The Archbishop Wore Combat Boots. Nancy A. Collins
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Stepping into the elevator, I was alone, as other guests apparently opted to stay downstairs in the information flow. Entering my room, I saw the telephone was flashing, indicating a message was waiting. It was my brother Bill in Washington, D.C. “I guess you’ve heard the news,” he said. “Get the hell back here as soon as you can.”
Hanging up, I started to dial Archbishop O’Boyle at the Hotel Michelangelo near St. Peter’s Square, when several chambermaids, awash in tears, appeared at my half-open door. Desperate to express their astonished sorrow to the only American available, they broke down. “He was such a good man,” they cried, repeating, chant-like, Buono, buono, buono. Sobbing, they stood rooted to the spot, unable to move. It took all I had not to cry with them. “Please pray for him and his wife,” I got out before becoming overwhelmed myself. Slowly closing the door, I wept silently and alone.
Despite the jammed communications, I finally got hold of Archbishop O’Boyle, who had been trying to reach me. Assuring him that I’d get our plane tickets, I set off. The taxi driver, indeed, everyone at the travel office, posed the same questions again: “Who killed him? Wasn’t it the Communists?” (This consensus of Italian opinion was such that the Soviet embassy was forced to issue an emphatic denial of any participation.)
Fortunately, the travel office clerk was very sympathetic. Not that it mattered, frankly. Though I loathe to do so normally, in this instance I was more than willing to use whatever pull I had. Recognizing my urgency, the clerk quickly secured two tickets. Back at the hotel, I tried to telephone my rectory at St. Patrick’s Church in Washington, but the lines were solidly tied up.
Cabling notification of our arrival time, I raced to the Hotel Michelangelo where the Archbishop was in a state of total shock. Assuming the funeral would be held at St. Matthew’s Cathedral, a few blocks from the White House, Archbishop O’Boyle finally notified Sargent Shriver that we were en route. With funeral plans still being determined, Sarge said that he’d be in touch once we landed. Knowing that capable, trustworthy Sarge was our contact was a great relief. He would get things done properly with the Archbishop.
Finally, boarding a plane full of other confused foreign officials, heading to Washington for the same reason, we took off. Two Moroccans, swathed in distinctively elaborate, Middle Eastern garb, sat in front of us, while the seat across the aisle almost swallowed up the diminutive Emperor of Ethiopia, Haile Selassie. One Swiss official, part of a congregation representing Western European countries, told us that he, more or less, got ordered to make the trip. Dining in a hotel the night of the assassination, several guests had accosted him. “Why are you here?” they demanded. “Aren’t you going to Washington to represent us at the funeral of President Kennedy?”
At thirty-five thousand feet, my conversation with the Archbishop focused on Jackie and the family, whom we feared, given the brutal, public nature of Kennedy’s death, might well be inconsolable. Eventually, the Archbishop dozed off, but I couldn’t. Though physically exhausted, my adrenalized mind wouldn’t shut down. Wide eyed in the darkness of the cabin, Jack Kennedy’s Boston accent dancing in my head, I leaned back against the head rest, involuntarily rewinding the series of events that brought this extraordinary man — and his equally extraordinary wife — into my life.
Back in Washington
By the time we landed at Dulles Airport — teeming with foreign officials desperate for information — it was the evening of November 22. Spotting a particularly desolate soul, dressed in the flowing robes of a Muslim, I asked, in my halting French, if I could help. As it turned out, he had flown from Morocco with neither hotel reservations nor instructions as to the funeral’s time and place. Seeking out a U.S. representative, we discovered there were only two beleaguered, uninformed State Department officials, surrounded by indignant potentates and a gang of reporters demanding to know why things weren’t better organized. Offering to drop my new acquaintance at a hotel where he would have to fend for himself, we rounded up the Archbishop and took off.
It was around nine when we finally arrived at our rectory, much to the relief of the housekeepers and priests who had been fielding a barrage of questions. Sending them to bed, I took over. Two hours later, answering most inquiries, but barely unpacked, I got a call from Archbishop O’Boyle. His voice was tired, his words to the point: “I have been in touch with Sargent Shriver who is representing Jackie and the rest of the family in making arrangements for the funeral. Jackie wishes you to give the eulogy. Somebody will be in the sacristy at ten thirty tomorrow morning to give you material that’s to be included.” You could’ve blown me over with a feather — or less — given my exhausted state. I started to protest, but the Archbishop interrupted. “You’d better get to work.” “Of course. Thank you,” I replied. The honor at being chosen was quickly eclipsed by its reality. I had only a few hours to prepare what may well be one of the most important homilies of my life.
Fortunately, I couldn’t dwell on it. By the time I sat down to even think about what to say — much less to whom I’d be saying it — I drew an emotional blank. With everything happening so quickly, my dominant feeling was still disbelief. Moreover, I’d picked up a ferocious sinus infection. My brothers Bill and Jerry feared that whatever I said might not be understood anyway. With all these strikes against me, I’d certainly have to rely on the Holy Spirit.
Protocol demanded that a speaker, delivering a major address, acknowledge the dignitaries in their proper order. But who would be present? I certainly didn’t know, and at this hour, how could I find out? Who would have the list? From what I’d seen at the airport, even the State Department didn’t know.
The key to an effective, edifying homily is knowing your audience; only then can you come up with what they need to hear. But that intelligence wasn’t available. Surely, the fellow I was meeting in the sacristy the next morning would fill me in on everything I needed to know. “Right now, Hannan,” I thought, “the only thing you CAN control about tomorrow is what you write and say. So get going.” I started making notes, hoping that the congregation would realize I hadn’t had much time to prepare.
The first thing that came to mind was Jack’s Inaugural Address — the ideals and character espoused in those magnificent few words. But a eulogy should also speak to his distinct, powerful personality, notable to anyone who ever saw, heard, or met him — as many at the service probably had. Moreover, how could I say anything vaguely personal without divulging that I was a close friend, known, albeit, to only a handful of insiders? Tomorrow my audience would extend far beyond the walls of St. Matthew’s Cathedral to millions of Americans as well as the citizens of over ninety countries, each seeking solace in the words of the funeral’s participants. Most importantly, I had no real idea what Jackie and the family expected.
By midnight, it was clear that I simply wouldn’t have time to come up with a good, lengthy sermon. So I returned to my original notion: let the president speak for himself, in his own stirring words: the Inaugural Address of January 20, 1961. On the day ending his presidency forever, I would cite passages from the day it had begun. Lyndon Johnson may have taken the oath, but to everyone else in that Cathedral, John Kennedy was still the President of the United States — at least for a few more hours. Since I couldn’t possibly write anything better, why even try to outdo what Jack had done so brilliantly? I started scribbling notes. When I looked up it was after 1:00 a.m. If I had any hope of fighting off sinus congestion and jet lag in time for the funeral, I had to get some sleep.
At ten the next morning I walked into the controlled bedlam of St. Matthew’s Cathedral. The church, tightly cordoned off by the Secret Service, FBI, Army, and local police, prompted Father Hartman, an assistant priest at the Cathedral, to approach me at the door. “Would you please get me into the rectory?” he pleaded. “I came outside to meet someone, and the Secret Service won’t let me back because my name’s not on the list.” Vouching for my friend to the suspicious agent manning the door, we entered together. As promised, a representative of the State Department, standing in for the president’s family, showed up in the sacristy at ten thirty, carrying an envelope of scriptural quotations used by Kennedy in his recent speeches. Since the list was short, I decided to include all of them in the eulogy. But now we had a bigger problem.