"How Awesome Is This Place!" (Genesis 28:17) My Years at the Oakland Cathedral, 1967-1986. E. Donald Osuna
me Diocesan Director of Music and transferred me to St. Francis de Sales Cathedral as associate pastor with a mandate to create for the diocese a “model liturgy.”
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In the summer of 1968, while I was on leave, Bishop Begin installed Father Michael Lucid, aged thirty-nine, as cathedral rector; he also assigned Father James Keeley, thirty-seven, as assistant pastor. Both were Irish-American, native San Franciscans and former high school teachers — credentials that appealed to the older clergy who were balking at the recent changes in the Church. But Lucid and Keeley were also students of history, keeping abreast of current events and very much in tune with the agenda of the Vatican Council. This delighted the progressives who were counting on the new team to bring from its storeroom “both the old with the new” (Matthew 13:52). No one would be disappointed. Even the seventy-five-year-old Monsignor O’Donnell would be charmed by the young churchmen who gently but resolutely took over the helm of his floundering parish.
Personally, my association with Mike and Jim was a turning point in my life. It made me reconsider my intended departure from the active ministry.
How had I come to that decision?
After six months in Pinkie O’Donnell’s morbidly depressing rectory, I was on the verge of emotional collapse. The resentful monsignor refused to honor the bishop’s mandate empowering me to take charge of the cathedral worship services. To that purpose I had previously contracted with my friend from seminary days, John L. McDonnell, Jr., to establish a cathedral choir. John was a probate lawyer and a musician whose forte and delight, along with the practice of law, was directing choirs. I very much respected his musical talent and his taste for excellence. (I also enjoyed spending time with him, his brilliant wife, Loretta, and their three growing toddlers at their home on Trestle Glen.) I was sure that John’s experience and my vision would result in a successful collaboration. Together, I felt certain, we could create a model liturgy for the diocese as the bishop had requested. The frustrated Monsignor O’Donnell, however, refused to provide the funds we needed to proceed, indignantly maintaining that all reserves had been “confiscated” by the Chancery.
Compounding the rectory situation was the general malaise that afflicted both Church and country in 1968. The U.S. had turned into a social battlefield: the assassinations of Robert Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., the civil rights movement, the escalation of the Vietnam War, student uprisings and militant protests. Within the Catholic population a growing polarization over Vatican II reforms was exacerbated by Pope Paul VI’s denunciation of all forms of artificial birth control in his famous encyclical Humanae Vitae. As a result, clergy, religious and laity became as unsettled as the beleaguered citizenry.
During those discouraging months, I found myself facing a personal question that had plagued me for a long time: Should I continue in a career that required one to be “all things to all men,” or should I make use of my God-given talents and pursue the life of an artist and musician? Unable to resolve the conflict, I asked for a leave of absence and quietly left for New York City. There I spent a month with my brother Jess, a professional actor of stage and screen who had successfully mastered the realm of dramatic arts. Thanks to his hospitable and gracious mentoring, I feasted on an extravagant menu of cultural offerings until my artistic hunger had been sated and my soul satisfied. Revived, refreshed and reassured in spirit, I decided to quit the priesthood and pursue a career in music and the performing arts.
When I returned to Oakland, the only person I confided my secret to was my classmate and best friend, Father Tony Valdivia. Sheepishly I asked him to please call my parents and inform them of my decision. (I was too ashamed and afraid to do it myself.) This was more than he was prepared to deal with. Instead, he drove me to the Cathedral and declared, “There’s a brand-new administration in place here. Give Lucid and Keeley a try. If it doesn’t work out after two weeks, I’ll call your mother!”
Then he escorted me upstairs to my suite (the one next to Monsignor O’Donnell’s). Once in my room, he began to unpack my personal belongings that were still in sealed boxes — lots of them. As each carton became empty he tossed it out the third-floor window onto the pavement below. That created quite a ruckus and roused the napping prelate next door.
Suddenly, there he was — Pinkie O’Donnell — standing in the threshold.
“Oh, it’s only you, Osuna!” he roared. “For a minute there I thought we were having another earthquake!”
Chapter One: Of Pioneers and Poets
Pinkie’s sarcasm and personal animosity towards me were soon offset by my new boss’s openness and no-nonsense attitude. Mike Lucid was not only broadminded and friendly — he was downright ecumenical. He even allowed me to get a dog — and a female at that! No doubt, he figured that a puppy would help the process of humanizing a household of celibates — which is exactly what Muffin did. One of the fondest images engraved forever in my memory is that of the four of us driving to a local restaurant for dinner on Tuesday evenings with Muffin comfortably enthroned on Pinkie’s lap.
Despite the aged pastor’s gradual mellowing, Pinkie continued to chide me. “What time does the circus start?” he asked me one Sunday morning as we passed on the stairway. A week later, however, I remember him remarking after one of our children’s liturgies: “That was really nice!” Monsignor Richard O’Donnell died on May 23, 1971. His close friend and executor, Msgr. Charlie Hackel, asked me to perform at the funeral a selection he labeled as a “particularly appropriate anthem.” The song’s concluding lyric was: “The record shows I took the blows and did it my way.”
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Mike Lucid, our new boss, had a keen mind that sized up situations in a flash and an organizational skill that zeroed in on possible solutions. These gifts became evident at our first staff meeting.
“This parish has many needs and few resources. We will have to agree on a set of priorities. What do you think our most important undertaking should be?”
I suggested the parish school, because it was the only thing currently meeting an urgent need in the community. Moreover, the Sisters of the Holy Names who had staffed the school for eighty years were an influential and respected presence in the neighborhood.
“Education is important,” Keeley concurred, “but I think that as a church, our first priority should be to teach our people to pray.”
“Agreed,” interjected Lucid. “Worship first, school second.”
“Osuna,” he continued, “you will take charge of all liturgical services, and Keeley will oversee all religious education programs. Now, I want both of you to report back to me next Tuesday on what strategies must be implemented and how much money will be needed to operate our targeted ministries. Agreed?”
Priorities, strategies, finances? This was sounding too good to be true! Was I really being invited to develop a liturgical program that would engage all my artistic interests? What a fabulous prospect: to use one’s musical and artistic skills and adapt them to Catholic worship where all the arts naturally converge! The intended move to New York was off!
I immediately contacted John McDonnell and asked him how much he thought we needed to maintain an effective music program, including paid personnel and a large volunteer choir. “Five hundred dollars ($500) a month,” was his response, adding, “that’s the minimum!”
The following Tuesday, I gave my brief report: “In terms of strategy, I need to feel assured that I can spend as much time as needed on liturgical and artistic matters, and that when there is a conflict, others will cover the phones and doorbells.”
“Agreed,” Lucid confirmed. “Now, how much money do you need?”
“Five hundred dollars a month.”
Lucid’s face turned as white as the cathedral ceiling.
“Five hundred dollars? Do you realize that is one Sunday’s collection — twenty-five percent of our monthly income?”
Keeley