I have always envied those who find their Church and Community of Faith to be a warm, welcoming, homey hearth of goodwill, a place where a loving Jesus-God mural looks down lovingly upon his flock, searching for reasons to forgive even the most egregious of sins. I know this actually happens, for I have close friends who look forward with great anticipation to their Sunday morning or Friday evening services, an opportunity to feel the loving presence of their God.

My experience of my Catholic upbringing, on the other hand, can best be described as panicky, guilt-ridden and, in the end, absent. Not much about God at all.

As a kid, mass for me was an internal endurance contest, like a marathon or solitary confinement. I recall homilies as something to survive, more from anxiety than boredom. I rarely felt connected to what was going on in any given session, and I can’t say I felt particularly in touch with God. Tough to sense that connection when you are perpetually afraid your heart might seize up at any given moment, and that girls might see.

Priests were a particular puzzle for me. I always found them an odd lot. From the lack of female companionship (other than the odd, overweight octogenarian who cooked and cleaned the rectory), to the dead silence of the linoleum-lined halls to the lack of TV, it was always unclear to me how they filled their time. A small cadre of penitent eighth grade boys manned the phones for the thrice-nightly calls, but the implications of this set-up and how it might fill time for certain men of the cloth did not occur to me until decades later. So I never really got the priests.

Yet I found myself interested in their stale lives, as I felt I would inevitably be joining their ranks, sure to buckle under family pressure and the lack of anything better to do with my time.

And then there was Father John – John the Exception.

He had long hair and street clothes. In my mind’s eye, he would drink Schlitz at parish functions as church elders looked on, shaking their heads disapprovingly. Father John seemed less “churchy” than most of the Church.

Our parish had a tradition of purchasing cars for the priests so they could get around to hospitals and dinners and whatnot. Most chose from the placid, sexless line of Buicks. Not Father John. Father John selected a bitchin’, powder blue Mercury Cougar, a car so cool my brother and I immediately demanded the corresponding Hot Wheel. Of course, I completely romanticized Father John’s apostolic existence with this machine. I did not, for instance, envision him driving to hospitals ministering to the sick, taking confessions and preparing homilies. I pictured him jumping in through the open window and rolling across the hood with a pistol like Starsky, a sacred suburban warrior for God, Good and Cool.

Father John was cool. He made priest-ing look cool.

And then there were the homilies. While his high-necked cohorts delivered stiff, dry, over-prepared and often unintelligible speeches perched safely behind the lectern, Father John treated those five minutes like the seminal moments in the encore of a rock concert. He departed from the lectern almost immediately after the Gospel reading, striding with purpose up the center aisle, smiling broadly like a Cheshire cat. He effectively created a theater in the round, and inspired theater he delivered.

Sometimes he would start by addressing somebody directly and, I must say, quite loudly, a man who chose to eschew the advantage of a lapel mic in favor of his own powerful voice. “Hey, John Duffy’s here today! How are things, Duff? How’s your mom?”

This, of course, put everybody in the congregation on notice. Put down the book or newsletter. Sit up a little straighter. This guy was not phoning it in, and he could call on anybody anytime. The tension, and attention, would skyrocket right from the start. Something different, perhaps extraordinary, was about to take place.

What would happen next was legendary and, Father John recently told me, rarely prepared. He began to orate, loud, possessed and passionate, beaming, always beaming, with fire and delight in his eyes. He reveled in this platform. I swear, if it would not have meant excommunication, he would have allowed the moment to sweep him up sometimes, and he would have picked up the podium and swung it around like Pete Townsend.

And then he would tell stories, stories about his week, meaningful, real stories, stories from his heart. The stories were always uplifting, stories about people doing more than expected, coming through for one another, seeking their purpose. Sometimes the stories related to the preceding gospel reading, but this was not imperative to Father John. Hell, I don’t even think it mattered to him.

I remember one story about a woman who lived just a few blocks from us. She had suffered for decades from MS, yet still managed to remain a remarkably strong wife and mother to her teenage sons. He talked about her undying spirit and sense of humor, as if she really inspired him and cracked him up when he went to visit her. I was transfixed by the power of that story. I never knew what happened in that house. I thought it was just where the sick lady lived, a dead place. Turns out it was an extraordinary place.

Another homily touched on the inspiring story of my best friend. He talked about how Mike realized in his teens his passion for writing and, instead of taking a job and decent money in advertising, he chose to struggle and work up the ranks of the cut-throat world of magazine writing. He talked about how, with intention and commitment, you can realize your dreams, citing Mike’s recent promotion to an editorial position at a renowned men’s magazine.

Another of his stories involved the tragic death of the sister of a seventh grade classmate of mine. He talked of the courage and faith she displayed, at only eighteen years old, as she dealt with the fact that she was dying. He spoke of the generosity of friends and neighbors, praising them for putting their own discomfort aside to rally for the well-being of the surviving family. But I remember his prevailing message from that Sunday most clearly.

He said that because life was short, because life was precious, because life was a gift from God, because Sue had died so young – because of all these things, he said, it is incumbent upon all of us to be extraordinary. In all that we do, in every moment of every day, we must live extraordinary lives in an extraordinary way.

Extraordinary.

As I paid more attention, I realized the power of this word. I realized that this word was always his theme. I recognized that Father John modeled the extraordinary life for us in those five minutes each week, where he showed us the courage to abandon the podium to touch our hearts more directly, the willingness to expose himself and his own faults and weaknesses, just his very BIG-ness was extraordinary.

Talk about practicing what you preach.

From baptism through catechism, through a Notre Dame education and beyond, this is the one lesson that has resonated and stuck with me from the Catholic Church.

And I think it just may well be exactly what I needed.

Extraordinary.

I’ve thought about that word so often since he first said it.

When I think about it, I owe an awful lot to Father John. When I considered leaving an accounting firm to go to grad school and study psychology, I told him how I felt about my job. I did not think I was particularly good at it. I did not feel at all passionate about my work. I deplored Mondays, and was anxious constantly.

And then I asked him what he thought. He just stared at me for a moment and then said, “John, you gotta be kidding me, right?” I took him out to lunch just to hear those words. The choice was gone. Courage to be extraordinary was the only option. And as a result, good things happened.

So the idea of an extraordinary life has a stronghold on my consciousness.

I realize that helping others find those things they are passionate about, and the courage to follow through with their passion, is my life’s work. In the end, it is this thread of the extraordinary that propelled me through grad school, to this career, and even to the creation of this web site.

Imagine a world where we boldly, unapologetically make the most of our gifts, talents and passions. Consider what that would be like. My goal here is to inspire you to live an extraordinary life, today and every day. I hope you enjoy this site but, more importantly, I hope you are inspired to achieve your greatness, whatever that may be.

Be extraordinary. Like Father John.

Blow your own mind.