
chocolate ice-creams, a friend’s face, a lover’s touch, as metaphors
for the divine. It was the richness of this world and the power of the
stories, he wrote, that persuaded Catholics to stay in the church when
they couldn’t take the nitpicking rules any more. They stayed on their
own terms. And they read his books—making him a rich man, with a condo
in the John Hancock building, and giving him both on paper and online
a parish after all.
For God loved him, Andrew Greeley, loved him with all his stupidities,
his blunderings, his spitefulness, his spiritual sloppiness; his
inability ever to forgive a bad review, his failure to achieve
anything before ten o’clock in the morning, his unblinking belief that
the Bears and the Bulls (Miserere eis, Domine!) would win this season.
All of it. God—whom he often called “She”, partly to stir up trouble,
partly for the soundest theological reasons, since all opposites were
resolved in Him or Her—loved him and all created beings with the
passion of a lover, that can’t-live-without-you ecstasy. And couldn’t
stop now, or ever.
- The Economist, obituary for Andrew Greely
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