[Congressional Record Volume 148, Number 26 (Monday, March 11, 2002)]
[Senate]
[Pages S1728-S1729]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                   TRIBUTE TO FATHER MYCHAL F. JUDGE

  (At the request of Mr. Daschle, the following statement was ordered 
to be printed in the Record.)
 Mrs. CLINTON. Madam President, I submit the following 
statement of Peter James Johnson, Jr., delivered at the funeral mass 
for Father Mychal F. Judge in New York City on September 15, 2001, for 
printing in the Record to commemorate the 6-month anniversary of the 
many lives so tragically lost on September 11.
  The statement follows:

Remarks Prepared for Delivery by Peter J. Johnson, Jr., at the Funeral 
    Mass of Rev. Mychal Judge, O.F.M., Fire Department of New York, 
 Chaplain, September 15, 2001, St. Francis of Assisi Church, New York 
                                 City,

       Your Eminence, Cardinal Egan, President Clinton, Senator 
     Clinton, Mayor Dinkins, Mr. Controller, Mr. Public Advocate, 
     Family, Friends, Firefighters and Friends.
       ``Don't worry about me. Help the thousands.'' Mychal says 
     to us.
       I see him kneeling gently, hear him speaking in a firm and 
     lilting whisper, his large hands making reassuring contact 
     with a dying firefighter, his warm eyes focused and loving 
     and deep, communicating the wisdom of almost seventy years 
     and the spirituality of a millennium. Enveloped in the 
     unshakeable concentration of the prayers he knew and lived so 
     faithfully, shrouded in his own mystical but practical 
     Catholic belief, oblivious to the risk of harm that rained 
     from the sky, he died as he lived, trying to save a life, to 
     save a soul in our City on a sunny, not so perfect September 
     morning. Friar's friar, firefighter, warrior for the Lord and 
     New Yorker--I can't help believing that Erin and Dymphna, 
     your beloved Emmet, who wanted to be a priest at the age of 
     four, our beloved Mychal--in the swirling and fiery wind 
     tunnel of the majestic twin towers, helmet off in respect to 
     our creator, lifted his lovely tenor voice and uttered a 
     final Alleluia as he rode the winds aloft, smiling broadly as 
     he shot one final mortal glance at what his model St. Francis 
     of Assisi called ``burning sun with golden beam and silver 
     moon with softer gleam.''
       Father Mike, it's not that we hardly knew ya that makes you 
     leaving this earth so hard. It's that we all knew you so well 
     and depended on you so much that hurts so much.
       Though you were neither a husband nor a father, you became 
     a model for husbands and fathers. Though you never trained on 
     a hose on a fire or experienced the pain of being a 
     firefighter's widow, you became a model for firefighters and 
     the widowed. Though up until recently you never felt the 
     anxiety of sickness, you became a guide for the sick. You 
     taught us that the St. Francis Prayer was not merely a 
     bookmark but a living, speaking roadmap for our daily lives 
     as New Yorkers. We saw your greatness up close and personal. 
     But we respectfully ask why were you so strong?
       As Father Pecci pointed out last night at the wake service 
     maybe it was the countless windows and shoes you polished and 
     shined on Dean Street in Brooklyn as a child. Or was it the 
     constancy and strength of example of your mother who balanced 
     the needs of a dying husband, a house and three young 
     children in the Depression?
       I have not seen your sisters Erin and Dymphna for some 
     time. So I asked Dymphna last night, what made Mychal great? 
     She said it best: ``With Michael there were no narrow truths. 
     There was only wide open possibility.'' As I stepped outside 
     onto 32nd Street near Penn Station last night to get some 
     air, I was struck by the wide world of possibilities that 
     Mychal lived in. I noticed how much more alive the street has 
     become in just in twenty-four hours. A saxophone could be 
     heard--``Amazing Grace''--the musician played. The smell of 
     fried food in the air. Taxis racing down the street. Men and 
     women laughing in conversation near a parked delivery truck. 
     Mychal would say ``How marvelous. What a strong and dynamic 
     people we are!'' And I looked at the faces on the street 
     behind us. In Mychal's words: ``Peter look at these faces. 
     Brown and black and yellow and white. Such good minds, such 
     strong hands, such hard workers.''
       ``Such a resilient city. There is nothing like a New 
     Yorker. We're back.'' In that moment I had an understanding 
     of the incessant activity that Mychal often heard from his 
     room on 31st Street. The same vitality that so energized him 
     even when he was bone tired from caring for the families of 
     the victims of Flight 800 when he would answer the phone or 
     pager and respond to an emergency to support a stricken 
     firefighter.
       And that was Mychal too. He naturally saw the very best of 
     himself in others. And in a strange way we slowly but surely 
     began to see a little bit of Mychal in all of us. His dynamic 
     strength, his good mind and his strong hands were always in 
     evidence. Whether he was helping lift his dear friend 
     paralyzed hero Detective Steven McDonald onto a rough stone 
     road in Northern Ireland, to go another ten miles on the path 
     to peace and reconciliation. Or riding Splash Mountain at 
     Disney with Conor McDonald, who helps serve the mass. Or at 
     the bedside of his friar friend forever, Patty Fitzgerald, in 
     an Israeli hospital--fifty years of friendship on Saturday. 
     Or anointing the forehead of a sick man with aids in a small 
     Chelsea studio apartment. Or arm in arm with our missing hero 
     Patty Brown, comforting the family of hero firefighters like 
     the late Captain John Drennan in a New York Hospital burn 
     unit, Mychal was equally at home in the brown robe and 
     sandals of a friar or the uniform of a New York City fire 
     officer and always in an encouraging and positive way 
     motivating us to do bigger and better things.
       He was comfortable visiting President and Senator Clinton 
     or President and Mrs. Bush in the East Wing of the White 
     House, the portico of Gracie Mansion with Mayors Koch, 
     Dinkins and Giuliani and the Cardinal's Residence with the 
     late Cardinal O'Connor and now Cardinal Egan.
       But he was really at home in a Times Square shelter for 
     single mothers conducting Midnight Mass on Christmas eve, 
     cradling a small plastic doll in its role as the baby Jesus 
     or in a firehouse kitchen helping reunite a couple whose 
     marriage was strained by the job. This church is full of 
     families he united. Being at Ground Zero--wherever it was--
     was his life, and his death.
       Mychal loved Christ and loved his family and yes, he loved 
     us, the people of New York. This morning we unfortunately see 
     only his casket. But I dreamt the other night of Mychal, 
     walking and walking and walking; I guess the constant motion 
     of his life: In a power walk from 31st Street and Seventh 
     Avenue to Coney Island and the Atlantic Ocean, in his crisply 
     pressed uniform on a blustery Saint Patrick's day waving, to 
     the crowd like a matinee idol, hands outstretched to hug our 
     children for a moment, flashing a knowing, almost shy smile 
     and then jogging back to the line of march. Walking the 
     streets greeting on a first name basis the homeless and 
     friendless, many of whom wore the Christmas and birthday 
     gifts that many in this congregation wrapped so nicely for 
     Mychal to wear. He loved to watch the fireworks, a ride on a 
     fire boat, a thick deep piece of apple pie with ice cream. 
     Both most of all, he loved the call to service, the romance 
     of duty, the necessity of honor. He was a bridge between 
     people. Friars and firefighters, Christians and Jews, able 
     and disabled. He grafted spirituality onto our Bill of 
     Rights.
       You see, Mychal was proud to be an American. Not in the 
     quaint sense of a Norman Rockwell painting or in your face 
     flag waver, although flag waving is good too.
       I recall two connected events to demonstrate his palpable 
     pride. I urged Mychal to become the Fire Chaplain, to fill 
     late Friar Father Julian Deeken's large shoes. Shortly after 
     he assumed his duties, there was a report of a ship run 
     aground, and yes, even a landing of Chinese nationals with 
     guns, according to the Park Police, in the Rockaways. I was 
     an honorary firefighter and pro bono adviser to Mayor 
     Dinkins, and so Mychal called me, said he would be by to get 
     me in a few minutes and we took off in the middle of the 
     night.
       Just as we started to get to the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, 
     the radio started to crackle with confirmation of a large 
     ship aground with passengers in the water. Mychal gunned the 
     Chevy, hit the lights and sirens, both which reflected and 
     reverberated off the tunnel walls. I felt like I was in the 
     middle of Studio 54. I said ``Mike, what are you doing? Slow 
     down.'' He looked straight ahead laughed and said: ``No this 
     is good. I'm not sure what we've got here but we can do good 
     things together.''
       I'll never forget what we saw that chilly morning. 
     Helicopters in the air. A large broken ship battered by the 
     waves off shore and a beach full of shaking, shivering and 
     soaked Chinese men who had paid dearly and almost with their 
     lives to reach the safe haven of

[[Page S1729]]

     America. They did not speak a word of English and he did not 
     speak Chinese, but it did not deter Mychal. Within a few 
     minutes he was handing out blankets, coffee and telling 
     jokes. And they laughed. An immigration officer warned him of 
     the dangers of disease from the men--tuberculosis, hepatitis. 
     Mychal said thank you, ignored the warning and continued on 
     as he was inclined to do. We returned home to Manhattan later 
     that morning and ate an enormous breakfast, ``Mychal, you're 
     a bright guy. They could be very sick.'' To which he replied: 
     ``When I travel half way round the world I get a blanket and 
     a cup of coffee. They're our guests and they deserve no less. 
     They only want what we were born into.'' As usual Mychal had 
     done good things.
       Maybe we know why: A few days after July 4th, our daughters 
     Blanche and Veronica, eight and six, received a handwritten 
     note addressed to them. Blanche recognized the 
     distinctive note paper and handwriting and read to her 
     sister at the kitchen table: ``Friday evening, July 6, 
     2001, 10:00 p.m. My dearest Blanche and Veronica Felicity. 
     Earlier this evening I walked to the new walk along the 
     Hudson-Little West 12th Street to the Battery. It is a 
     wonderful promenade and a great place for Bladers--Someday 
     both of you will be most proficient at that and you'll be 
     there often'' And they will.
       The letter continued: ``I sat and gazed at Lady Liberty--so 
     majestic with her torch burning brightly and thought of the 
     great feelings of joy and happiness and hope that my mother 
     and father experienced when they saw her as their boat came 
     into New York Harbor--it was their dream come true. 1921--oh 
     so long ago. They had no idea of all the blessings and a few 
     sorrows that lie ahead of them. They were so brave and had 
     such faith and trust in God, that, that he brought them to 
     these shores and that he would care for them.''
       The note paper and the distinctive penmanship were those of 
     Mychal Judge, friar and firefighter. And it was then when I 
     heard our oldest daughter read these simply eloquent words to 
     our youngest daughter that I began to understand Mychal's 
     rush to the Rockaways.
       As he and the late Captain Grethel and late Firefighter 
     Weinberg raced down Seventh Avenue did Mychal think about his 
     little rollerbladers, Blanche and Veronica? Did his mind rush 
     back to pleasant barbecues and lasagna dinners in Northern 
     New Jersey? Did he think of the woman who came to this church 
     and presented Father John Pierce with a tiny American flag in 
     honor of Mychal who had guided her so well when she lost her 
     son last year or of Erin or Dymphna and the prospect of a 
     trip to see them in Maryland, reading books and just talking? 
     Of the people he had not yet met who would need his services 
     at the friary that day upon his return? Of how he could be 
     made an instrument of peace or consolation or harmony?
       Or as he pondered the blazing twin towers and the desperate 
     New Yorkers ending their suffering by jumping sometimes arms 
     linked from the inferno, did he try to summon and recreate 
     the innocent but great feelings of joy and happiness and hope 
     that his parents felt when they saw the Lady in the Harbor?
       We'll not know the answer on this earth. But we do know 
     that Mychal died as he lived and as his parents lived--
     bravely, having such faith and trusting God and loving this 
     land that God made.
       Mychal, you taught so many of us that we can only be 
     enslaved, victimized or terrorized by our demons if we so 
     consent. In the coming months we will call upon your memory 
     and your inspired example of faith, sacrifice and 
     determination and rely upon your prayers to help strengthen 
     and console and raise all of us up. Today, from the well of 
     our sorrow filled with the bitter tears of our loss, we will 
     tend to our garden, emboldened by the faith and trust in God 
     you exemplified and from which the joy and happiness and hope 
     you aspired to will flower again. In an even more resplendent 
     but Mychal Judge less American century.

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