Friar Timothy Patrick Dore, OFM Conv. -- About Me and My Blog . . .

Friar Timothy Patrick Dore, OFM Conv. (Baltimore, Maryland, United States).

On September 3, 1962, I was born at Mercy Hospital, Baltimore, Maryland; I’m the second of seven children: I have an older brother and four younger sisters; they each married terrific spouses and now have families of their own; one sibling, a younger brother who my mother named Joseph, died at birth.  In all, I have fourteen wonderful nieces and nephews, as well as a grand-niece and a grand-nephew, both of whom are absolutely beautiful.  My mom, +Carolyn Marie Winterling (d. 09-13-18), was born and raised in Locust Point, South Baltimore, and was of pure German descent; during her professional life she was a Registered Nurse; my father, +Eugene Anthony “Gene” Dore (d. 07-21-24), was born and raised in Irvington, West Baltimore, and was of Irish/Swedish descent; he spent much of his professional career as a salesman within the heavy construction industry. My immediate and extended family members have always been very dear to me!

I spent my earliest school days as a student in both public and parochial schools: first at Beechfield Elementary, P.S.#246, Irvington (grades K-2), then at St. Joseph's Monastery, Irvington, (grades 3-5) and finally at the Catholic Community School of South Baltimore, (grades 6-8). For high school I attended Baltimore's great Calvert Hall College (a Christian Brothers' school locally known as “the Hall).  

As a child, my family and I were always very active in our parishes (both at St. Joseph's Monastery, in West Baltimore where I lived until the age of eleven, and in later years at Our Lady of Good Counsel, South Baltimore).  I was a member of the boy scouts, an altar server, choir member, youth groups, church cleaner and part time youth parish office receptionist.  As a child, my Catholic faith and my parish identity were always very important aspects of my personal and family experiences!  

After graduating from Mount Saint Mary's College (now “University”), Emmitsburg, Maryland in May of 1984, I entered religious life in August of that year as a novice with Conventual Franciscan Friars (OFM Conv.). I completed my Theological studies at the Washington Theological Union in Silver Spring, Maryland in May of 1992. After a six month period as a “transitional deacon,” on October 17, 1992 I was ordained to the priesthood at St. Casimir Church, in my home-town of Baltimore, Maryland, by Baltimore's then Auxiliary Bishop +William C. Newman.

For seventeen years of my priesthood (in two non-consecutive terms between ‘92 and ‘14), I was assigned to Most Holy Trinity--St. Mary in Brooklyn, New York. Both my Franciscan and my priestly identities were greatly “formed” during my years in Brooklyn!

In addition to Brooklyn, I served as a parochial-vicar at St. Philip Benizi, Jonesboro, Georgia, and at St. Stanislaus Basilica, Chicopee, Massachusetts. In August of ‘14, I began a year-long assignment at Pastor at Assumption Church in Syracuse, New York. Years earlier in ministry, I also spent time teaching young people in schools at St. Francis High School in Athol Springs, New York (‘87-‘88), at St. Francis Primary School, San Jose, Costa Rica (‘98-‘01), and at Archbishop Curley High School in Baltimore, Maryland (‘01-‘03). Later, and in the Archdiocese of Baltimore (‘15-‘18), I was Pastor of two wonderful Parishes of St. Ann and St. Wenceslaus, in Baltimore City, Maryland.  Then I was Pastor of St. Michael the Archangel, Annunciation, and St. Clement Mary Hofbauer, a three parish “Pastorate” in Baltimore County, Maryland (‘18-‘22). 

I’ve always had an “itch” to be a missionary friar.  Although I have never really pursued such a calling, I did have several opportunities in my life to travel and to live abroad in countries where people live in poverty and in great need.  While still a seminarian in 1991, I did a “missionary internship” for three months in Ghana, West Africa where I lived and worked with our friars who ministered to people with leprosy.  Later, after my ordination to the priesthood, I spent three months in Honduras, Central America, where I studied Spanish and further discerned a “missionary calling.”  I’ve returned to Honduras for shorter visits at least ten times over the years, and I still wonder if someday I should return there for a longer commitment.  In 1998, I began a two-and-a-half year assignment in Costa Rica where I taught English to children in our friars’ St. Francis Primary School in San Jose and also to adults in an evening language institute there called the Instituto Interamericano de Idiomas (Intensa).  My experience in Costa Rica was wonderful!

Most of my ministerial experiences have been as a “parish priest.”  Parish work has always been at the core of my priestly ministry, and over many years I feel I've been greatly blessed by the wonderful people of the parishes I've met along the way!  See a short reflection I wrote about the life of a parish priest here on my blog entitled “This is the Life of a Parish Priest” (https://www.frayteo.us/2014/04/this-is-life-of-parish-priest.html).

I think one of my most passionate desires within ministry has always been to enthusiastically serve and to work with Christian outreach efforts done for the poor, the marginalized, and to those who are “different.”  I believe this desire is fundamentally rooted in my identity as one who hopes to live in accord with the teachings and example of the Lord Jesus, and as a Franciscan Friar, a follower of “Il Poverello,” St. Francis of Assisi.

Currently, I am stationed at the Shrine of St. Anthony, Ellicott City, Maryland, and there I am one of the friars in the community of the Friary of St. Joseph Cupertino. These days, I divide my time as a friar-chaplain at St. Joseph's Nursing Home, Catonsville, as well as at the Shrine of St. Anthony.

Thanks for visiting my blog. I hope the posts you find on it are both thought provoking and spiritually uplifting!   Peace, Timothy

Praised be Jesus Christ!
Now and Forever!  Amen!

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Friar Timothy Patrick Dore, OFM Conv.

My Curriculum Vitae:

EDUCATION

12/99 - 12/00:  The Mesoamerica Spanish Language Program (at the Institute for Central American Studies-"ICAS"), Intensive Spanish Program and Tutoring.  Guadalupe, San Jose, Costa Rica, Completed: December 2000.

Fall 1998:  Centro Lingüistico Latinoamericano, San Antonio de Belén, Heredia, Costa Rica, Certificate, Intensive Spanish Program. Completed: November 1998.

Summer 1992:  The Diocese of Brooklyn Language Institute, Intensive Spanish Program. Immaculate Conception Center, Douglaston, Queens, New York, Completed: August 1992. 

1988-1992: Washington Theological Union, Silver Spring, Maryland, Master of Divinity, Graduated: May 1992.

1985-1987:  Saint Hyacinth College and Seminary, Granby, Massachusetts, Pre-Theology Certificate in Philosophy, Completed: May 1987

1984-1985:  Saint Joseph Cupertino Friary, Ellicott City, Maryland, Novitiate Program, Completed: August 1985.

1980-1984:  Mount Saint Mary's College (now “University”), Emmitsburg, Maryland, Bachelor of Arts  (Majors: History and Theology), Graduated: May 1984.

1976-1980:  Calvert Hall College, Towson, Maryland, High School Diploma, Graduated: May 1980.

WORK & INTERNSHIP EXPERIENCES

06/22-Present:  Pastoral Associate, (chaplaincy at St. Joseph's Nursing Home, Catonsville, and pastoral ministry at the Shrine of St. Anthony, Folly Quarter), St. Joseph Cupertino Friary, Ellicott City, Maryland.

08/18-06/22:  Pastor, St. Michael the Archangel, Annunciation, & St. Clement Mary Hofbauer Churches, Baltimore County, Maryland.

08/15-08/18:  Pastor, St. Ann & St, Wenceslaus Churches, Baltimore City, Maryland.

08/14-08/15:  Pastor, Assumption Church, Syracuse, New York.

06/04-08/14:  Parochial Vicar, Most Holy Trinity Church, Brooklyn, New York.

06/03-06/04:  Parochial Vicar, St. Stanislaus Basilica, Chicopee, Massachusetts.

08/01-06/03:  Secondary School Teacher (Intro to Spanish I & Intro to Spanish II), Archbishop Curley High School, Baltimore, Maryland.

06/02-08/02:  Mission Volunteer, Helping Hands for Honduras, La Paz, Honduras, Central America. 

01/01-08/01:  Parochial Vicar, Saint Philip Benizi Catholic Church, Jonesboro, Georgia.

03/00-12/00:  English as a Second Language Teacher (Conversational–for adults), Instituto Interamericano de Idiomas (Intensa), San José, Costa Rica.

12/98-12/00:  Primary School Teacher (Middle School Religion, Second Grade English), Saint Francis Primary School, Moravia, San José, Costa Rica.

01/94-04/94:  Mission Internship, Conventual Franciscan Friars, Campamento, Honduras, Central America.

06/92-09/98:  Parochial Vicar, Most Holy Trinity Church, Brooklyn, New York.

06/91-08/91:  Mission Internship, Franciscan Community Services, Ankaful Leprosy Camp and the Ahotokurom Village, Ghana, West Africa.

09/90-05/91:  Supervised Ministry in Pro-Life Advocacy, Human Life International (H.L.I.), Gaithersburg, Maryland.

09/88-05/92:  Supervised Ministry in a Parish Setting, Saint Mark Church, Catonsville, Maryland.

09/87-05/88:  Secondary School Teacher, (Freshman Social Studies, Sophomore Religion), Saint Francis High School, Athol Springs, New York

 

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The Faith I Was Given, the Wounds I Bear

In May of 1976, this photo of me was taken immediately after I received the Sacrament of Confirmation.  I was a thirteen year old eighth grade student in my Catholic parish school. Just one month after this event, I was sexually assaulted for the first of many times by a clergyman inside of my parish church and rectory. My church was located directly across the street from my family’s home.

The Faith I Was Given, the Wounds I Bear

I write the following narrative not to accuse, not to demand, and not to destroy—but simply to speak my truth. I’ve come to realize that failing to speak becomes its own kind of emotional prison, and that for those who wish to speak truth to power, doing so is the only real doorway to peace—and to justice—too.

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My Truth:

When I was a small child, I learned of the steadfast and tender faith of my ancestors—a faith rooted in tradition and woven into the very fabric of my family’s Catholic life. My mom and dad taught me that, more than they themselves could ever love me, I was loved by God; and that beneath the shadow of God’s wings, I would always be safe. And so, with the trust of a child, I believed this without question.

In my innocence, guided by a trusting and unblemished mind, I believed that those who most represented God on earth were the priests of my church—the men who celebrated our Sunday Masses, visited our school classrooms, often spoke kind words to me, and sometimes affectionately tousled my hair as I waited beside them in the sacristy before serving at the altar.

These same men—so beloved by my parents, grandparents, family, and friends—often came into our home, sharing in our joys, celebrating our happiest moments, and standing beside us during seasons of hardship, suffering, and grief.

But for me, all of that affection, trust, admiration, and unquestioning devotion vanished in a single devastating moment—and was then followed by countless others like it. My innocence and my faith were utterly shattered when, at the age of thirteen, I was targeted, manipulated, and violated by clergymen—men whom, just like those before them, I had admired with nearly all of my heart.

Those dreadful experiences seared my soul and destroyed the trust I had once carried so freely. For every year since those traumatic moments of my youth, they have laid upon the deepest parts of my being a burden of shame, confusion, and false guilt—weights that were never mine to bear. And even now, from time to time, these burdens return like a dark and unwelcome spirit, breaking my peace and unsettling the stability of my mind.

As I journey toward the evening of my life, these memories—and the wounds they left—have resurfaced as a raw and bitter pain. They color nearly every doubt or question I have about the love of God, about those entrusted with proclaiming and witnessing to that love, and about the authenticity of the power structures within the Catholic Church—a Church to which, somehow, I still long to remain loyal. Loyal in the way a child is expected to trust the parents who promised to love their children without condition and without end.

And so once again, I find myself praying and pleading for peace of mind, for healing, and for the strength I need to be faithful and true to that so-called loving God whom, so long ago, I was taught to trust and to believe in with the pure submission of my heart, my mind, and my soul.

God help me, please.

I cannot change what happened to me. I cannot erase the moments that tore my innocence from me, nor the shadows that have haunted my life now for so many years. But I can honor the truth. I can name what was done. I can refuse to lie for the sake of appearances or to protect those who broke what they were entrusted to safeguard. And this not only for my own sake, but also for the sake of others who have been harmed—those abused, neglected, abandoned, or forsaken by a Church or by Church leaders who have failed to live the very mission they were ordained to serve.

And if there is any grace left for me to discover, it will be found not in forgetting, but in living honestly—in refusing to hide beneath the silence that once imprisoned me.

My story is not only a story of harm. It is also the story of one still standing, still questioning, still seeking, still yearning for God despite every reason to turn away. If there is redemption for me, it will be because I dared to SPEAK.

And so…

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A Prayer from the Wounded Heart

O God, if you are indeed there—if your love is not merely a story whispered to children—then look upon me in my weariness and do not turn away. I am tired of carrying memories I never chose, burdens I never deserved, and questions that still echo through the chambers of my soul. If you truly are the God I was taught to trust in my earliest days, then hold me like your child. If you are the healer proclaimed in scripture, then touch the wounds I once hid for too long. If you are the shepherd who seeks the lost, then find me now—in the evening hours of my life—and take me gently back into the trustworthy and oft-proclaimed safety of your fold.

Do not let my story end in bitterness. Do not let my spirit collapse under the weight of what others have done. Give me peace… a peace that has, in truth, eluded me for so many years.

And if you still desire my service to your people—bruised, broken, and weak though I may be—then let me offer it with love. And I ask you: make of it something you can redeem.

Amen.

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A Survivor’s Prayer

May the God who saw me as a child, who walked with me through shadows I did not understand, and who now beholds me in the later years of my life, grant peace to my soul.

May God lift from me the weight that was never truly mine to bear.

May God breathe peace into what has been torn.

And may God gather me, at last, into the love I once believed without doubt, question, or pause.

Amen.

Eucharistic Particles: Reverence, Reality, and the Humility of God

Eucharistic Particles: 

Reverence, Reality, and the Humility of God

A Theological Reflection by Friar Timothy Dore, OFM Conv.

Introduction

Among certain circles of highly “orthodox” and conservative Catholics, there exists an intense concern regarding even the smallest fragments of the Eucharist. Some believe that if a particle of the consecrated host should fall to the ground—however inadvertently—that it constitutes a dreadful event. Such a particle, they argue, must be rescued immediately and the spot “purified,” perhaps with a purificator and with other ritual gestures, to restore reverence.

I am aware of people who hold such convictions with sincerity and devotion. Yet as a Franciscan friar and priest, I find myself drawn to a more incarnational understanding of reverence—one grounded in trust, humility, and joy in the mystery of the Word made flesh.

An Incarnational Perspective

In my mind, it is unnecessary to be anxious over small particles that are practically invisible to the naked eye—those that may find their way into the fibers of a carpet or drift unseen to the floor. Isn’t it absolutely true that Jesus can take care of himself (or to put it in much more colloquial language: “Jesus is a big boy”) and that “he can handle it”?

Christians believe nothing can diminish or take away from the glory of God.  Isn’t this still true if a small fragment of the Body of Christ (i.e., from a Communion host) somehow lands even on a so-called “unclean surface” of one sort or another? What difference does it make? In truth, none at all. Instead of lamenting such an occurrence, perhaps we might consider it to be an opportunity to rejoice in the reminder of what the Eucharist truly is: the Son of God who first entered our world in vulnerability and humility in the womb of a poor, unknown young woman named Mary, and who was born in a stable at Bethlehem and given a resting place in an out of the way and lowly spot while there as a tender and defenseless infant.  And all of this was done in order to demonstrate the Father’s great love!  Jesus was born into lowliness for us—even though we are not perfect, even though we are sinners, and ultimately because he wanted to save us from our own weaknesses, our sins, and even death itself.

If God himself, in the person of the Baby Jesus was content to rest among straw and dust, and even among the fleas and rodents that surely were present in that animal shelter, then the divine presence certainly can endure resting, unseen, in the humble fibers of a carpet or some other similarly modest place. To me, that image is not scandalous—it is rather profoundly beautiful.

Reconsidering Reverence

As a priest who celebrates the Eucharist nearly every day, I know well the importance of treating the sacred species with care and love. Still, if a tiny particle should flick from the paten and disappear, I trust that the Lord who created heaven and earth can take care of himself.

Respectfully, I wish to take issue with those who insist that reverence requires frantic recovery of every microscopic crumb. To me, reverence is not measured by the intensity of our scrupulosity but by the depth of our faith. It can be equally reverent to entrust the fragment to God’s providence, recognizing that the Eucharist is not a fragile object needing rescue but the living Christ who has chosen to dwell among us.

Indeed, to allow that fragment to rest upon the earth is to imitate the very act of God in the Incarnation: the eternal Word becoming flesh and entering into creation’s messiness. That, I believe, is true reverence—imitating the humility of God.

Communion in the Hand

This same principle applies to the ongoing debate about receiving Communion in the hand. Some argue that this practice risks spreading tiny, unseen particles of the Eucharist, perhaps onto clothing, hymnals, pews, and other common objects people touch every day, and that this is irreverent. They therefore conclude that receiving on the tongue is the only proper expression of reverence and of safeguarding these sacred particles.

I can’t help but smile when I hear such reasoning. Who, after all, is the arbiter of reverence? Why would God not wish his people to take the very Body of Christ into their hands, when that same God once allowed his Son to be placed in a manger filled with dirt, hay, and the smells of animals?

To receive Christ in one’s hands is not an act of irreverence—it is a reaffirmation of the Incarnation itself. It acknowledges that God chooses to meet us where we are, in our humanity, in our need, and even in our imperfections.

The Real Issue: Power and Control, Not Reverence

At times, I sense that for some, such fervor may arise less from genuine concern for reverence and more from an understandable human tendency toward control—toward seeking security in rules rather than trust in grace. Beneath the surface of such arguments, there can be a desire to regulate and restrict, to exercise power through fear of sacrilege rather than to inspire love and trust.

But the Gospel reminds us that genuine reverence is born not of control but of freedom—the freedom to trust God’s presence in all things. The same Christ who humbled himself to be born among animals and straw is not offended by the humility of the world he came to redeem.

Conclusion

True reverence for the Eucharist does not reside in anxiety, fear, or hyper-vigilance. It resides in wonder, gratitude, and trust in the One who became flesh for our salvation.

If the Lord of the universe could choose a manger as his first resting place, then surely he can rest peacefully—even unseen—wherever chance or fate may take any part of his Most Sacred Body.

True Eucharistic reverence, then, is not fear but love—love that abides wherever searching and needy hearts hunger and thirst for his presence among us.

The View from my Window

 

 The View from my Window

After recently learning some additional thought-provoking history about where I currently reside at “Folly Quarter” in Howard County, Maryland, I will never gaze upon this view from my friary window in the same way . . .

This is what I see (see first photo above): 

The land up to the top of the hill and ending just before the visible farm buildings has been owned for more than a hundred years by the Conventual Franciscan Friars, the religious community to which I belong.  

The farm buildings are on the property of the University of Maryland Agricultural Farm.  The farm consists of about seven-hundred acres; the friary land three-hundred.  During the 19th century both tracts of land formed the “Folly Quarter,” a portion of Doughoregan Manor, a vast ten-thousand acre estate owned by Maryland Catholic signer of the U.S. Declaration of Independence, Charles Carroll of Carrollton.  

The “Folly Quarter” property was later gifted by Charles Carroll to his granddaughter Emily Caton McTavish (daughter of Mary Carroll Caton and Richard Caton - the wealthy developer of the Baltimore area today known as “Catonsville”).

In 1928, and after the friars purchased their portion of the “Folly Quarter” estate, they built the monastery-like friary structure where today I reside with several other Franciscan Friars.  

The original and recently restored “Folly Quarter” manor house known as “Carrollton Hall,” one-time home of Emily Caton McTavish and her husband John Lovat McTavish, still stands a short distance away from the friary on the property.  

What I have recently learned is that, up until the time of the U.S. civil war, the location of the farm buildings visible from my window once served as an encampment and home to enslaved Americans.  During the course of many years, hundreds of enslaved people who served the Carroll, Caton and McTavish families lived and labored where those farm buildings now stand.  

I now wonder what the ground would say if it could tell us the stories of the lives of those oppressed people who were forced into slavery, yet lived, loved, raised children, labored, had families and friendships, and who died without freedom on the land I now see nearly two hundred years later as I look out my window each morning.

I will never gaze upon this view in the same way . . .

 

+ Elizabeth Ann Murphy

 

+ Elizabeth Ann Murphy (d. 02/26/25)

+Liz and I were fellow victims of sexual abuse perpetrated by our Catholic middle school teacher John Merzbacher (we and unfortunately among many other classmates).

And just a stone’s throw away from Merzbacher’s classroom, beginning when I was 13 years old, I was put through unimaginable emotional, physical and sexual abuse at the hands of clergymen in the Our Lady of Good Counsel Church rectory.

The scars are deep and the lingering trauma lasts forever.

I don’t know, but I wonder if it’s possible for some within our church to have a sense of how much such experiences of abuse have lifelong impacts on the emotional health of such survivors.

One such impact is a never-ending and lingering distrust of men who hold “positions of power” within the hierarchical structure of the church . . .

Maybe these are subjects about which church leaders and bureaucrats, try as they may, but because of their obstinacy can’t ever really properly address? Maybe they aren’t able to have concern for things for which they’d rather just turn blind eyes, or perhaps about which they can never truly comprehend? I don’t know . . . , but these questions will forever perplex me!

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Liz was my friend: I knew her heart well, I knew she had great faith, and that she placed that faith in God, and not in men.

+Elizabeth: Rest in peace good and faithful servant!!

Liz’s funeral and the celebration of her life will take place at St. Francis Xavier Church, 13717 Cuba Road, Hunt Valley, MD, Saturday, March 8th at 1:00 p.m.

I will be there.

See Liz’s very poignant and heartbreaking obituary (with many references to her struggle with and within the Roman Catholic Church, and her own experience of abuse, recovery and hope) at the following link:

+Liz’s obituary:  https://www.peacefulalternatives.com/obituary/elizabeth-murphy

 
The article referenced in the attached photo: https://catholicreview.org/believe-us-survivors-express-anger-hope-following-release-of-attorney-generals-report/ 

+Elizabeth Ann Murphy

 

 REST IN PEACE:

This post is one of many tribute pages found on my blog created to honor significant family members, friends, and loved ones who have passed from this life to the next . . .

+ Elizabeth Ann "Liz" Murphy (middle school friend and survivor!)

Date/place of birth: March 10, 1961, Baltimore, Maryland

Date/place of death: February 26, 2025, Baltimore, Maryland

 

**See Liz's obituary at the following link: https://www.peacefulalternatives.com/obituary/elizabeth-murphy

 

– Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her. May her soul and all the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

 

Those Drug Addicts You're Judging

 

 

Those Drug Addicts You're Judging

This morning this image popped up on my social media feed . . .

I couldn’t agree more . . .

Unfortunately, I can now count the names of several people I’ve known who’ve met early deaths because of their enslavement to these types of substance dependencies. 😢

Without exception, I had the privilege of looking into the hearts of each one of them, and I can attest that they all were truly good people . . .

Others have survived . . .  

For those who still struggle, and who usually live with the despair of hopelessness, I pray everyday . . .

For those who have survived and have found recovery in their lives, I praise God, and I pray they may continue with courage and strength to face one day at a time, always with victory and never-ending perseverance . . .

I had to share this . . . 🙏 

 Friar Timothy