In June of 1972, Father Richard Guastella arrived at Holy Rosary Church for his first assignment as a parish priest.
Curiosity about a new priest always ran high, beginning the moment we heard that one of our resident priests would be leaving. But it rose to new levels when we learned that our new priest would indeed be a new priest. When the entrance procession emerged from the sacristy at his first Sunday Mass with us, all eyes sought him out.
After Mass, a welcoming cluster of eager parishioners clasped his hand and smothered him with questions. As they broke off into the after-Mass chatter groups, one phrase was consistently repeated: “He’s so young.”
Most priests fresh out of the seminary are young, but Father Richard had an appearance of extreme youthfulness. His hair accounted for some of that. In keeping with the times, Father Richard wore his hair long enough to cover his ears and graze his Roman collar—unlike the older priests who wore conventional clippered cuts. Eventually he grew a beard, as many men did in the 1970s.
“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God” (Matthew 5:8). Perhaps this quality, too, enhanced his youthful aura, along with his request to be called Father Richard rather than Father Guastella. This kind of informality with a priest was unheard of at the time.
If his youth and informality were the initial draw, it was the substance of his being that cemented his relationships. His youthful aspect belied what was underneath—maturity, wisdom, and a perceptiveness more often seen in those with many years of life’s experience behind them.
Parishioners of every generation responded to this approachable priest who seemed to effortlessly build rapport with them. He was the priest most frequently requested for weddings, funerals, and baptisms. Families invited him into their homes for meals, for conversations, for pastoral visits, for friendly visits. In the heart of Holy Rosary, Father Richard clearly held a special place.
As a good friend to my family, Father Richard gave us guidance and support on everyday matters as well as moral conflicts. With his usual serenity, he helped us meet and manage the milestones of life, whether joyous or sorrowful. As my parish advisor while I wrote the history of Holy Rosary Parish for their 50th Anniversary, Father Richard provided not only information and insight, but encouragement as well.
Father Richard left Holy Rosary in June of 1980 to become Vocation Director for the Archdiocese of New York. A few years later my family left the Bronx too, but we all met back at Holy Rosary in the spring of 1983 when Father Richard baptized the new baby in our family.
Within a few years Father Richard was working as a parish priest again, eventually being assigned to Staten Island and another church called Holy Rosary. While serving as pastor there, he rose to the rank of monsignor. Despite the new title, he still wanted to be called Father Richard. Later he was named pastor of the Church of St. Clare.
In 2012, Father Richard celebrated the 40th anniversary of his ordination to the priesthood. We traveled to Staten Island to attend the festivities at St. Clare’s, seeing him for the first time since that family baptism in 1983. His beard was gone, his haircut clippered and conventional. But he still looked like young Father Richard to us.
On Holy Thursday, April 9, 2020, while still serving as pastor of St. Clare’s, Father Richard succumbed to the plague of our day, COVID-19. By ministering to the sick, he gave his life so that souls could be saved.
In Memoriam ✙ Reverend Monsignor Richard Guastella
In February of 1925, when Father James Winters showed up in this far corner of New York City to establish a parish, he became a pastor without a church. In words attributed to him, he arrived “with a valise and no place to hang my hat.” But a local family gave him a place to hang his hat—and to unpack that valise—when they offered him a spare room.
For four months, “church” was the basement of another local home, until a prefabricated wooden structure could be hammered into place on Eastchester Road near its intersection with Gun Hill Road. By the end of that summer a Tudor-style rectory had been erected beside the church, providing a home for Father Winters and other priests who would be assigned to the growing parish.
The church, known colloquially as the “temporary church,” might not have been considered an awe-inspiring edifice from the outside—or by outsiders. A quaint country church, it fit the bucolic character of its surroundings: The area had no streetlights or sidewalks, the unpaved roads were either dusty or muddy depending on the weather, and cows from nearby dairy farms wandered at will.
But stepping inside the church brought an awareness of candlelight, the warmth of polished wood offset by white plaster walls, the musky scent of incense, and the flickering of the sanctuary flame beside the tabernacle. Overhead, a timber roof truss filled the vaulted ceiling with its geometric pattern of beams. Four confessional boxes, two on each of the side walls, were of dark sturdy wood, like the pews. Instead of doors, red velvet curtains draped the three-compartment booths. The kneelers in the pews were covered in red as well. Red votives filled the candlestands on either side of the confessionals, casting a red-hued glow. Life-size statues of saints hovered in shadowy corners. Some stood beside the confessionals, while the traditional statues of the Blessed Mother and Saint Joseph resided in side-altar alcoves flanking the main altar. An enormous crucifix towered over the communion rail near St. Joseph’s altar.
Firmly planted in the minds of the early parishioners was the notion that this temporary structure met the immediate needs of the brand-new parish, but would be replaced in due course. By 1931 the parish had grown considerably, yet building a permanent church was still a dream out of reach. Fundraisers such as dinner-dances and bazaars could do only so much to reduce the debts incurred by building a church, a rectory, and a small school. Extending the church to accommodate thirty more pews was all the parish could afford.
Then the Depression took hold and the financial burden grew, lasting through the 1940s into the early 1950s. More pressing than a new church was the need for a new school, and that became the next project on the list. The temporary church soldiered on to the next decade.
On the evening of March 2, 1965—the day before Ash Wednesday—fire trucks with sirens screaming startled a couple of fifth graders leaving Vinnie’s candy store on Eastchester Road, several blocks south of the church. The trucks raced north toward Gun Hill Road; after a frenetic minute or two the din subsided. With vague wonderings about what, exactly, could be on fire, the kids made their way home to dinner and homework.
By morning the shocking news had spread: Those fire trucks had been racing to Holy Rosary Church. Flames had destroyed part of one confessional, but damage was minimal. After cordoning-off the space, fire officials approved the 40-year-old building for continued use. Many speculated that a votive from the candlestand had ignited the curtain of the confessional booth, but how that happened—or if indeed that happened—remained a mystery. As far as we knew, the cause of the fire was undetermined.
In October of that year, with long-standing debts paid off, the parish council launched the New Church Building Fund Campaign. Committee members paid evening visits to every home in the parish, hoping to secure enough pledges to get the latest building project started.
Late in the afternoon of February 25, 1966—two days after Ash Wednesday—a couple of sixth graders were working the pistachio nut machine outside Vinnie’s candy store. As a torrent of red-shelled nuts poured out, again they were startled by the screams of fire trucks racing north on Eastchester Road. It reminded them of a similar occurrence, one year ago almost to the day. Momentarily disturbed by the memory, they reflected on these uncharacteristic dramas on Eastchester Road, where nothing ever happened.
The next day, a stunned community learned the location of the fire—Holy Rosary Church. To the sorrow of the parish, the devastation was complete. Again, the public was told the cause was undetermined.
The shell and steeple remained, but the interior had been gutted. Black singe marks sullied the white exterior around the blackened windows that stared like horrified eyes. The eventual boarding up of the windows was akin to the closing of those eyes, but for many months the church remained standing, as lifeless as a corpse.
The auditorium of the new school building had long been used for extra Sunday services to alleviate the overcrowding in the church; now the auditorium, along with the large cafeteria one floor below, served as church space. Holy Rosary School had now become Holy Rosary Church as well.
About a year later, construction began on the new church. The steel frame went up. And then construction stopped. For months nothing happened. The view of the steel structure from our seventh-grade windows never changed. By March of 1968 things started picking up again. Our eighth-grade teacher, Sister Dorothy, remarked that the church would likely be completed by the end of that summer. It was not to be. More delays beset the project.
Once the steel framework was in place, it became clear that this building would bear no resemblance to the impressive structure, with its tall steeple and bell tower rising over the entryway, depicted on the Building Campaign poster. Those who belonged to the parish’s inner circle might have known or been consulted about the change in plans. Others speculated that the new construction timeline, truncated by the second fire, caused a financing problem that forced the project to be scaled back.
Finally, in September of 1969, Monsignor Brady, our pastor, opened the doors of the new church and invited us to have a look around. To say that the congregants were taken aback is one way to describe the reaction to this church that was so different from what we had been accustomed to.
“Cold” was a word that frequently came up. And, “It echoes like a cafeteria in here.”
The interior walls were of brick, like the outside walls. The floor-to-ceiling Resurrection mural behind the altar was of cast aluminum, shiny and metallic, as were the altar itself, the panels of the Stations of the Cross, the tabernacle table, and other wall panels. The layout conformed to changes that resulted from Vatican Two, with a central location for the altar and the placement of the tabernacle something for individual parishes to work out. No altar rail separated the sanctuary from the pews, no lifelike statues filled the empty corners. (“Where are the statues?” “What do you mean, there aren’t going to be any statues?”) No curtains shielded the confessionals; instead, sturdy doors enclosed each booth. In every aspect, it conformed to what was then known as a modern church.
In time, disappointed parishioners adjusted to the new atmosphere, eventually developing true affection for the place. After all, our little pocket of New York City had long ago evolved from rural to citified. Now, so had our church.
Reference:
Crehan, Rev. Peter M. “Recollections,” in Holy Rosary Parish, Bronx, New York. South Hackensack, N.J.: Custombook, Inc., Ecclesiastical Color Publishers, 1970.
