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Friday, March 29, 2024

Archbishop Flynn reflects at end of life

Christina Capecchi
Archbishop Harry Flynn gives some attention to his dogs, Megan, left, and Katie
Archbishop Harry Flynn gives some attention to his dogs, Megan, left, and Katie at the rectory of St. Vincent de Paul in St. Paul Nov. 29, 2018. DAVE HRBACEK | THE CATHOLIC SPIRIT

Archbishop Emeritus Harry Flynn was perched in his living room when he spotted visitors in November 2018. At 85, he had lost weight and stamina, but his sense of humor was intact.

“Welcome to the home of the invalids!” he called out.

In an unbuttoned blue oxford, a white T-shirt and corduroy pants — no clerics in sight — he looked unassuming, like a regular 80-something man.

He did not sound like one though. When he spoke, he dispensed pearls of wisdom, sharing happy memories and hard-won lessons from 58 years of priesthood — including 13 as archbishop of St. Paul and Minneapolis, from 1995 to his retirement in 2008.

Archbishop Flynn lived in the rectory of the Church of St. Vincent de Paul in the Frogtown neighborhood of St. Paul, where he was well cared for by Mexican nuns and two dogs, Katie and Megan. They scuttled across the hardwood floors, guarding their beloved master whenever they sensed danger passing by.

He began the conversation with a prayer comprised of three short words: “Come, Lord Jesus. Come, Lord Jesus. Come, Lord Jesus. Lord Jesus, come.”

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He uttered that prayer in countless sites across the archdiocese — grade schools and nursing homes, boardrooms and ballrooms. “It’s the last words of the New Testament,” he said. “It’s been the prayer of my life.”

On a sunny autumn afternoon, he was ready to look back at his life. In some ways, the retired archbishop was still a New York orphan with a tender heart that bends and breaks for others.

The compassion born from his parents’ death led to a pastoral touch that defined his priesthood, whether he was serving the downtrodden of Louisiana, responding to gay activists wearing rainbow sashes at the Cathedral of St. Paul or working to build bridges between the Twin Cities’ Catholic and Jewish communities.

The five happiest years of his career, he said unequivocally, were the ones he spent as a pastor in the Diocese of Albany, before he became a seminary rector and, later, a bishop.

“I knew the people, and they knew me,” he said. “I knew their pain, their joy, their families. When they were in trouble, I was with them. When they were exhilarated, I was with them. It was a beautiful relationship.”

The parishioners’ unwavering faith, despite hardships, inspired him.

Archbishop Flynn had turned 85 in May 2018, and it had been a year to accept his own failures of health, battling bone cancer and the general ailments of aging, which make for a volatile condition — good days and bad days.

The end table beside his easy chair was filled with elixirs: a pill case, eye drops, prayer cards, lotion and Anise hard candies. Old age requires patience, he said. “I’ve learned slowing down is not easy.”

His dogs were faithful companions as he adapted to the new pace. Katie began to growl, suspecting an intruder.

“No, be good,” he said. “Be good, girl.”

He looked into her big brown eyes, and instantly she was soothed, laying down at his feet.

If only the archbishop could so easily dispel the conflict on cable news, which plays often in the living

room. A great ill of modern life, he said, is the lack of civility.

“The one word I hear used too frequently: fight. One woman said she’ll fight like hell if she’s elected. I’d much rather hear: ‘I’ll listen to all sides and then come up with a decision.’”

The buoys that had always uplifted the archbishop now serve a special function in old age: prayer, humor and gratitude. They are closely intertwined, one fostering another.

“Keep the sense of humor and keep praying — it gets us through everything,” he said. “Laugh at yourself and laugh at things that go wrong — and they will go wrong — but keep walking in the Lord, and all will be well.”

Tying it all together, he added, is thanksgiving. That habit was deeply ingrained in Archbishop Flynn, giving him the perspective to see many blessings in his midst, despite considerable limitations.

“I’m grateful for our archbishop,” he said of Archbishop Bernard Hebda. “I’m grateful for the priests who come every day to celebrate Mass for me — and to be in this home with the dogs and the sisters here. Everything. A good life.”

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