Remembering Monsignor Jeremiah Murphy

Some years ago, probably close to 18, I was walking along Holloway Drive in West Hollywood back toward my parish, St. Victor. I saw a man with a wide brimmed hat and a Notre Dame sweatshirt working on the patch of grass and trees in the front. I didn't realize I knew him until I heard, "Hello, Djinna."  In those days, Monsignor Murphy who became Pastor after our last long time one had become debilitated with illness, was a strong, athletic man. He loved to garden. He loved to run. He loved sports, football in particular. He had been the Superintendent of the Los Angeles Archdiocese Catholic schools, as well as a principal and a pastor in more than one Church, the one before ours, St. Brendan's in Hancock Park. For the first one or two years at St. Victor, he deferred to the Pastor Emeritus, by not making any significant changes in the way the parish was run. And, he allowed that former pastor to continue to live in his old rooms, something that demonstrated a particular kindness that was inherent to the man, but quietly so.




His homilies were always strong. He never used notes, and always full of history in discussing the saints.

To be honest, I was a little skittish around him, as I had been with the former pastor. Both were men of pronounced personalities, and neither suffered fools. In Monsignor Murphy's case, I particularly recognized the Irish reserve. People don't realize that. They think the Irish are always "hail fellow well met" sorts, but many are not demonstrative. He was not, though people always wanted to hug him and engage him in both spiritual and idle conversation.  He was always on the move, thinking ahead to the next thing he needed to do, or to found, like McIntyre House, the drug and alcohol recovery home that bears the name of the late Cardinal, and Isaiah House, for transitional homeless, or serving on one or another Board. And serving the parish, doing a herculean number of Masses. When he decided that St. Victor, which still is a mostly single adult parish should have a pre-school, a few folks thought it was nutty. Where would the kids come from? But he persevered and St. Victor has a thriving pre-school, well attended by 2 to 5 year olds who put smiles on everyone's faces. He increased the number of Holy Hours, so the people could adore Our Lord in the Eucharist. He created Christian Meditation Classes. A few years ago, he gave a temporary home to the Extraordinary Rite of the Mass and a couple of priests from the FSSP.

He could be perfunctory.  You might be having a conversation with him, or so you thought, and then suddenly he'd be gone. He had the ability to seem opaque, but then he'd break down with a little joke.

His family says it was about 12 years ago that the strong man began to have the physical ailment that would now debilitate him. Well, actually, it wasn't debilitated in a way, because he never stopped. He got some help from wonderful priests to fill in as necessary, but he continued to do more than his share of celebrations of the Mass. What he had, he kept to himself, except surely to those few people who tended to him, and his family, and maybe closest friends. I have always guessed, from that old reliable Google, that it was some form of ALS, given the way it took away his musculature and rendered him unable to move at all. For the last about six years, he had been in a wheelchair, effectively a quadraplegic. And the miraculous thing, though there was some talk he should give up the ghost, is that it worked. Parishioners and volunteer staff and servers and lectors helped him make sure that few beats were missed in the life of the parish. He had Jayvil, and Virgil Sr. and Virgil Jr. who could anticipate his every need and mood. In the summer of 2011, after I lost my job and transitioned into retirement from the 9-5 lifestyle, I became blessed to become one of the volunteers, in a manner that kept me so close to the "action" of the altar that was truly Awe-some. Sometimes I was so worried about making sure everything was as Monsignor wanted it, when he wanted it, the placement of his wheelchair, the turning of the pages, the placement of the vessels, that I might have not always realized the extraordinary Gift of Grace that was given to me, through the man who stood in representio Christi and the the moment of Transubstantiation.

I remember a story of one of my first efforts to help him. Monsignor was still walking, but his arms had failed him, and he couldn't lift them up to any height. I had never opened our Tabernacle before, and did not realize there was a particular angle at which the key had to be held and used.  I couldn't do it. Monsignor turned around and had me try to lift his hand to guide the key. It was a seemingly endless and impossible process. I could feel the heat of embarrassment and incompetence and frustration that would usually cause me to utter something profane--though I do so rarely, this was the kind of moment that could provoke it-but I didn't. I knew where I was. And then we did it. Monsignor was still able to dispense communion, and he took Our Lord in his fingers, and said, with a little humor in his voice, but not so much as not to be improper to the occasion, "Assuming you are still in the State of Grace, Body of Christ."  He was real, this man, this priest.

His homilies became more, how would I describe it, as they were always good ones, but more I guess, sensible of the eschatological, of last things, of living well as God intends for us. Happily, someone in our parish thought long ago to record them, and we will have them for posterity.

He would have bouts that accompany the disease that afflicted him. He would fight it until he absolutely had to be hospitalized. But he always came back to St. Victor. The last time I saw him was on Thursday the 23rd. It would be the last time I would assist him during Mass. Then I heard on Saturday morning he was hospitalized, in the ICU. Information was sparse. They said he was doing better, on the very day that he died, while Fr. Anthony was celebrating the 12:10 weekday Mass that Monsignor did when he was well (and the 8).

I love the idea that he is no longer bound by his body. I don't like that he is gone. But I also know that he suffered as God's good disciple in the last years, and I believe God is pleased with him.

Once, when I helped at a funeral, I wondered if as many people would show up to mine. He said it didn't matter how many people came; what mattered was my relationship with God.

Amen to that. But still I bet there will be a lot of people at his funeral to send him off. And no worries about his relationship with God. I am pretty sure the Lord will be saying, "Well done, My good and faithful servant!"