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Remembering Cardinal O'Connor | page 1, 2
During his first four years in office, he held a news conference virtually every Sunday morning after the 11 o'clock Mass at St. Patrick's. Still in his ecclesiastical garb, he'd comment on the issues of the day, from peace talks in Northern Ireland to the sex curriculum in the city's public schools. Once, he invited my wife and me for lunch at the chancery, the office of the archbishop on First Avenue. The meal, served on paper plates, was strictly kosher. When our first child was born, he sent a bouquet of flowers to the bris ceremony with a note that said, "Welcome to the world, Adam Goldman." My relationship with O'Connor suddenly turned sour after I published a somewhat unflattering profile of him in the Times magazine. I wrote that during the 1984 presidential campaign, he viciously attacked Rep. Geraldine Ferraro (then running for vice president on the Democratic ticket headed by Vice President Walter Mondale) for her position on abortion. Ferraro, a Catholic, had, some years earlier, signed a letter by a group called Catholics for a Free Choice, that said "there is a diversity of Catholic opinion on abortion." "There is no diversity," O'Connor roared, "there is only one Catholic opinion on abortion. Abortion is the taking of a life." O'Connor maintained that he was not attacking anyone, just stating Catholic doctrine. After that article appeared, he cut me off. He was still a phone call away, but suddenly he wasn't taking my calls. The blackout lasted six months. When I repeated my version of the Ferraro story and his reaction to it in my 1991 book, "The Search for God at Harvard," O'Connor's lawyer sent a letter to my publisher threatening a lawsuit. And so, in 1995, two years after I left the Times, I was surprised that O'Connor still kept track of me, let alone my mother. I'm sure the medical director and the staff of Calvary are wonderful to everyone, but we felt especially blessed and protected by the cardinal's intervention. I wanted to thank him, so I called the cardinal's office. I reached his priest/secretary, Monsignor James McCarthy. "How did you know?" I asked the monsignor. "We just know," he said omnisciently. McCarthy added that the archbishop would do his best to stop by to visit my mother on his next visit to the area. I wanted to tell him that that was a terrible idea; my mother wasn't much of an ecumenist. Seeing a cardinal in his collar and pectoral cross could set her back even further. But, out of respect, I held my tongue, just hoping the cardinal had the good sense not to visit. That was in January 1995. In April, my mother passed away. A few days later, I got a letter of condolence from the cardinal. This week, after hearing of the cardinal's passing, I pulled out the letter and read it once again. "I regret I was unable to have had the opportunity to visit her in Calvary and to assure her and your family of my prayerful support," he wrote. On some level, I suppose he knew it was not a good idea. Then the cardinal continued: "May He, who is the Author and Giver of Life, be the source of your own hope and consolation ... may she rest in the bosom of Abraham." I now feel compelled to wish him the same.
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