By Jake Teitgen ‘08

One of my best friends died last year. He was a Catholic priest in Indiana named Father John Zahn.

I remember approaching the casket at his visitation. There’s an eeriness to an open casket that’s always made me uncomfortable, but I remembered a conversation with Father John years before in which he defended the practice. He said that seeing someone’s body one last time provides a measure of closure for the grieving. And so I knelt in front of the body of my friend and sought the peace with which he so often blessed us.

His skin was caked with make-up and there was no hacking cough from years of smoking, but, undoubtedly, this was the same man I had long-admired and so frequently laughed with. He was the same, but different—his body was there, but his soulful spark had moved on. Even in death, his body allowed me to be near him, if only to mourn.

Father John spent much of his life and ministry connecting with teenagers in youth ministry programs and was endeared because he was so authentic and honest. His style of ministry was to invest his whole self into the lives of his students. He would wear their colors at their sporting events and share colorful conversation after Sunday Mass.

In youth ministry, a person can accumulate accolades, years of experience, and respect from students, but none of that helps when a freshman walks in. Every year, there will be new students who don’t care one lick about past achievements. The ministers who make it in this field can handle having to prove themselves to young people over and over again. Father John thrived at this because he, a priest in his 70s, was willing to be humiliated by 16-year-old students.

I saw Father John prodded, teased, drenched, and even picked up by our students. We once spent two weeks trying to talk him into dressing in costume as a genie for the Arabian Nights prom dinner we were hosting for high school students. He really didn’t want to, but, when those kids showed up, he shoved his dignity aside and painted himself blue for the dessert course.

By a far margin, students poked the most fun at Father John’s height. The man was short! When seventh grade girls grew taller than him, they were sure to let him know. On more than one occasion, his belongings were hung from the top of the door—just out of his reach. Before you conclude that these antics directed at an elderly priest sound cruel, know that Father John could dish it out as well.

More importantly, though, when tragedy struck or honest questions about life and faith rose to the surface, students turned to Father John first. His willingness to disarm himself made him trustworthy. Students knew that the priest who was approachable with jokes about being short must also be approachable with real life.

The day of his funeral, I saw hundreds say their goodbyes to Father John Zahn in a towering cathedral, and each was welcomed to kneel at his side and honor his body as a vessel for grace. Some held his hand; others poked fun at the pygmy coffin; still others just stared and cried. All, however, were invited. And all were blessed with yet another gift of self from Father John.