The gifts of Father Gus
1 Kgs 3:5, 7-12; Ps 119:57, 72, 76-77, 127-128, 129-130; Rom 8:28-30; Mt 13:44-52
The Mundelein Seminary community recently lost one of its most beloved members, Father Gus Belauskas. For more than 50 years, Father Gus was directly involved with the formation of future priests as a professor, spiritual director, formation mentor and spiritual father.
Insofar as a priest is meant to be a “pontifex,” a bridge to help lead others to Christ, Father Gus beautifully embraced that vocation. With a famously calm, steady demeanor, he could put the most anxious student or parishioner at ease with a self-effacing smile and a gentle word of encouragement.
Of his myriad gifts that I could mention, one in particular stands out to me.
Several times every year the seminary welcomes men who are seriously discerning a vocation to the priesthood. These “Come and See” weekends are often the first look any of them have of the inner workings of seminary life.
Many are nervous and wondering why they decided to take this step. Could God really be calling them? Maybe it was all a mistake?
As the old saying goes, you never get a second chance to make a first impression. For several decades, the first impression of priestly formation that these men had was Father Gus. He would faithfully greet them on Friday evening in the house chapel and lead them in night prayer.
In place of the breviary’s night prayer Scripture reading, Father Gus would read a Gospel passage that he had carefully chosen for this unique occasion. He read the same passage year after year: the parables of the buried treasure and the pearl of great price that we hear this Sunday.
Without explicitly spelling it out, he was inviting them to look past the confusion or anxiety that might have been swirling within them; to filter out the lies and words of discouragement or doubt that might have been echoing in their minds. He was inviting them to imagine that perhaps that hint, suggestion or growing desire in their hearts was indeed a great treasure or priceless pearl.
He would also share phrases from the walls of various campus chapels: “the love Christ compels us,” “go out into the deep” and “be not afraid.”
No guarantees, no pressure, no blueprint to follow; just a gentle, but confident, encouragement to engage in real discernment: don’t get caught up in posters, memes, videos or podcasts. Just slow down and listen for the voice of God in prayer.
I’ve never known anyone as adept at helping another’s heart become receptive to God’s word.
Because of Father Gus’ welcome, those weekends have proven incredibly fruitful over the years. For all the right reasons, many men proceeded to enter the seminary and many others realized that God was calling them to another vocation.
Through Father Gus’ life and ministry, I saw that these parables don’t just sound hopeful, they actually look like something in every person’s life. For the men who made the decision to attend a “Come and See” weekend, they had already crossed a threshold to deliberately and patiently take the time to look at the nascent treasure or pearl that was forming in their hearts.
The key elements were their intentional focus plus the prompting of a wise guide. The presence of the “treasure” is certain, because it’s not a thing to be possessed. It is a voice to be received and followed: the ever-present (if not ever-heard) voice of God.
What is your treasured voice saying? Do you have an inkling or a suspicion to be tested in prayer? Like a pearl it may be growing slowly, layer by layer. Whom do you need to seek out to help you know where to look?
Furthermore, for whom might God be prodding you to serve as the treasure spotter? We all have the capacity to share this “Gus gift” with others; to help them hear what we perceive God offering to them, when they are too distracted or frightened to notice on their own.
I am particularly grateful to Father Gus for sharing his gift with me on a bleak autumn Friday evening in 1996 — a confused seeker on a strange campus who was trying far too hard to hear God’s voice.