Today, we celebrate the Conversion of St. Paul of Tarsus, the Apostle to the Gentiles.
Fr. Joseph Mary, who celebrated Mass on EWTN this morning, spoke of St. Paul's Conversion, and mentioned the Conversion (actually, Reversion) of Babe Ruth. He read parts of a Testimonial written by Ruth when he was close to death in a French hospital, in 1946.
Some excerpts from the testimonial:
Looking back to my youth, I honestly don't think I knew the difference between right and wrong. I spent much of my early boyhood living over my father's saloon, in Baltimore- and when I wasn't living over it, I was soaking up the atmosphere. I hardly knew my parents.
St. Mary's Industrial School in Baltimore, where I was finally taken, has been called an orphanage, and a reform school. It was, in fact, a training school for orphans, incorrigibles (sic), delinquents and runaways picked up on the streets of the city. I was listed as an incorrigible. I guess I was. Perhaps I would have been but for Brother Matthias, the greatest man I have ever known, and for the religious training I received there which has since been so important to me.
I doubt if any appeal could have straightened me out except a power over and above man- the appeal of God. Iron-rod discipline couldn't have done it. Nor all the punishment and reward systems that could have been devised. God has an eye out for me, just as He has for you, and He was pulling for me to make the grade.
As I look back now, I realize that knowledge of God was a big crossroads with me. I got one thing straight (and I wish all kids did) – that God was the Boss. He was only my Boss but Boss of all my bosses. Up till then, like all bad kids, I hated most of the people who had control over me and could punish me. I began to see that I had a higher Person to reckon with who never changed, whereas my earthly authorities changed from year to year. Those who bossed me had the same self-battles – they, like me, had to account to God. I also realized that God was not only just but merciful. He knew we were weak and that we all found it easier to be stinkers than sons of God, not only as kids but also all through our lives.
In December 1946 I was in French Hospital, facing a serious operation. Paul Carey, one of my closest friends was by my bed one night. "They're going to operate in the morning Babe," Paul said. "Don't you think you ought to put your home in order?"
I didn't dodge the long, challenging look in his eyes. I knew what he meant. For the first time I realized that death might strike me out. I nodded, and Paul got up, called in a chaplin, and I made a full confession.
"I'll return in the morning and give you Holy Communion," the chaplin said, "but you don't have to fast."
"I'll fast," I said. I didn't even have a drop of water."
