Island because his father had recently retired to Islip Terrace.

Trench, meanwhile, was ecstatic that his home parish would be the diocesan seat. He has vivid memories of returning to St. Agnes to celebrate his first Mass on June 2 and seeing every pew occupied. The entire community had turned out to congratulate their native son, a volunteer firefighter and a summer fixture at the village A&P grocer.

But it was only later, he said, when the fire department threw him a surprise dinner dance, that the power and privilege of his new calling really hit him.

"They gave me the keys to a brand new car," he said, his voice full of emotion all these years later. "Which blew me away. Because I knew I wasn't the most popular fireman. I knew I wasn't the best fireman. So it wasn't for me. It was about their respect for the church and for the priesthood."

Class of great expectations The expectations for the Class of 1957 were in many ways superhuman. As they lay prostrate on the floor of St. James Cathedral in Brooklyn June 1, the seven priests ordained for Rockville Centre promised to commit their lives to serving the people of the diocese. They promised obedience to their new bishop, Walter Kellenberg, and his successors. A year earlier, they had promised to be celibate and to pray at set times daily.

Now, they would be sent out to every corner of the new diocese and far beyond. Trench's first assignment was to St. Martin of Tours in Bethpage. Hannon went to St. Joseph's in Kings Park; the Rev. Edward Sweeney, also from Rockville Centre, to St. Mary of the Isle in Long Beach.

A fourth man, the Rev. William J. Tierney, from St. Thomas the Apostle in West Hempstead, was told to pack his bags -- the bishop had assigned him to study canon law at Catholic University in Washington, D.C., because he needed men with specialized training.

"It wasn't what I was expecting, but in those days, no one would ever say, 'No bishop. I won't,' recalled Tierney, who has since left the priesthood. "Your whole training was obedience. So I said, 'Yes bishop. sure.' And that was that."

Five years later, Tierney was rewarded when Kellenberg asked him to go with him to Rome for the opening of the Second Vatican Council in fall, 1962, which would usher in the greatest revolution in Catholic life in 500 years.

"I remember a beautiful October day and everybody processing down to St. Peter's," said Tierney, 75. "It was my first visit to Rome and it was all new to me. I had no idea, of course, how it would turn out, and what tremendous reverberations would be felt in this church that had been going along much the same way since the Council of Trent [in the 16th Century]."

Vatican II changes things

So began one of the most exhilarating but also challenging times of their lives. The council was in session from 1962 to 1965 and issued watershed documents, exalting the role of lay people and calling priests to celebrate Mass in the vernacular, for instance.

"Now the people could hear the words," Trench said. "They could understand the words. They could be part of it. So the changes got me very excited."

But that period also brought soul searching and huge stresses. In the years that followed, a significant minority of nuns left religious life. Tierney was one of nine of the original 28 men of the Class of 1957 who would decide to leave the priesthood. He says it was the hardest thing he ever did.

"I wasn't saying I don't believe this anymore," he said. "Basically, I was very happy in the priesthood. But as the years went on, I experienced a real loneliness."

A little more than a year afterward, Tierney married a former nun and moved 1,000 miles away. For the past 18 years, he has led Catholic Charities for the Diocese of St. Augustine, Fla.; his wife is superintendent of Catholic schools.

"We both have a deep love for our church and our faith, and we were very fortunate to be able to use our experiences in another way," he said.

Another classmate, Charles Sullivan, left in 1970, in large part over his anger with Humanae Vitae, the 1968 papal encyclical that prohibited the use of artificial birth control.

Sullivan, now 75, went to work in the stock market, got married and started a family. But he continued to yearn to celebrate Mass. "I was the sad man in the last pew," he said.

A few years later, he became an Episcopalian and was accepted as a married priest in 1978. Several years later, his wife followed him into ministry.

What impelled the others to continue in religious life?

Sex and relationship issues

Trench acknowledged that as he grew older, he felt the sting of a professor's words about knowing the cost of celibacy only when he didn't have grandchildren.

"I always wished I could have gotten married," he said. "But the Mass and the Eucharist was so central to me that if I were tempted to leave, I'd realize to myself, 'I'll never be able to say Mass again.' And that helped me to put on the track shoes and get out of a situation if there was an attraction."

That focus was so powerful that even the priest sex abuse scandals did not shake his sense of calling. "That broke my heart," he said.

"But that's not what the church is about. What the church is about are people like the nun here in Southampton who works to help Hispanic immigrants. That is the church I serve. Not the abusive church. Not the ultra-authoritarian church. The church of the people."

A few say that whatever problems they've encountered, they never wavered from their sense of calling. They credit the grace of God.

"Were there moments of doubt?" asked Sister Edna McKeever of the Sisters of St. Joseph in Brentwood. "Sure. Just like with anything else. There were times when I said, 'I don't know if I can do this. I don't know if I agree with that. That person is so harsh.'

"When you're married, I'm sure there are moments when you say, 'Oh my gosh. What did I get into? Can I go on?' But the overall picture is that the married woman still loves her husband. And I still love what I'm doing."

What is striking about the Class of '57 today is the meaning and joy they still derive from their work and their strong individuality. They are Mets fans and inline skaters and history buffs and readers of mysteries, as well as of books about the saints.

They also see their roles in different ways.

Roncallo, for instance, still wears the Dominican habit ("so people see me and they know what I stand for and who I am"), while Sister Joan Ryan, a Josephite, favors slacks and sweaters in earth tones and refers to God as "She" ("God is neither He nor She, so why can't we say, 'She' once in a while?")

Trench said he favors optional celibacy as an answer to the declining number of American priests, while Sweeney sees the answer in the influx of priests from Africa and Asia, where vocations are booming.

Many have also charted new missions: Roncallo, who lost a nephew to AIDS, helped in the start-up of Christa House in West Babylon, a home for people dying of AIDS. Sister Rose Sheridan, of the Sisters of St. Joseph, became a full-time crusader for peace and justice. Hannon learned to celebrate Mass in seven languages so he could minister to the Island's newest arrivals.

And like many of his peers, he is still ministering them to this day. At 76, Hannon is a strapping man with soulful blue eyes who celebrates Mass in Spanish and French-Creole, as well as English, and insists he will "die with my boots on."

The truth is, he may have no choice. The average age of Catholic priests is about 60 and getting older with each year, and recruitment of new priests remains a major problem for the church.

Hannon is also the single Irish American and one of only three Americans among the seven priests in residence at St. Brigid's in Westbury. "I'm a minority," he said with bemusement, describing the influx of priests from places like Nigeria and Paraguay while the Irish Americans who predominated in his time have dwindled.

If his world in 2007 scarcely resembles the Woodbury parish in which he set out, one thing has never changed. "I'm more convinced than ever that this is the greatest work in the world," he said.