Mount Calvary Retreat House & Monastery, Santa Barbara, CA
Homily for the Funeral of Br. Bernard Van Waes, OHC
by Br. Robert Sevensky, OHC, Superior of the Order of the Holy Cross
Monday 14 July 2008
Henry Anton Bernhard Gaedke
Anton Henry Carter
Carter Van Waes
Br. Bernard
These are the four names by which our departed brother and friend was known. And though those of us gathered here today knew him only by the last two, all four names made him the man he was, were part and parcel of his story, his journey. No doubt there were other names as well…a family diminutive, possibly, or various nicknames given by friends or brothers. I know at least one former Superior of the Order of the Holy Cross who referred to him lovingly as Bern-tooth. Others of us just called him The Bern. He himself was endlessly creative in bestowing such names on friend and foe alike. Alas, I never found out if he had one for me. But afterwards, I’d be happy to share with you some of his choicer creations.
Why so many names?
Perhaps because our Br. Bernard’s whole life can be understood as the search for his true name, his true identity…and the same might be said of all of us.
Henry Anton Bernhard Gaedke was born in 1921 in Flint Michigan to Maria Bachmann, a young German immigrant who in 1901 came with her parents to the United States, and to Edward Gaedke, a traveling salesman. The story is not unusual: the father disappears and the young mother, feeling trapped and overwhelmed by poverty and desperation, leaves young Henry to be raised by her parents, an immigrant couple who ran a bakery in Chicago. Her visits home become less and less frequent over the difficult years of the Depression, as these grandparents, though themselves desperately poor, offer Henry a home. Whatever their limitations, they instill in their grandson two great values…a Teutonic love of order and an appreciation for education, something that they had little opportunity for in their native land. School and work were the twin poles of the boy’s life.
After high school, young Henry worked in his family bakery and in a bookbindery. But already a love of learning and a yearning for something different, something more, had taken hold. Henry dreamed big dreams for himself, dreams that went beyond the ability of his grandparents to provide. Listen to his description of this period as related in his application to join the Order of the Holy Cross:
Further education was out of the question, and so I worked in a bakery twelve hours a day, six days a week. My one day of leisure, after Church, was spent in Museums, Art galleries and musical events, for—somehow I felt the keen desire to go on. I became an avid reader—anything seemed to capture my fancy, but, in particular, volumes on Philosophy, history, and theology. Most of these were completely beyond my ability to read, let alone absorb. Nevertheless, I carried them with me on the bus to and from work—even to church, when on occasion I opened a book when the sermon, too, became incomprehensible.
This established a ‘pattern’—the love of books and what they revealed led me to include in my itinerary of museums, etc., a college campus. I liked to think of myself as a student as I walked the paths and building of the University of Chicago. My interests soon focused on ancient Egypt and my ambition was to one day be an Orientalist specializing in Egyptology. The one outstanding man of that field at the time was Professor James Henry Breasted, head of the Oriental Institute at the University. I was determined to see this great man. With the impetuousness of youth, and being ‘armed’ with the whole armour of grit I presented myself for an audience with the sage and dean of Egyptologists. My complete lack of tact and/or reverence for protocol must have taken all by surprise and I was humored and ushered into the great man’s presence. He was kind, affable, and listened to my plans to one day be his successor. I recall only one small part of that conversation: Dr. Breasted said, “The field is already overcrowded.” My replay was: “But, sir, there’s always room for one more good man, isn’t there?” He smiled benignly, patted my head and replied, “To be sure.”
Yes, there is always room for one more good man…but unfortunately not for Henry, not in Chicago, not then.
So he did what many young men did who sought a way up and out. He enlisted in the Navy in August 1941, under the name Anton Henry Carter. We know of course what happened only a few months later on December 7, 1941. And for the next six years, Anton was thrust into the belly of the beast that was World War Two in the Pacific Theater. He served with great valor, receiving the right to wear countless battle ribbons and serving in the very critical position of Chief Signalman.
Much happened during these fateful years. I mention but two significant events.
The first was an event of deep loss and trauma. On the Feast of the Epiphany, January 6, 1945, a Kamikaze pilot crashed into Anton’s ship, The USS New Mexico. Anton lived, but over a hundred of his mates died in the horrible wreckage that surrounded him, burned alive, mangled, obliterated. These included Anton’s best friend, a Marine named Bill. Shell shock, battle fatigue, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder—call it what you will—the loss was overwhelming, the wounds deep. Anton was left with that most haunting of human questions: “Why did I survive while all my friends perished? What does this mean? Who am I?” It was a question that was to mark him, resurfacing year after year. Only now can we see how rich and incredibly brave and creative was his response to this event. Whatever the wounds, whatever the long-term consequences, he was never defeated by them.
The second event is happier. Anton’s grandparents both died within six months of his enlistment into the Navy. He was essentially left without a family. But a family was provided for him nonetheless through his great good fortune in meeting up with Robert Van Waes, a fellow seaman and dear friend from Illinois. Bob along with Bob’s parents and later Bob’s wife Barbara became Anton’s surrogate family, a reality Anton acknowledged by legally changing his name to Carter Van Waes. We are honored to have his namesake, Bob’s son, Carter Van Waes, here with us today.
So it is now Carter Van Waes who, after his naval discharge moves to Boston and attends Boston University to begin the undergraduate education so long desired and delayed, only to have it interrupted by recall to further active service in the Navy during the Korean conflict. Again, with single-minded service and focus, Carter served his country and then returned to Boston to complete his bachelor’s degree. It was also during this time that he came to know the Episcopal Church in Cambridge, MA and felt called to the ordained ministry. Attendance at CDSP in Berkeley, CA; a pastoral position in Alaska; ordination there; parish ministries in the San Francisco Bay Area; a falling out with the Bishop; a move to Texas; further pastoral work in parish and military base there; a Masters degree in Literature and History from the University of Texas; work as a teacher…and always, always that old question: “Why did I survive? Who am I? What now?”
It is from this question that his fourth name--Br. Bernard--emerges. He was at one of those points in life—we have all had them—when while experiencing a certain desperation, a certain profound dissatisfaction with the status quo, that he remembered his visits here to Mount Calvary Retreat House during his seminary days. He remembered the peace he experienced here. And then…well let him describe it.
When I had finally ‘come to myself’ I discovered, quite by accident (or WAS IT?), a copy of the Holy Cross magazine issue for the summer of 1973. I flipped open to page five, which pictures Novice Fr. Roy Parker quietly pondering his Hebrew studies. I do not wish to be either dramatic or equate this with Paul’s experience on the road to Damascus—however, at that moment my years of desperation and search for my real vocation were ended—and I literally said: “This is where God wants me.” I will not belabor the point.
Nor will I… other than to concur that it was where God wanted him.
These years as a monk were fruitful years and as well as years of struggle. That is the nature of monastic life, maybe of all life. They were years of scholarship and of hard manual work in kitchen and sacristy. Years of spiritual direction and companionship and the daily round of worship. Years of health crises and sometimes emotional crises. Years marked by a fascination with and deep appreciation of the genius of Trappist monk Thomas Merton. Years of art--watercolors and sketches--and breathtakingly beautiful Japanese style flower arrangements appearing as if by magic in the chapel long before the dawn service. Years of gingerbread houses at Christmas and exotic cookies and always, always a wonderfully wry sense of humor, summarized by his favorite needlepoint pillow that says, simply, “Bah, humbug.”
What an amazing man!
It strikes me now that as the years went by, his name got simpler: from Henry Anton Bernhard Gaedke to Anton Henry Carter to Carter Van Waes to simply Bernard. And as his name got simpler, so did he. Those of us who shared the privilege of being with him in the last six months of his life saw a transformation take place that was profound, a simplification, a transparency that was unmistakable. Maybe it was those clear blue eyes or that warm smile. But as he decreased physically, he increased spiritually in peace, joy, trust, honesty. He was at the end the monk he had always hoped to be. It was a gift to know him, a gift to us all.
There is a mysterious passage in the Book of Revelation that says:
“To anyone who is victorious I will give some of the hidden manna; I will also give him a white stone, and on it will be written a new name, known only to the one who receives it.” (2:17)
A white stone with a new name, our true name, written on it.
Bernard now has that white stone. He finally knows his true name, the name written from all eternity at the heart of God.
I pray that he’s there when you and I get our white stones as well. When we, with him, with all God’s children, discover our true name, our true and everlasting identity as sons and daughters of the Most High.
What a happy, what a holy, what a joyous day that will be!
No more “Bah humbug” then! This finally will be the real thing.
Amen.
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