He was one of the good ones. Most were. Most of them, while admittedly sinners, cleaved unto the rock of faith, honored the vow of celibacy, and took with seriousness the role of emissaries of God. But the dark transgressions and culture of concealment that occurred during Father Jack Topper’s unblemished career can’t go unmentioned, even in a piece celebrating his life.
I never saw anything, heard anything remotely like what would be revealed. The revelations were awful, and inextricably shook the Catholic Church. And yet I found my way back, I didn’t ultimately abandon the faith, would, in my mind, stay and “fight the good fight” for Jesus.
The overarching theme of my relationship as volunteer and churchgoer with Father Topper was a theme of return. After a strong Catholic upbringing in the 1950s and 60s, I spent 20 years in a semi-lapsed wilderness, becoming in those years something of a libertine “hippie,” then a Goth hard-rocker, and Christmas-Easter-wedding-funeral Catholic. When I made the decision, influenced by a visit to Portland’s Grotto, to become a practicing Catholic again, it was Father Jack—then Executive Director at the shrine—who played a major role. The path was exciting under his guidance. He reminded me of the “old school” priests I’d come to know in the catechism classes and Catholic schools of my youth.
On the first Sunday after I agreed to serve as a Hospitality Minister, aka usher—for an outdoor Mass on a hot summer day, I came dressed in short pants. That was a mistake. Father Jack came up after Mass and said, “We don’t wear shorts when serving the Mass.”
Thus followed more than a decade volunteering at the Grotto for events and services—with Father Jack always somewhere nearby. If they needed a “disciple” for the Holy Thursday foot-washing ceremony (Maundy) I was there. I recall serving two packed Christmas Eve Masses one year, overdoing it and coming down with the flu. One rainy December night I was tabbed for the parking detail for the annual Festival of Lights, an exhausting gig that has since been “privatized” to a professional company. When I got home late and plopped down on the couch, there was Father Jack on the 11 o’clock news, guiding festivalgoers across a crosswalk, saying, “I’m getting too old for this.”
When outgoing and friendly Father Alvin Cabacang died suddenly and young in 2017, Father Jack delivered the eulogy. For all his often brusque and efficient executive style, there was nary a dry eye in the Chapel of Mary.
The culmination of this relationship came when I learned in a discussion group that Father Jack, who retired in 2017, had passed away. On the dates of April 22-23, I attended a Visitation Service and Funeral Mass at the Grotto. As I approached the chapel, I saw a hearse backed up to the front doors, and inside, Father Jack, lying in a simple oaken casket. It was solemn; many friends who knew this beloved priest were reunited.
At the funeral Mass, while still solemn, there was a joyful aspect. Father Jack’s casket was closed now, and the assembled choir sang beautifully. Father Eugene, a revered priest who once served at the Grotto, had flown in from Chicago to deliver a eulogy filled with great stories and reminiscences. Everybody I’ve talked to since Father Jack’s death has stories to tell.
Father Jack was buried in the Grotto’s Servite Cemetery that afternoon. He was there to welcome me back into the church, and what a welcome it was. Bless you, Father Jack.