The Whispered Call

By Fr. Tony Plathe

Follow Fr. Tony Plathe's inspiring journey from Las Cruces, NM, to his devoted service in various parishes. This memoir captures his experiences growing up, his teenage years, and his path to ordination. Fr. Tony navigates personal and spiritual challe

• Language: English
• Publisher: American Book Services
• Release date: Jun 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798330253425

Book preview

The Whispered Call

By

Fr. Tony Plathe

Copyright © 2024 Fr. Tony Plathe

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all the hardworking and conscientious priests in the world. They may be able to identify with some of the experiences that I describe in my life story.  I encourage everyone not to give up hope but to continue to listen to the Spirit for direction and guidance.

I would like to acknowledge Jim Keul and Dick Hakes for their suggestions regarding the publication process. I would like to express my deep appreciation to Phyllis Caron for her assistance in the typing, editing, formatting and her computer skills in making this book possible. I especially appreciate her encouragement and support in bringing this book to life. I would also like to thank Delilah Jones, our senior publishing consultant, and the staff of Amazon Smart Publishing Company, for their prompt responses, helpful suggestions, and patience in making this book possible.

I invite all the readers to accompany me on my journey.  Whatever your vocation or calling in life, there is need for courage and perseverance.  60 years ago, I had plans for my life, but I was unaware that God had other plans for me. You know the saying, If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans. Over the span of years, I have been able to see the pattern of how God led me through many struggles to a sense of peace.  The whispered call of the Spirit is always there. It is up to us to respond to that call.

Table Of Contents

Chapter 1 Las Cruces, NM

Chapter 2 Prison

Chapter 3 Unrest

Chapter 4 Minnesota

Chapter 5 Growing Up

Chapter 6 The Catholic Church

Chapter 7 The Family

Chapter 8 Teenage Years

Chapter 9 Nazareth Hall

Chapter 10 St. Paul Seminary

Chapter 11 Ordination

Chapter 12 Parish Life

Chapter 13 Sumore

Chapter 14 More Parish Life

Chapter 15 Little Parishes on the Prairie

Chapter 16 Israel

Chapter 17 Willmar

Chapter 18 Crisis

Chapter 19 Jemez Springs

Chapter 20 Renewal

Chapter 21 The Desert

Chapter 22 Real Life Stories

Chapter 23  Signs of Spring

Chapter 24  Moving On

Chapter 25 Finding Work

Chapter 26 Transition

Chapter 27 St. Catherine of Siena

Chapter 28 The Sunshine State             200

Chapter 29 On the Road Again

Chapter 30 Bureau of Prisons

Chapter 31 LaTuna

Chapter 32 Various Prison Ministries

Chapter 33 Time of Transition

Chapter 34 Hospice Chaplain – Clearwater, FL

Chapter 35 Return to Parish Ministry

Rev. Anthony H. Plathe

Chapter 1

Las Cruces, NM

I stepped onto the front entrance of my modest two-bedroom townhouse and was greeted by the glare of the desert sun. It wasn’t long since I was exposed to the big ball of fire, but I could already feel the scorching heat peel off my skin. It looked a lot like another hot high desert day. The barrel cactus and the Texas sage seemed to welcome the dry intense heat. To me, the sight of plants struggling for life made me miss the greenery of Minnesota. The bright sun caused me to reach for my sunglasses as I looked toward a familiar object, my new Bonneville. It sure was different from the previous ’65 model I had owned, because of its rounded European look, but it was just like me, ever-changing but pure American, pure Midwest American, just plain ole Minnesota.

As I opened the door, I realized that I was in a different culture and was aware of this southwestern flavor of the border town, Las Cruces, New Mexico. I became aware of a new and unfamiliar environment for me. As I pulled out of the driveway and onto the boulevard, the traffic was moving slowly just like the whole town. The freeway was inviting as I glanced at the Organ Mountains to my left. Their sharp pointed peaks reached to the clear blue sky like the pipe of a grand cathedral organ. The sage and creosote bushes still had some color against the desert background, the bright yellow bloom of the Larrea tridentata contrasting with the mountains. The Mesilla Valley was filled with an abundance of pecan orchards, cotton, and chili peppers. As I inched up to the speed limit, the odor of thousands of Holstein cows came through the air vents. The five dairies I passed each day on the way to work reminded me of my growing up on a farm.

The trip to work was uneventful. Occasionally, there was an old pick-up, or a car stalled along the highway with someone fixing a tire or pouring water into the radiator to cool it down. The 0 exit soon came into view and I left the open road for the dusty streets of Anthony, New Mexico. There was a worn-out sign on the roadside that read, Welcome to Anthony. When I first saw it, I thought, What a town, they put a sign just for me. Next to that sign was another which proudly stated with the paint faded by time, Anthony, the Leap Year Capital of the World. I think the budget for annual celebrations must have been limited so they went for one every four years. Not a bad idea.

I turned onto a long street lined with an assortment of yucca plants and straggling desert trees. The White Spanish mission architecture seemed to betray the purpose and activity that lay behind the peaceful façade. Almost out of nowhere the memory of St. Mary’s Church, Willmar, MN came back to me. I loved that congregation where I had been pastoring for eight busy years. I parked in the staff parking lot which was filled with small foreign cars and late-model pickup trucks. The climb up the many steps reminded me that I needed to get in better shape.

Good morning, Chaplain, said the guard at the front desk. I returned the greeting and asked if anything exciting was going on. The usual response is No, thank God, and that is the way we like it. Today felt different. Some of the inmates are telling us that there is trouble between the blacks and the Hispanics, he said. I wondered if I would be affected by the possibility of trouble. If so, how would I handle it? Time will tell. Have a good day, Padre, the guard in the control offered. Thanks", I said, hoping his wish would come true.

Chapter 2

Prison

The door to the sallyport slowly slid open and I entered the small, enclosed area big enough for twenty people. However, only ten people were allowed at one time. A few of the other staff were coming in at the same time and we exchanged small talk. A moment later, the second door opened, and I was in a hallway with offices on either side. The open office doors make way for a gentle breeze which somehow made its way through the narrow windows. Only one more set of bars separated me from the prison population. I passed the lieutenant’s office which is the control center inside. This is the place from which the prison operation is run. Anyone with a question or problem stops or calls here for directions. Complaints of inmates are brought to this spot for arbitration or judgment. The noise echoed in either direction down the hall with a living unit at either end. There was a sense of uneasiness among the inmates and tension in the air. The chaplains’ offices were up the stairs on the second floor.

The stair railings are painted the same dull brown color about every three weeks, so I checked out the texture carefully before taking hold of one. At the top of the stairs was the glassed-in announcement case telling the inmates what the chapel had to offer. Ten weeks of music lessons are guaranteed to teach you how to play a tune for the Lord, it read. Next, we have a black choir coming in to sing Gospel music for all to hear. Saturday night Mass is in Spanish with the English being celebrated on Sunday. To the left and above the double doors a sign declared, Pastoral Care Center. Below the words were the symbols of the various denominations with the cross in the center flanked by the Star of David, the Peace Pipe, the Bible, a chalice, and the crescent of the Muslims. This provided me with a great opportunity to bring forth the matter to adjust the signage to better reflect our commitment to all inmates, regardless of their religious affiliation. I have come to understand more about the meaning behind these symbols because now I know inmates who believe strongly in what they represent. I've explored more diverse religions in the past few months than I had in many previous years. My worldview of life has been expanded. The three chaplains were told by program reviewers that the cross was too prominent and tended to downplay the other religions. I hadn’t noticed the discrepancy.

Through the double doors and to the right was the office I shared with a twenty-year veteran who was the volunteer coordinator. Onfre was a big man with a carefree disposition who spoke a language he did not learn at his mother’s knee. He was well groomed and neatly dressed with a high polish on his shoes. I appreciated his willingness to help me learn the ropes of the Bureau of Prisons. I think his Catholic background made it easier for him to be patient with my lack of experience in the Correctional arena. Quite often, the office would be filled with his cronies who came just to talk or get advice. I would listen while pretending to work just to learn more about this strange world of prisons. We agreed that I would pray for him if he kept me from straying haphazardly into the precarious minefield of BOP policies.

Hey Tony, what’s going on? He said with an effervescent enthusiasm that had been undaunted by twenty years of bureaucracy. Not much, I said, but I am glad to be here. This remark was prompted by the memory of all the changes I had experienced this past year. We exchanged information about the latest happenings, and I went to my desk. Rumors usually abound about who is being promoted and who got fired and why. As usual, the desk was filled with endless paperwork and memos to be distributed. Most would not be read unless there was a problem, and someone needed to be held accountable or blamed. I looked through the mail on the big brown desk, scarred and scratched by the many moves from office to office. Theresa Smith had sent more rosaries made by a group of ladies in Texas, along with a note thanking me for the ten dollars I sent for postage after her last shipment.

There were requests from inmates in the segregation unit for greeting cards to include messages like, thinking of you, for my wife, birthday for a little girl, or a nice card for my girlfriend. Hallmark provides these cards to all Federal Prisons and the Chaplains distribute them free of charge to inmates. I enjoy doing this because it fills a real need for the men. What I have learned, however, is that even though some of the convicts can practically cry real tears to get more cards, especially at Christmas, they will turn around and sell them for good money on the compound to their less persuasive brethren.

Next, I turned to the computer to make a memo for the Native Americans listing all their members so that they could wear their bandannas without a problem. It is considered part of their religious belief so they can wear them into the dining hall and other buildings. The number of memos is endless, but it is what keeps the system going. If it is not in writing, it doesn’t exist, even though it may not be able to be found. The three large file cabinets against the wall bear testimony to the worship of paper.

Across the hall from me are the offices of the other two chaplains. One is a female Chaplain, a 40-year-old Southern Baptist minister who has worked in Corrections for about 12 years. The inmates find her attractive in a down-home, country, sort of way. They tell me that when she is in the compound area and the men are just standing around, everything about her is discussed. Her sweet smile belies the simmering anger just below the surface which erupts at the slightest hint that she is being ignored or not consulted in a particular matter. There must be a lot of hurt there from somewhere. Her church does not allow women to be pastors of Parishes, but they can do other jobs. Our population is about 70 percent Hispanic and from what I am told, they are not used to taking orders from a woman, either as chaplain or correctional officer. The two-way radio hangs loosely on her hip always even while she is preaching at a service. This has proven to be a serious distraction to the inmate congregation. Her father is a Baptist minister. She worked in a large metropolitan jail for 11 years before coming to the BOP. We have not always agreed on how to minister. I find her legalistic and at times abrasive. She considers me too easy-going and not strict enough in dealing with the inmates. During the first year, there was considerable conflict between her and the department head. I did my best to stay out of it since I do not enjoy conflict. I also do not wear a body alarm or use a two-way radio. Occasionally, it would have been more convenient to have one or the other when I am moving about the institution and not near a phone. However, the visual message is that of another officer or cop. There are plenty of officers around to do the job. I am here to find the good in these men that no one else can see and try to nurture it and help it to grow. Sound like foolishness? Maybe. Fear generates fear and I am not afraid of the inmates.

Next to the female Chaplain’s office is the head, Chaplain. He has been at the institution for several months and has had a hard time. He is lanky, six-foot-two, slightly balding, and thirty-eight years old. Assembly of God is his church, and he is involved in it outside of prison work. That is where he gets his life and energy. Mike is devoted to his wife and two children who attend Christian school at considerable expense. From time to time, he becomes discouraged since he feels he cannot minister the way he wants. We have many programs, and the chapel is open six days a week. The head chaplain must go to many meetings and as a result, he cannot spend time with the inmates. I am not looking forward to being in that position since I enjoy contact with inmates. That is the nice thing about being older - I don’t need to climb to the top. I have had power and I found it to be a weighty burden. I am here to minister to the inmates. However, the demands of the bureaucracy are such that all the busyness must continue.

Some chaplains get weighed down by it. Mike has been easy to work with since he is flexible and willing to adjust schedules. I am not accustomed to such short hours - only 40-45 a week. As a Parish priest, I used to work 60-70 hours a week and thought that was normal. One day a week off was considered a big deal.

The Federal Correctional Institution (FCI) I work in as Chaplain is classified as medium security. The buildings are surrounded by a double chain link fence with ten rows of razor wire on it which are between the two fences. The interior fence has an electronic detection system. The perimeter is patrolled by two armed vehicles twenty-four hours a day. The Rear Tower is occupied twenty-four hours a day. It is easy to get in but hard to get out. The institution is sixty years old and has thirty buildings within the fence and six buildings at the Federal Prison Camp (FPC), about a third of a mile away. The ten housing units are of three types: two-man cells, four-man cells, and open dormitories. The two housing units at the Camp are all four-man cells. I find that the movies paint a very bad picture of prisons, and most are not as brutal as they are portrayed. Most of the men greet me in a friendly manner when I meet them in the halls or on the compound. I try to address them by first name or Mr. or Sir. This approach, I feel, enhances their self-worth and human dignity. Some may not measure up to my high expectations, but that is the chance I take.

To me, they are not faceless people identified by a combination of eight numbers. Their reaction to me carries with it a mutual respect. Many still have a sense of reverence for what I represent so I know that it is not just me personally that they are respecting. I simply try to be worthy of that trust by being an advocate for this group of people whom I see as having a sense of hopelessness and powerlessness. Young men of twenty with fifteen or twenty years of prison facing them have little basis on which to hang their hopes. After being a priest for thirty years, I feel that listening to and affirming people is an essential step in enabling them to believe in themselves.

Most Federal Prisons are overcrowded, and that fact can lead to problems. The government is trying to keep up by building more institutions but there needs to be an ongoing study of the situation. A staff of over 350 trained personnel maintains the prison. It is the mission of the Federal Bureau of Prisons to protect society by confining offenders in the controlled environment of prison and community-based facilities that are safe, humane, and appropriately secure. Prisons also provide work and other self-improvement opportunities to assist offenders in becoming law-abiding citizens.

It costs about $40.00 a day to maintain an inmate and with the shortage of money for various government agencies, there is a need to explore other options within our penal system. I would like to see low-risk inmates’ work in the community restoring homes of people too poor to pay to have it done. Some are bitter and do not care to do anything. Others want to feel that they are contributing something worthwhile to society during the time of incarceration.

Who comes to prison? They’re individuals from all walks of life. Each one brings his story which contains elements of joy and pain, of dreams and harsh reality. Some were trying to help their families get ahead financially because of low-paying jobs. Others had fewer noble motives. One Sunday the Gospel was about greed. I asked the inmates if they knew anything about it and one replied jokingly, Yes Father, that’s why we are here. For some, the background and neighborhood environment are filled with violence and conflict. A number of times I have had to tell an inmate that a member of his family had been killed in a violent crime. One element they all seem to have in common is the trauma of being arrested, handcuffed for the first time, and taken away by police. For some, the impact of this moment is enough to deter them from any further crime.

One of my duties is to visit the segregation or special housing unit. This area is also known as the hole. There are two sections to the unit. One is disciplinary and the other is administrative. The inmates who get in trouble go to disciplinary segregation for some infraction of rules or policies. It may involve anything from bringing in contraband to disobeying a direct command of a staff person. The infraction is written up in an incident report. The administrative cells hold prisoners who are transferred from other institutions, those who ask for protective custody from other inmates, or some who are waiting to go back to court.

To get into the special housing unit, you must pound on the door until the officer calls control to release the door electronically. There is a loud bang as the bolt springs back to allow the heavy steel door to swing open. The corridor is narrow and in another few feet, there is a second heavy steel door with bars that is unlocked. I sign in and take a look out the window at the cages where the inmates have recreation. The chain link enclosure reminds me of animals in a zoo. The men tell me this is how they feel and so they yell and scream at each other and try to communicate their frustration. Our chapel windows are just above this area, so we get the brunt of the misery below.

The first time I went to seg, I was unsure and fearful. I was with other staff, so I felt protected but strange. The cells are about eight by ten feet. There is a metal sink and stool in each room with a bunk bed for the two occupants. I almost get claustrophobia just imagining myself in one of them. Twenty-three hours a day locked up with one other person and no place to go. Reminds me of some of the monastery cells I have seen. The big difference is that there is no lock on those cells. A small window near the ceiling lets