As a good Catholic boy, I am aware that many mothers of same, at one time or another, think about their sons becoming priests. Frankly, my mother never mentioned the subject to me, but I have always wondered what she would have thought about one episode of my life that gave me a chance to see things from the other side of the collar.
In the late 1960's I toiled for a radio station in Hartford, Connecticut, WPOP. (It’s now an all talk station, although at the time we were rock and roll oldies. It sort of brings to mind the inexplicable use of the name “Jazz” in Utah. But I digress).
Some brilliant marketing mind at the station decided we were we going to conduct a listener contest called “The Crumpet Caper,” and the grand prize would be an all expenses paid trip to London, England. (Incidentally, we were not aware until the contest was well underway that the term “crumpet” was not used in mixed company in England, although by today’s standards its probably quite tame). It seems that all the listeners had to do was listen for clues to the whereabouts of a WPOP “personality.” “Personality,” meant DJ, disc jockey, on-air talent, celebrity, etc. It certainly did not mean “newsman.”
Well, it transpired that either our listeners were extremely crafty, or our clues were extremely easy. I suspected the latter. We apparently had only four trips to London to give away and in less than two weeks we had three winners. The brass was very nervous. These contests are supposed to last several weeks to cover the ratings period. Ratings periods were important to us because they determined who was number one in the market and who was dog meat. The WPOP plan was to use the lavish giveaway to boost the station from dog meat status. But if your contest is over in two weeks, the listeners no longer have a unique reason to listen to your station, and go back to the one they tuned in before your contest came along.
The program director came to me and said, “Ed, we have a problem. We’re running out of personalities. I want you to disappear for a few days and be a ‘mystery celebrity.’”
“But I’m a newsman, not an airhead air personality!”
“We’ll pay you extra.”
Logic always worked with me. I disappeared.
Barbara Bodnar, the lady who was organizing the contest, came to me and asked, “What do you want to be?”
“Be?” I replied.
“What disguise to you want?”
I decided I wanted to be a Catholic priest. I don’t know why, but I was intrigued with being someone I knew I could never really be. And so, Father Clancy was born.
Since I was obliged by the rules of the contest to use only public transportation, one of our conspirators borrowed a friend’s taxi cab and I was chauffeured all over the Insurance City in a faded orange contraption. I was able to stay in the best hotels (no private homes), and at regular intervals I phoned the radio station to give a new clue. These clues, by the way were so vague and useless that we were able to stretch the contest out for a couple of weeks.
My stint as a Catholic priest was one of the more enlightening periods of my life. I remember how, when I would walk into a store or restaurant, eyes would turn, ladies would smile, children would giggle and people would take a step back to let the “priest” come through.
As I walked down the street, middle aged women would come up to me and say, “Bless you Father.”
It dawned on me then that I better not get caught doing anything un-priestly.
I was rather good at holding my own whenever I became involved in any theological discussion. It’s amazing how many people want to talk religion when you’re a priest. But I almost lost it when a woman came running up to me wanting me to hear her confession. I started to panic. I hadn’t prepared for this one, and had no idea what to do. Finally I mumbled something about being a “beginner,” and not licensed to hear confessions. I escorted her to the nearest Catholic church and into the confessional. Luckily the green light was on.
The most memorable moment, however, was when I was sitting in the back of the taxi, and a drunk staggered over to the cab. He peered into the back window, putting his nose right up on the glass, and yelled as loud as he could, “GOD BLESS YOU, FATHER. KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK. IT’S TOO LATE TO HELP ME.” And he stumbled down the street.
I told Barbara I wanted out. I was not cut out to be a priest. So we started making the clues a little easier and finally got a winner. I seem to remember a gorgeous young woman coming up to me yelling, “I found Ed Clancy! I found Ed Clancy!” It was at that moment I was truly sorry I was a priest.
The experience taught me a lot of things, but chief among them: being a priest is a lot more than wafers and wine. It’s committing yourself and your soul to other people, sometimes not so savory people. It’s not like radio, where you go on the air, do your show or report your news, put in five or six hours and go home. I learned that when you’re a priest, you’re “on” 24 hours a day. And your audience is literally “in your face.”
When I finally returned to work the next Monday, Barbara called me into her office.
“You did a great job, “ she said. I beamed. “Next week you’re a Monsignor.”
I think if we hadn’t run out of free trips to London, I would have been.
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