Father Joseph Orlandi leaving Paterson parish
About 18 years ago, Carlos Trejos was a UPS driver who rarely went to church. That was until his delivery route brought him to the Rev. Joseph Orlandi of Paterson's St. Michael the Archangel Church, a Catholic priest known for his no-nonsense honesty and distinguished service as a military chaplain. Trejos had a shipment of holy bread for Orlandi. He entered the rectory, the priest's residence, through the back door, intending to simply deposit the box on the kitchen counter. But he unknowingly interrupted Orlandi, who was hearing confession from a parishioner.
The priest shouted at him. Trejos snapped back. The two argued that day, but their relationship didn't end there. Trejos ended up joining the legions of loyal Catholics who attend St. Michael every week, some from outside the county, just to celebrate Mass with the Italian-born priest, who is adored for his down-to-earth personality and a blunt speaking style peppered with the occasional profanity.
But last Sunday, after 18 years of leading the downtown parish, Orlandi said his last Mass there. The diocese is turning over the church and its sister parish, St. Gerard of Majella, to a Florham Park order of priests, the Society of Divine Vocations. "He's more like my father, my confidante," lamented Trejos, his voice shaky after the Mass. "I'm praying to God he'll come back." Paterson resident Don Rizzo stood in a long line that Sunday to hug his priest farewell. "It's the end of an era," he said. "He was a magnet for people to come downtown."
Some parishioners were unwilling to let go of Orlandi so easily. A group started a petition campaign to the bishop, but Orlandi insisted on following orders. "Whatever the general says, it gets done," he said, slipping into military-speak, as he often does when talking about the priesthood. Before being reassigned within the diocese, Orlandi will take a year-long sabbatical to study in Rome, hoping to complete coursework he started toward a Ph.D. in theology. During his time away, he'll recharge his batteries, he says, immersing himself in the writings of such great Catholic thinkers as St. Augustine and St. Irenaeus.
The replenishing time is crucial for a priest, he says, because much of the job is pouring himself out for others. "When the well runs dry," he says, "we can't give out." Carlos Trejos's experience illustrates the way Orlandi works with parishioners. Lingering in the empty parish parking lot after services ended on that final Sunday, Trejos explained how Orlandi was always there for him, to hear his problems. "After I talk to him, I feel like a feather," Trejos said. "A lot of priests don't do that. They just say what you want to hear, so you'll go away." Trejos leaned on Orlandi during his painful divorce. And he's among the many who are regulars at Orlandi's kitchen table, enjoying a cup of espresso, freshly brewed by the priest.
Two autumns ago, when Orlandi returned to his parish after a year as a military chaplain in Afghanistan and Iraq, he had trouble giving to his flock. "Having dealt with the trauma of war for 12 months, some of the things people were upset about, it was bull----. In the scheme of things, it was nonsense."
His patience during that period was nonexistent. He found himself snapping at people: "I was very quick with them." Driving to visit a parishioner at the hospital once, a driver cut him off, and, in a panic, he swerved across a lawn. Loud sounds rattled him.
He was watching fireworks with a friend one evening when the friend, sensing jitteriness, turned to him and said, "Joseph, nobody is shooting at you."
Orlandi recognized his symptoms as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), the anxiety disorder affecting thousands of soldiers after extended exposure to the violence and stress of war. A shortage of Army chaplains, particularly Roman Catholic priests, has left many chaplains overworked and suffering stress disorders, The New York Times reported in May.
After consulting with the bishop, Arthur Serratelli, Orlandi called the Veterans Administration hospital in East Orange and signed up for weekly therapy sessions. "I had to deal with what I experienced, not as a priest but as a soldier," he says. During a year of counseling, he recalled his intense tour of duty: the weight of his uniform, which often included 70 pounds of body armor; the pounding sandstorms; the intense heat; stumbling to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
Abroad, he was nicknamed the "flying priest" because he boarded helicopters that whisked him to remote outposts where he held Catholic Mass -- sometimes for just a handful of soldiers. One time he held Mass atop a Humvee for a group of appreciative soldiers. "They were hungry for God's word," he recalls. At Bagram Airbase in Afghanistan, he recalled the base's only paved road, called "Disney Lane," a place where he cried. A marine had died at Kandahar. He did not know the solider, but as he stood at attention along the roadside, as the marine's red-white-and-blue-draped casket rolled down "Disney Lane," his tears fell. A colonel turned to see if Orlandi was all right. "I said, 'Please, shut up. Let me be in pain.'"
He spent an intense week counseling a unit that had experienced two suicides, one after the other. Afterward, back on the base, he turned to other chaplains to describe his experience. "It's very painful," he said. "When a solider dies, part of you dies." But, ultimately, his tour of duty strengthened his faith. "My faith in God is unshakable," he says. "You are really in God's hands when you get shot at."
Time has helped him to heal. So has talking through the experience in therapy. He's learned to slow down and set aside time for himself. He learned not to overbook his weekly calendar and sometimes say to parishioners, "Today is not a good day for me to talk to you, so come back tomorrow." On his final Sunday, Orlandi performed four baptisms, one of his favorite priestly duties. As the babies' crying echoed up to the church's painted dome ceilings, he reminded his congregation that "We are people of God, people of forgiveness" and suggested they "slow down and enjoy the words you are praying. That's the only way we can bring about God's kingdom."
One family huddled around a white marble christening font. Orlandi sprinkled water on a tiny infant's head, matting down the child's hair with a crisp white towel. The family took flash pictures with the fervor of paparazzi. And Orlandi leaned in to kiss the infant's soft cheek.