This month marks the 30th anniversary of what possibly counts as the most important personal decision I have ever made. This decision was to break with the structures that had previously ruled my whole adult life.

On a February day in 1975, I signed official papers from Rome, releasing me from the Jesuit society and the Catholic priesthood. At age 47, I faced the world for the first time as an independent adult without the intimate support of the religious family that I had joined a quarter century before.

A few year later, an ecclesiastical iron curtain shut down against priests applying for church approval of their release, part of a new policy of Pope John Paul II to keep clergy from leaving. I had escaped in time.

As I walked down Boston’s Commonwealth Avenue that morning, I felt as if I had taken myself back and reclaimed the freedom I had willingly surrendered at the end of adolescence. It may have been winter outside, but for me the season of spring had emerged interiorly. I was taking on a new stance toward the world, and the prospect excited me.

One night, twenty years earlier, I had dreamed of leaving the Jesuit Society, only to wake up in a sweat and discover with relief that it was not true; now it had become true, but I no longer felt any terror in it. Some apprehension about my being on my own, yes, but I also felt a strong admixture of relief and anticipation. Leaving would not be a horrible, irredeemable mistake as it had been in the dream, but a deliberate action that I had taken and would not regret.

No longer was anyone around who would protect me; from now on, I was responsible for myself as I had never been before. But that was part of the adventure of setting out in middle age toward an unknown future in the world.

Thirty years later, people still ask me why I left. In response, I tell these questioners there are two explanations. The first takes hundreds of pages, the other only two words. These words are: “I changed.”

Of course, this shorthand version merely hints at the countless events, outer and inner, that transformed me as an individual and the church to which I belonged. Incidentally, my leaving the priesthood and the Jesuits did not involve leaving the church, contrary to what many people have assumed.

In later life, I continue to place great value on the spiritual tradition into which I was born. However, I do confess disagreeing with authority in the Catholic Church seriously enough to be glad that I have not had to represent it officially during these last thirty years.

Strangely enough, at the time of leaving I felt greater admiration for the Jesuits than I had for many years previously. To me they remained members of an organization that had shown remarkable courage in making radical changes following the lead of the Second Vatican Council in the middle 1960s.

In leaving their ranks, I did not have to slink away under cover of night. Despite walking away from them, I retained the friendship of many of my former colleagues and have always welcomed further association with them.

Looking back from the vantage point of these thirty years, I feel my decision was appropriate, perhaps even wise. I wanted to change the angle by which I looked upon the world, and that has proven of much value. Greatest among the gifts that leaving made possible have been marriage and parenthood, of course, for which I feel highly privileged and deeply grateful.

In much of my first career, I would have scrupled to leave. Certain biblical texts ran through my mind from time to time, especially the saying of Jesus about the man who put his hand to the plow and then abandoned it. The Lord called such persons “unworthy,” a label that I shuddered to have applied to me.

I also thought about the promises Jesus made to disciples who left everything to follow him. Had I, by turning away from the call, forfeited the reward in heaven that had helped motivate me to leave home in the first place?

Fortunately I came to feel liberated from detached, literal readings of scripture, enough so as to reject these misgivings. The personal, unconditional love that I had become convinced God felt for me was enough to overcome these negative thoughts before they could become scruples.

This latter conviction became the ultimate reason for the freedom that enabled me to leave. I had made a theological and spiritual discovery that proved powerfully liberating. God’s love was active in my life, I came to see; and it enabled me to follow where my heart led.

Looking back over three decades, I see my first vocation as good and providential; similarly, I judge my life since then as a time of grace and blessings.

Richard Griffin

Is it possible to be in your nineties and at the same time be happy? Contact with two dynamic ladies born in 1913 has convinced me that it is.

Best of friends, Helen Grimes and Marcia Kleinman vie with one another in their zest for life. In a conversation of an hour and a half, it’s difficult to keep up with this duo. They bubble over with enthusiasm for almost everyone and everything.

Though both dating from the Wilson administration, they grew up quite differently. Helen’s family was Irish Catholic in Cambridge; Marcia’s was Jewish in New York. The latter’s father owned a window factory in Brooklyn and was affluent, while Helen’s family had little money.

Helen’s education came through the contacts she had with the families she served as a domestic. Marcia had the advantage of graduating from New York University to which she commuted by train.

Both have strong political views, neither cherishing any love for George W. Bush and his regime. Marcia’s political consciousness developed through her post-college work for the American Jewish Congress. She felt radicalized by seeing signs “No Hebrews may apply” and experiencing other forms of discrimination.

For her part, Helen would ultimately rebel against her inherited faith. “That Irish Catholic stuff was pushed down your throat,” she explains. She left the church in her 40s, in part because “I didn’t believe in heaven or hell.” Now, along with her daughter Dot Harrigan, she considers herself a Humanist, rather than a Christian.

Marcia’s evolution differs from that of her friend. “I’m Jewish,” she says, “but I’m ecumenical.” She takes great delight in having wide ethnic and religious variety in her extended family. Among the latter, she mentions a great-grandson whose name is Gabriel Wong.

Helen traces her intellectual development back to a single book that continues to inspire her thinking. That book is Will Durant’s “The Story of Philosophy,” first suggested to her by a Yankee woman in whose household Helen worked as a mother’s helper.

Both women feel devoted to the Cambridge Center for Adult Education where they have been involved for decades. In the spirit of adventure, they take a variety of courses.

Helen laughingly tells of taking a life drawing class and sketching a nude male model. “I did down as far as possible,” she recalls, “and up as far as possible, but I didn’t do possible.”

Not surprisingly, both women draw much of their vitality from contact with younger generations. Of the wives chosen by her two boys, Marcia says: “I fell in love with my daughters-in-law.” As to those different from herself, she boasts: “I call myself the best ecumenical specimen in captivity.”

But don’t let the buoyancy of these women fool you─both have known heartache and disappointment. Helen lost her own mother when she was only eleven. And one of her daughters died of alcoholism at the age of 53.

Marcia’s first marriage ended in divorce when her first son was only two-and-a-half. “At that time,” she observes, “divorce was looked down on.” And she lost a wonderful sister at age 39.

At one point the ladies turned to this writer, asking me to explain why some people have long lives. Clearly, they were addressing the question to the wrong person. They have the answer themselves.

Helen Metros, another woman who recently shared with me her experience of life, says: “I never have time to be sick; I’ve missed but one day of work in seven years.”

Since the mid twentieth century, she has worked at two Harvard Sq    uare restaurants, finding satisfaction in waiting upon many different people, some of them famous. Among the latter she counts John Kennedy, Fidel Castro, Clement Attlee, George W. Bush (in his Harvard Business School days), Tip O’Neill, David Pryor, and Ben Affleck.

“To me they’re not big names; they come in and I wait on them,” she explains. What does count, Helen expresses in a favorite slogan: “It’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice.”

Like the other Helen, she grew up in South Boston in an Irish Catholic family. In the 1930s there, she says, everyone was poor but doors were never locked and no one went hungry.

Her husband, now retired, comes from the Greek Orthodox tradition. For worship, they are accustomed to go to both Catholic and the Orthodox churches. “That’s part of marriage,” Helen believes, “you incorporate what you have.” Her religious spirit shows in other ways: “I know I have God with me all the time,” she says.

She derives warm satisfaction from a party she gives every year for 50 of the oldest and neediest people around. Also, she sponsors an annual concert at Children’s Hospital.

These activities make her feel happy. So do her family relationships. “I love to be with my grandchildren,” she enthuses. Of her spouse she says: “He’s a good husband, father, grandfather. How can you ask for anything more in life?”

Richard Griffin

One day, when I worked at our local Council on Aging, a veteran Harvard professor of my acquaintance came into the office and registered for one of our discount programs. His doing so surprised me at the time and, frankly, shocked me as well.

Of course, I did not let these moralistic emotions show on my face, but I did wonder how a well-paid professional could justify receiving reductions in taxi fares and in certain store purchases simply because he was past 60 years old. The incident drove me to question whether it was right to make such benefits available to everybody of a certain age, even Ross Perot, George Soros, or other billionaires.

Long ago, however, I gave up such scruples and recognized that wealthy older people belong to a relatively small minority, most of whom do not care about discounts. For the rest of us, discounts are important to our financial well-being and we have no problem claiming them.

Many elders have precious few savings and little available cash;  discounts are a vital help to their finances. If those who are dependant on public transportation, for instance, had to pay the full fare on MBTA buses and trains, the expense would be a genuine hardship.

My friend Hugh, an 80-plus veteran of World War II, may be regarded as typical. When asked how he feels about discounts, he fires off this response: “I love them.”  

Also, young and middle-aged Americans seem readily to accept these benefits for their elders. Whenever I go to the movies, I am impressed by how cheerfully I am accorded my cut-rate tickets.  (I do confess cringing, however, when the ticket seller asks if I am an adult or not.)

This leads me to think that our society at large believes that our breaks are appropriate. And this kind of social solidarity between age groups, I am persuaded, is good for our national community

I have also consulted a professional economist, asking him how he and his colleagues look at this subject. He uses the technical term “price discrimination” to explain a factor that, ideally at least, works to increase revenues.

Economists are not often associated with warm and fuzzy feelings. In this instance, however, they help make me feel reassured about claiming discounts. I am aiding businesses to do both good and well. We discount hunters help make the world go round.

Many of us elders would presumably not go to the movies at all, or as often, unless we could count on discounted tickets. Nor might we buy a new sweater or a new dress at a certain store without the incentive of a lower price given because of our age.

Colleges and universities commonly offer elders access to courses for much reduced tuition. Here, too, it may be in the educational institution’s interest to do so for a double reason. They find it good to help in the education of older people. And, besides, the classroom seats might otherwise go vacant.   

Beyond this discussion of meaning, I want to make two practical points: first, discounts are much more widely available than most of us realize; and second, to receive many of the discounts, you have to ask. Many companies and agencies do not broadcast their availability.

One Internet site I have consulted (www.seniordiscount.com) announces breathlessly: “Now over 150,000 discounts for folks over 50!” This serves not only to indicate the huge numbers of discounts available; it also reminds us that some of these benefits begin at an earlier age than we think.

The same site lists 22 different categories of goods and services for which discounts are available. It is hard to think of a type of business that does not provide these perks.

If you are like me, you will be surprised at the range of rake-offs and other special breaks. For example, one hotel in my urban community will not only give you a discount in your own room rate, but will extend it to other people who are traveling with you, even if they are not of your mature age.

Besides hotels, others give discounts that might not occur to you. Some public libraries, for example, will waive fines on overdue books. Car dealers will often give discounts on non-routine work. Newspaper subscriptions are frequently lower for elders, and cable companies may have lower rates for those over a certain age.

To my surprise, certain food stores give discounts, often larger on a given day of the week. Large chain stores selling all sorts of merchandise provide bargains for older customers. Barbers and hairdressers are wont to do the same.

If you have access to the Internet, you will find that the fabulous site mentioned earlier (www.seniordiscounts.com) features abundant listings by cities and towns all across the U.S. Also, some Councils on Aging have lists with names of local businesses and other agencies that have agreed to offer discounts.

But the best rule of thumb remains: ask.

Richard Griffin

“Wipe that smirk off your face!”  This shocking command came from my new English teacher in senior year of high school. It was a rude introduction to Father Francis Desmond who had joined the faculty that year to teach English to me and the twenty other boys in my class.

This rebuke hit with special force because it came from a man who was not only a teacher but also a priest. Almost 60 years later, I still remember the sting of that authority’s angry rebuke, a charge that felt like a slap in my face. If I had been smirking, I was unaware of it.

My recollection has taken inspiration from a short essay in which Robert Coles, the now-retired Harvard psychiatrist, recalls an experience that he had in the fifth grade of a Boston grammar school. The essay, “Here and Now We Are Walking Together,” appears in the newly published Best American Spiritual Writing 2004, and portrays his teacher as a formidable authority.

He still finds value in Miss Avery’s lesson: “We should pay attention to others, as well as ourselves.” This moral trumped the fear he felt in the presence of his teacher, who wielded her ruler like a rod of iron, sometimes slamming it on the desks of her students.

Fortunately, I soon discovered the softer side of my teacher. Even as an adolescent not brimming with self-confidence, I had the good sense to approach Father Desmond after class to plead innocence. In the face of my protest, he backed down and seemed to recognize his mistake.

Only a few weeks later, he and I had become friends and, in company with two or three fellow students, spent much time together. Our friendship, however, was not built only on compatibility; we soon discovered another bond – conspiracy. In league with Father Desmond, we became conspirators against the school’s administrators.

He would feed us inside information about the deviousness of the headmaster and his chief faculty assistant, people whose policies we disapproved. Our chief complaint was the way they overemphasized sports to the detriment of academic standards.

If this makes me and my co-conspirators seem, not mere rebels but also adolescent snots, that impression is not altogether incorrect. But, because of having a faculty ally, our small band of students had power that transcended our tender years.

The closest the headmaster, a monsignor, ever came to recognizing our rebellion happened one day when I was on the field in my baseball uniform. He sidled over to me and said: “Griffin, you are getting too big for your britches,” exact words that still reside in my head, some six decades later. The headmaster did not dare specify what he meant but he did not have to.

I feel thankful for these memories from adolescence and often ponder their meaning. This activity of memory and meaning seems to me beautifully appropriate for later life. In this connection I value the words of Sven Birkerts written in the Boston University publication Bostonia in 2002.

“Those of us lucky to live long enough, I now believe, discover that we have two lives: the original life, in which we first encounter the world, register the powerful shaping forces of family and our various relationships−loves, friendships, and antagonisms−and have the experiences that pattern us for later events; then the second life, the main work of which is to distill and absorb the meanings of the first.”

So here I am again, trying to distill and absorb the meanings of my first and original life. This activity always proves valuable as part of the ongoing drama of self- discovery. Though often played out on a small stage, this drama reveals large implications for the great search.

About the incidents portrayed here, I can draw from them personal characteristics that remain in late life. Skepticism about authority runs through my years, except for a period in which I became excessively pious.

I now regret that time of lapsing from my native doubting about those who hold power. It was a kind of abdication of my native reluctance to accept what others say or do when they have authority over me. An attitude of critical appraisal belongs to my inner being and I am glad that I reclaimed it again.

The last four years of the Bush administration have done me the service of raising to a new height my distrust of the powerful. As I write these words, the awe-full results of the election are still not known but I hope not to have four more years of such instruction.

As for Father Desmond, he was more than a co-conspirator. He was also a man of considerable intellectual ability and he stirred in me a love of English language and literature that has been a resource for all of my life since. I feel thankful that our friendship managed to survive that first classroom encounter.

Richard Griffin