October 22, 2024
My brother Jack
Editor’s Note: Rev. John J. Reid, O.P., who served as a theology professor, associate vice president for student services, director of Slavin Center and of Campus Ministry, and chaplain at the time of the Aquinas Hall fire, died on June 24, 2024, at age 89. He was a Dominican priest for 50 years.
By Rev. Jordan Zajac, O.P. ’04
At first, Rev. John J. Reid, O.P. perplexed me. I grew up around priests, but I had never encountered one quite like him.
In the fall of 2001, my sophomore year, I found myself in class with Father Reid for THL 401: The Mystery of God. I can still remember the classroom on the fourth floor of Harkins and can clearly envision him. That’s because Father Reid simultaneously shocked and charmed me. His classes began with a torrent of caustic jokes directed at various targets, myself included. He was savagely funny; all you could do was laugh along, even when you were the butt of the joke. He was just that good, and that disarming.
Father Reid would carry on like this while, at the very same time, wearing massive coffee stains down the front of his cream-white habit. These stains didn’t seem to bother or embarrass him in the least. He would walk in, look down at himself, crack a wry smile, and hold up his hands, shrugging. Those hands were not like any I had seen before. I had never known someone with Parkinson’s Disease, so the hand tremors that afflicted Father Reid (and his habit) were unfamiliar to me. But the contrast between his struggle to pick up chalk and the way he could still produce perfect cursive when his hand finally rested against the chalkboard — there was something triumphant about it.
I had Father Reid’s class the morning of September 11, 2001. The second tower had just been hit, and he began class that day with a prayer I will never forget. As a Brooklyn native, he was full of emotion. Full of righteous anger. That day I came to understand something about the wrath of God. If God didn’t hate evil, He wouldn’t be God.
As a student at Providence, I got to know Father Reid, my professor. Almost two decades later, as a Dominican at Providence, I got to know Jack, my brother. When I first moved in, he did not remember me, but I certainly remembered him. I started making regular visits to his room on the fourth floor of the priory. Stopping by for the sacrament of Confession, Jack had me laughing at myself yet again — this time at my sinful folly, lest I ever take myself, or life, or the Lord, too seriously. From these meetings, I came to understand much about the mercy of God. Other times Jack would call my room, needing a hand. I’d recognize his raspy voice right away. “Jordan? It’s … the Holy Spirit. I’m calling you … to send you … to Jack.”
There were many visits we had. None of them were brief. The vivid, labored stories Jack produced about his life growing up, life in the Dominican Order and at Providence College blended seamlessly, taking hours of your time. But delightful hours they were.
When I was ordained a priest here on campus in 2020, amidst the COVID lockdown, I asked Jack to vest me: to place upon me for the very first time the special garments priests wear for Mass. It is a great honor to be asked to do so. Ever humble, Jack balked at the suggestion. “Why me?” he asked. “Because you’re you,” I replied. All he could do was smile. That was the only time I ever left him speechless.
No man is prepared to receive the full weight, power, and responsibility of the priesthood. During the ordination Mass, I felt overwhelmed. After vesting me, Jack sized me up and simply said, “You look like a priest!” That was all the validation I needed. I have never felt stronger.
Strength was something Jack possessed in abundance. It was deeply moving for me to watch his health and strength decline in his final years, and to see him remain resilient and dignified in the face of so many indignities he suffered at the hands of Parkinson’s and other ailments. Jack always had a deep love for the poor, and the Lord permitted him to become quite poor himself (poor in health), that he might in turn become rich (2 Cor 8:9). At his specific request, Jack’s casket was a “plain wooden box, nothing fancy. Give the rest of the money to the poor.” Deeply edifying. Yet the thing Jack didn’t anticipate was how hard this simple wooden box would be for us to maneuver, since it lacked any handles. It also left me with a splinter.
Indeed, I have never been to a funeral like his before. I have never met a priest like Father Reid before. I have never had a brother like Jack before. And I never will again.
Rev. Jordan Zajac, O.P. ’04 is an assistant professor of English at PC.
