Midnight in Manhattan. Alfred Damon Runyon (1880-1946), the celebrated American journalist and short-story writer who wrote about the world of Broadway and midtown Manhattan during the Prohibition era, focused on colorful characters such as “Nathan Detroit,” “Goodtime Charlie,” “Harry the Horse,” and “The Seldom Seen Kid.” Unfortunately, tonight, I’m only going to write about the former Archbishop of New York.
Some mistakenly attribute the statement - “There are eight million stories in the naked city. This has been one of them” – to Runyon, but that was originally from a movie, “Naked City” (1948), starring Barry Fitzgerald and Howard Duff. In any event, this is my story. I’m in the city to have a bit part in a documentary film about the only American Catholic Cardinal who had a legitimate shot at being named “His Holiness the Pope” and the head of the Roman Catholic Church in Rome.
According to the “Annurio Pontifico” (Pontifical Yearbook), there have been 266 popes, or “Supreme Pontiffs of Rome.” Some sources, however, list 267, including Stephen II (752 AD), who died four days after his election but before his episcopal consecration. Of these, 217 have been from Italy, 16 from France, 6 from Germany, 5 from the Byzantine Empire in modern-day Syria, 4 from Greece, 3 from the Holy Land in modern-day Israel, 3 from Africa, 2 from modern-day Croatia, 2 from Spain, 2 from Portugal, 2 from modern-day Turkey, 1 from England, 1 from the Netherlands, 1 from Poland, and 1 from Argentina.
There are around 62 million Catholics in the United States (2020), about 18% of the population, and being the largest single Christian denomination, the country has the fourth largest Catholic population in the world, after Brazil, Mexico, and the Philippines. Despite these impressive membership figures, no American Catholic Cardinal, in my opinion, has ever been a serious contender for selection as pope. I firmly believe that the subject of the documentary that I’m in town to have a brief part in, John Cardinal O’Connor, the Archbishop of New York (1984-2000) was the exception.
This column is no hagiography, although I have the utmost respect and admiration for the late archbishop. I was privileged to work as his administrative assistant for almost nine years over three duty stations in the Navy where we both served as chaplains. Frankly, I had moved on long ago from memories of my naval career when I was contacted by a nun, a member of the religious order, Sisters of Life, founded by Cardinal O’Connor in 1991, “who through their religious vows have offered their lives that all human life would be protected and enhanced.” She told me that the Knights of Columbus were making a documentary about the archbishop’s life, and asked if I would come to New York City to talk about his Navy years. I, of course, said “yes.” The Knights have recently completed a documentary on Mother Teresa.
I first met Chaplain O’Connor in Newport, Rhode Island in 1971. He was the Destroyer Force Chaplain, and I was chaplain for the eight ships in Destroyer Squadron Twenty, which was homeported in Newport. We were the original “odd couple.” He was a captain - an austere, intellectual, Irish priest from inner city Philadelphia, who had been on active duty as a Navy chaplain since 1950; and I was a young (30), fresh-caught lieutenant, Southern Baptist from rural Southern Mississippi. I had, however, been kicking around the Navy since age 17 (1959) as an enlisted man and line officer, so I guess that did give me some credibility in his eyes.
There were over thirty ships homeported in Newport at the time, with thousands of dependents, mostly women and children, living without their military sponsors, and Chaplain O’Connor established a center on the naval base to minister to as many of their needs as possible – an early example of his concern for those in need. This center was staffed daily by navy chaplains, such as me, who stood a duty rotation there when their ships were in port.
I suppose he liked the “cut of my jib,” because, over a three-year tour on my ships, including a Vietnam deployment, a Mediterranean cruise, and an around-the-world cruise, my duties at the center slowly increased from occasional watch stander/duty chaplain to overall coordinator/administrative assistant. When he received orders as Senior Chaplain to the United States Naval Academy, in Annapolis, so did I, where I served as the junior Protestant chaplain and chapel program administrator; and when he was promoted to Admiral and selected as the Chief of Navy Chaplains, stationed at the Pentagon in Washington, DC, I went along as his administrative assistant.
He was the nicest guy you ever met, unless you worked for him. This was because he expected everyone who did, especially me, to live up to the high standards he set for himself. He told me once, after I had fouled up some important project in Washington: “Benny, the good Lord might judge you on INTENT, but here in the Navy, we judge you on FACT.
Although he hadn’t taken the vow of poverty, he gave his money away to worthy projects, living on a pittance. I realized this once when he sent me out to buy him an automobile. When he became the Chief of Chaplains, he needed a car, so he gave me $2,000 and told me to buy him a good new one. I told him, “Look, Father, all you can get for that amount of money (around 1979 or so) is either a Volkswagen Beetle or one of the new Chevrolet Chevettes. And since it’s the first iteration of the Chevette, I wouldn’t recommend it.” He thought about it and, evidently deciding that an admiral shouldn’t be seen riding around DC in a VW Bug, told me to get the Chevette. I knew it was a mistake but did what I was told. Sure enough, the first time he drove it out of town, to make a speech to the Marine Corps Basic Course down at Quantico, Virginia, it broke down, and I had to go get him. He didn’t say a word on the way back to the Navy Yard where he lived.
He would also spend his money when he thought it was politically necessary. I remember one night when he hosted a party for the Secretary of the Navy (SECNAV) and his wife. As you can imagine, I oversaw all the arrangements. Chaplain O’Connor told me to hire a small band, a combo, to provide background music for the dinner. I immediately ran into problems with the local musician’s union who were determined to send an orchestra-sized group to our party. Reporting this obvious non-starter to the boss, he thought a moment and said, “Ok, do this, I want you to go out and buy a player piano with as many rolls of music as you can find.” I did, and the problem was solved. My only complication, other than keeping that piano playing, was that SECNAV’s wife wore an extremely expensive fur coat that night, which I ended up holding most of the evening so that no one could steal it.
It has been a while since I’ve been to New York City. I guess it was when “Cats” was playing on Broadway, and we brought the children down from Providence, Rhode Island, on the train to see it. I called up the archbishop and asked if he could hook me up with a low-cost place to stay, which, even then, was hard to find in the city. He came through: putting us up in a retirement home/hospice for priests and nuns in the Bronx. My kids, adults now, still talk about it – No tv; iron bedsteads with crucifixes over each one; white sheets with military blankets; only furnished with a bureau, table and chair; plain food. But the price was right. Free.
I’ve also been here on several ships, in and out, over the years, and back in the early 1960s, I spent six months in the old Armed Forces Police, called out nightly from the Brooklyn Navy Yard to break up fist fights in bars all over the five boroughs. We would try to arrive at the scene and get our guys away before the local police showed up. I was in between ships and couldn’t wait for that duty to end. I always had cuts and bruises. Each night, I was assigned a different partner from a different branch of the service, Army, USMC, Air Force, and they all had their own ideas about how we should respond to the altercations. The Air Force guy wanted to negotiate; the Army fellow wanted to avoid trouble, and the Marine wanted to “bust heads.” In fairness, most, like me, were waiting orders, had just returned from Vietnam, and only wanted to be left alone. The best thing going in New York then was that the USO had a kiosk in Times Square where military personnel could pick up free “remainder” tickets for Broadway shows. I saw just about every production playing that season.
Back home in Mississippi now, let me share a few closing thoughts. Each year, one of my New Year’s resolutions is to do at least one random act of kindness for someone every day. On the way home from New York City, while sitting in Houston’s Bush Airport, I was thinking about this and the phrase “a thousand points of light,” which was popularized by the airport’s namesake, U. S. President George H. W. Bush, came to mind. In his speech accepting the presidential nomination at the 1988 Republican National Convention in New Orleans, he said: “I have spoken of a thousand points of light, of all the community organizations that are spread like stars throughout the Nation, doing good. We will work hand in hand, encouraging, sometimes leading, sometimes being led, rewarding ... The old ideas are new again because they are not old, they are timeless: duty, sacrifice, commitment, and a patriotism that finds its expression in taking part and pitching in.”
Maybe it was because I always admired the first President Bush, a heroic World War II Navy fighter pilot, but more likely it was because I’d just spent some time with a group of selfless Roman Catholic nuns who are dedicated to both saving and changing lives, but I was extremely sensitive that day to a seemingly extraordinary amount of courtesies that were extended to my wife and me on our journey from the Big Apple back to Mississippi. I think about my feeble efforts of kindnesses, but we experienced at least seven genuine, spontaneous acts of kindness and compassion from complete strangers that day. They may seem insignificant, but they were “bright points of light” to me:
... Our car driver, Mohammed, went out of his way to reassure us that we would make our early morning flight time, despite traffic that would cause Hardy Street to curl up and die.
... At LaGuardia Airport, a young saleslady asked us, as we hurriedly grabbed breakfast on the run, if we really wanted to pay $11.49 each for two very small bottles of orange juice. “Why don’t you just buy one? “She said, “and I will give you a cup so you can share.”
... The TSA person checking bags smiled at us and said that we did not have to remove our shoes.
... A wonderful Chinese lady volunteered to help us figure out how to print out our boarding passes as we were about to miss our flight.
... On the packed airplane, a black gentleman, gave up his seat, unasked, so that my wife and I could sit together.
... Another black gentleman helped her remove her coat and stowed it in the overhead bin.
... The flight attendant winked at us and gave both of us three each instead of the one small snack (peanuts, fruit bar, chocolate) routinely given to passengers.
I suppose, in the great scheme of things, none of the above amounts to a whole lot, but it meant everything to an old, white-knuckle flier, and it was certainly in keeping with the purpose and theme of the trip: to honor a man who lived a life of humility, dedication, and service to others. There are many good people in the world.
Light a candle for me.
—
Benny Hornsby of Oak Grove is a retired U.S. Navy captain. Visit his website, bennyhornsby.com, or email him: villefranche60@yahoo.com.
