Father Leo Proxell describes himself as “a simple country pastor.” He was born on February 19, 1951 and raised in Anaconda, Montana of Irish and Croatian/Austrian roots. He attended Catholic grade school and high school. He went on to Carroll College and earned a BA in English, then to St. Thomas Seminary in Kenmore, WA for MDiv degree (priest). He has a master’s degree in Liturgical Music from St. John’s, Collegeville, MN.

Father Proxell was ordained on November 18, 1977 in Butte. He has done Parish Ministry (rural work), and Campus Ministry (U of M and Carroll College). He was Legendary Lodge Chaplain from 1978-1986 and was a Cursillo Chaplain in the 1980s.

Father Proxell first love is music to the glory of God. He loves to sing and can play the piano, organ, and guitar. He has directed seminary choir, college choir (Carroll), and Cathedral Choir (Helena). His memberships include: Symphony choirs in Missoula and Helena, Mendelsohn Choir and College Choir in Missoula, “Music Central” octet and “Angels” choir in Conrad. He loves opera and symphony music.

Father Proxell has traveled a bit to Peru, Australia, Italy, the Holy Land, Hawaii, Yucatan, and all over the US, especially the national parks. He loves to hike and looks forward to Yellowstone. He likes to laugh, tell jokes and great stories. He finds that humor is a great road to the goodness of God.

May his pastorate be long and blessed.

 

Dancing Man of the Broke Tomb

First,

there was a Friday night of black rain

as if God had forgotten his promise to Noah.

Next,

there was a century of a Saturday,

a day that never saw him smile.

Finally,

near the end of the longest night

before a stone the size of twelve men

around a fire that gave off cold

three hooded forms stood watch.

There is no fat

on the face and hands

of the first to speak.

His mouth is a black hold

and each word echoes

like it traveled a great hollow tunnel

to arrive at his lips.

“Goals rule mean.

Ends mock middles.

Graves rock cradles.

Irrefutable.

I, Death, stand at the end

but my shadow darkens the start.

In the bridal bed I whisper

how the old use covers for warmth

and in the muscle days of youth

I remind them how the aged fumble

with the cap on the aspirin bottle.

I am wearied by this argument.

It is my power that is uparalleled.

It is a question of the largest mouth.

The rabbit eats the grass.

The fox eats the rabbit.

Man eats the fox.

And I eat man.

He who eats last

dines forever.

So

if passers-by would ask

who rules this life,

point them to this stone

and tell them I am inside

disassembling the handiwork of God”

“Eloquently pleaded, Death”

The lounging by the fire

raises a palm of protestation.

“But falsely asserted.

It is true

you are as inescapable as skin.

But that makes you a mere fact,

painful perhaps but insignificant.

Now with myself it is different.

I, Sin, parade as possibility

I manure the dreams of the young

and wait for a harvest of betrayal.

When their first kiss turns to bite

or they torch a reputation

or mix a motive

or watch a belly bloat

to the size of an empty bowl

or add a column so the bottom figures

tumble effortlessly into their pockets,

then I say,

“Buy silk suits and ties of gold

so no one will know

the electricity of your mind is greed

and the seventy beats of your pulse are lust

and the movement of your muscles mere envy.

I reign from the inside,

severing the nerve,

marshmallowing the mind,

bronzing the heart.

So

if passers-by would ask

who rules this life,

point them to this stone

and tell them I am inside

claiming the failed dreamer.

No sooner had Sin stopped

that Fate was on his feet.

“Fact or possibility, please!

The rain shines and the sun falls,

tomorrow is today and today yesterday.

I write

and the scribbled lines of men

are written.

I do not rattle bones

like you, Death.

Or wait for clouds to gather

in the blue eyes of innocence

like you, Sin.

I tell them

bones and flesh are the same

and blue always turns to grey.

I have twin straws dipped deep

into their hope and freedom

and I drain the empty of struggle,

their faces whitening into resignation.

My message swims in their ears

like a rock concert:

‘Kiss the earth!

Throw no dust into the wind!

Marionettes are not masters!’

So

if passers-by would ask

who rules this life,

point them to this stone

and tell them I am inside

overseeing what was meant to be.

Now then sun,

which Ecclesiates says always rises,

broke the night of fierce debate

but no rooster greeted it.

Instead

a stone the size of twelve men

moved like a mountain on its way to the sea

and on the fresh wind of morning

came the Son of Man,

his shroud a wedding garment,

his feet between earth and air in dance.

Death, Sin, and Fate poured rhetoric

into the stirring air about them

but the silent Son of God only danced

to music beyond their words.

He whirled around Death

and with each turn

Death himself grew old

till with a last, unbelievable look

he saw no more.

Then wordless

Christ spun around the words of Sin

til a stammer started, sound choked,

and finally there was only a mouth

without a voice.

Next Fate heard the risen footsteps

and frost formed on his tongue.

As Christ leapt before him,

he froze in mid-syllable,

iced by the warmth of God.

Now

there was only the morning

and the dancing man of the broken tomb.

The story says

he dances still.

That is why

down to this day

we lean over the beds of our babies

and in the seconds before sleep

tell the story of the dying dancing man

so the dream of Jesus will carry them to dawn.

credit: “Following Love Into Mystery” by John Shae (LTP, Collegeville, MN)