October winds whip over Enders Island in Mystic, home of the Society of St. Edmund and site of spiritual retreats. Inside one of the sturdy, stone buildings a handful of young men and women considering religious vocations have come to hear about celibacy and sexuality from the Rev. Joseph B. Whittel.

An outsider might assume the 67-year-old pastor of St. Mary's Roman Catholic Church in Jewett City is candidly acknowledging the limitations imposed by his calling. But this grandfatherly priest is, in fact, a grandfather.

Whittel is speaking as a man who was happily married for almost 37 years. Father of four, grandfather of seven, the former insurance executive embarked on his new calling after his wife died in 1997. While his isn't the usual route, two others among the 202 priests in the Norwich Diocese are widowers with children.

Since the number of Roman Catholic priests began declining in the last several decades, there has been a marked increase throughout the United States in the percentage of new recruits who are older, are starting second careers, or come from abroad.

Flanked by several nuns and the Rev. Mark D. O'Donnell, director of vocational training for the Norwich Diocese as well as Whittel's housemate, Whittel begins his talk at Enders Island with an overview of his marriage.

He met his wife, Eileen, while they were both in high school in New York City. He was thinking seriously of becoming a priest. She wanted to become a nun. Then, as Whittel likes to say, "the hormones took over."

They married in 1960, while he was attending St. John's University in New York, after which he joined The Hartford insurance company. In 1968 he went to the home office in Connecticut, where he directed various training programs.

For 24 years he was a church deacon, a post that required some years of intense training and empowered him to perform many of the same sacramental duties as a priest.

"I had a very faith-based marriage," Whittel says. Whether the commitment is to marriage or to celibacy, Whittel says, nothing less than faith will make it successful.

Whittel is relaxed, warm and lighthearted. Still, he is at least two generations removed from these young people at Enders Island, and a decade older than the generation that brought about the "sexual revolution." His talk is no riskier or more specific about sex than a 1950s health class.

His audience appears bashful. When the priest asks for questions, the silence befits a monastery. Before adjournment, however, one young man asks, "Do you feel different, being married, or do you feel the same as Father Mark?"

Whittel has no quarrel with church doctrine that requires priests to be celibate. The priesthood is "not a job," he says, it's a vocation. Unlike deacons, who are often married, a priest is always on call.

Yet it's a mistake, he says, to think that celibacy requires isolation or forsaking the intimacy of friendships. He has many male and female friends, he says, both married and single.

Celibacy is a gift, he adds, enabling one to fully focus on serving God. No one can make this gift, he says, without first being comfortable with his or her own sexuality.

His mother may have been inclined toward alcoholism, Whittel says, but losing her first-born child "pushed her over the edge." Adding to the stress, he says, "World War II came along, and all of that."

Whittel was still in grade school when the family moved to New York City. After his parents separated, his mother moved alone to Atlantic City, and the boys were essentially raised by their paternal grandmother.

In 1963, Whittel's mother was murdered on her way home from work. His father went to Atlantic City and took charge of all the details. His father later remarried, Whittel says, and found happiness.

His father's loyalty and reliability in a crisis made a big impression on Whittel, who took care of his paternal grandmother when she fell ill.

As a deacon, he admits to having said "yes" too often, at least for his wife's taste, to requests for his services. This bolstered his conviction that the church is correct in requiring priests to be single.

Prior to Eileen Whittel's death in 1997, she suffered for eight years from cardiac trouble and diabetes. She was virtually bedridden for the last three. Whittel, who had help but was still the primary caregiver, says that after she lost her toes, he had to change the dressings on her feet every day.

Every Saturday he would take Eileen out to have her hair done, followed by lunch and a drive. One day she asked him, "Who will go riding with you when I'm gone?"

Whittel's wife wasn't the only one who saw the priesthood in his future. After she died, friends in the church asked not if but when he would take what they saw as the next logical step. His children also approved.

In May 2003 he earned a master of divinity degree from Blessed John XXIII National Seminary in Weston, Mass. Triple-bypass heart surgery delayed his ordination, but that September, at age 65, Whittel was ordained by Bishop Michael R. Cote at St. Patrick's Cathedral in Norwich.

Whittel is personally and theologically conservative. The major issue facing the Roman Catholic Church, he says, isn't those getting the most attention: how to deal with homosexuality, and the scandal over pedophile priests. It's secularism. Seduced by popular culture, many people have rejected Catholicism for some vague "spirituality" or a less exacting Christian doctrine, he says.

"How many times do you go to church and say, ‘I'm bored,' or ‘I don't know what's going on?' " Whittel asks. "The reason is you're not participating."

Whittel asks who will consider volunteering. Hands go up, and the priest distributes slips so kids can write down their names and contact information.

Parishioners at St. Mary's, founded in 1872 when Jewett City was a more bustling place, say participation in all areas of church life is up since Whittel became pastor early this year after serving as assistant pastor at St. Patrick's in Norwich.

"He's been a dad, and knows what it is to deal with ‘the other half,' " says Trisha Martin of Griswold, director of religious education.

"He's just very approachable, and you know that he really does knowwhat you're talking about. He's such a well-rounded individual. It's just wonderful."

"The kids think he's like a grandfather," says Becky Jusseaume of Griswold, a married mother of two who teaches at the church school. "He's able to relate to the children better than some other priests."

"My youngest is 18," Jusseaume says. "For her to go to church and feel like she can shake his hand and not feel uptight, she likes that. He seems more down to earth because he has experienced the same things we have."

"I thought it was kind of a little odd thing for a priest to say, since I didn't know his background," says Brophy, a married father of two and a church volunteer.

But he understood when Whittel began uniting diverse factions that previously had had little contact outside of attending Mass. He says he has gone to "Father Joe" for counseling on family matters, and like others found him more helpful because he's been there.

Glad as Jusseaume and Brophy are that Whittel was married and raised children, they wouldn't want the church to have priests who are married.

"It's hard to wrench yourself from your family and do everything that God tells you to," Jusseaume says. "That's why I'm only a substitute teacher this year."

Yet another reason priests shouldn't marry, Whittel says, is that it would be almost impossible to support a family on a priest's salary. Whittel says he makes about $23,000 a year, but has the added benefit of a good pension. A young parishioner at St. Patrick's nicknamed him "Father Moneybags."

On Wednesdays, unless something intervenes, Whittel drives to West Hartford to spend the night at the comfortable colonial home where he and his wife raised their family. Daughters Patricia and Karen and his son Joseph live in West Hartford. Another son, John, lives in Clinton.

Eldest daughter Patricia McCleary is divorced and lives in the family home with her two children. She and Joseph, who also has two children, say their father isn't changed. "He's the same Dad," says Joe Whittel. "If you need him, he's always there — like a father, not as a priest."

Karen Lavoie, also a mother of two, says people often praise her father's way with children. Since the priest abuse scandal, many priests say they fear any touch or intimacy toward children will be regarded with suspicion. Whittel, says Lavoie, "has no fear. He jokes with them and goofs with them.

"I think he has a kind of peace over him," she says. "He's very happy with what he's doing. Back when he worked for The Hartford, he was stressed. But even when this is stressful, he still has a certain peace."

Lavoie says Whittel was always a kind, compassionate father. But caring for their mother and working at The Hartford, which he continued doing for two years after her death, made him "kind of edgy."

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