In the Desert Wilderness of Prison, a Priest Meets the Devil

After forty-four years of priesthood, thirty-two of them in the darkness of unjust imprisonment, my faith has been sorely tested but I remain a priest in full.

June 10, 2026 by Father Gordon MacRae

Note from Father MacRae: My friend, Pornchai Moontri and I are indebted to Rebecca Virelles for her fine reflection on my life as a priest and prisoner published here last week. It caused me to reconsider this post about a demonic encounter first written in 2023. So much of the aftermath of that story has evolved, and new information has caused me to want to delve into it again. As Rebecca has described in last week’s post, Pornchai Maximilian and I have been on a road less traveled, and now we are far along that road. Your prayers, support and openness to the truth we tell have been the greatest Gospel witness for us.

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In 1945, at the end of World War II and eight years before I was born, the film, Going My Way swept the Academy Awards for Best Picture, Best Director, Best Screenplay, and Best Musical Score. The film about a Catholic priest and his efforts to save a dying urban parish was a huge box-office hit in 1945. Bing Crosby won the Best Actor Oscar for his role as Father Chuck O’Malley, a young priest with a golden voice sent to revitalize a quickly fading parish. Barry Fitzgerald won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor in the role of the elderly pastor, Father Fitzgibbon. It was a different Church, a different time, and a very different world.

Bing Crosby’s character, Father Chuck O’Malley, saved the day and the parish when he organized a neighborhood gang of street kids into a “bit rough around the edges” choir. Father O’Malley then composed a hit song and taught them to sing it. “Swinging on a Star” topped the charts and won the Oscar for Best Song. The young men saved the church while Father O’Malley saved them. Going My Way also swept the Golden Globe and New York Film Critic Awards.

Now jump ahead 60 years. In 2005 another film about Catholic priests won the Academy Award for Best Picture and won The Boston Globe an ill-conceived Pulitzer for “Public Service.” That scornful film was Spotlight, a one-sided, jaded, cynical effort to smear the Catholic Church and priesthood with a broad brush as “slayers of the soul.” The critics and media were delighted, but one brave journalist, JoAnn Wypijewski, performed a much-needed autopsy on it. Though I never figured into the film, I had a strong presence in its autopsy in “Oscar Hangover Special: Why “Spotlight” Is a Terrible Film.”

The 60-year period in between Going My Way and Spotlight saw perhaps the greatest cultural shift the Western World had ever known. Our news media turned left, and the left became its master. Then the Second Vatican Council radically altered the world’s view of the Church. Then Roe v Wade happened and the not-yet-woke Church came down on the side of life. All the attacks hence were really about Roe v Wade. Then the “woke” were born.

On June 5, 1982, as this rapid descent in the world’s view of the Church and priesthood was well into its decline, I was the sole candidate for priesthood ordination in the Diocese of Manchester, New Hampshire. How I got to that point is a longer story that I have never been able to fully comprehend. In hindsight, it has elements of the demonic, and I will get back to that.

There is for now a “rest of the story” fully known only to one other person, and that person has since passed from this life. In 1977 and 1978, I spent long hours with this story in the company of Father Benedict Groeschel. Before he became a founder of the Friars of the Renewal (CFR), we were members of the same Capuchin Franciscan Province based in New York. Father Groeschel was aware of all that had happened, and he listened intently to its impact on me. In 1978, he and I together discerned a different path that I had to take. I will get back to that too, but first back up a few years.

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Priesthood in the Coming Cancel Culture

At the age of twenty-one, four years after my high school graduation, I entered the novitiate of the Capuchin Order in 1974. I felt immediately that I was on the right path in life. I did not have much of a family life growing up, and the Capuchin emphasis on life in community drew me in. I also strongly believed that I had a vocation to religious life. One of my friends in the Order grew up in an orphanage, and, like him, I treasured the accountability and support of a religious community that many others took for granted.

I was also a very good student. I had carried a double major in psychology and philosophy on a scholarship at Saint Anselm College in New Hampshire. I thought I had a perfect balance of intellectual growth, spiritual life, and physical work. When I was not studying, I chopped firewood for long hours each day. A lot of stress was vented, and some wounds long neglected began to heal.

I loved my Capuchin community and I developed many close friendships among its members. Two of those friendships were with classmates from the Western Pacific Island of Guam. We were the same age and often studied together. I learned a great deal about the home and culture they left behind on the far side of the world. At that time, Guam was a mission territory for the Order and several members of our Capuchin province were assigned there. I began to discern that Guam might be where my future lay, so I began to study its culture and native language, Chamorro.

Then tragedy struck. It blindsighted me and forever altered my path. Being far from home for long periods of time had an effect on my friends. One of them began to exhibit signs of extreme stress manifested in paranoia. One night he knocked on my friary door awakening me at 3:00 AM. He was very upset and shaken, and he asked me to come to his room. I went with him and found there a kitchen knife impaled in his mattress with a typed note threatening his life.

My friend was very shaken by this, and I remained with him until dawn and then took him and the evidence to the room of our religious superior. My friend was questioned at length while I remained outside the room. Similar incidents occurred on two more occasions over the next few weeks. I told the local superior of my growing concern that my friend was under extreme stress, and I believed that he had been doing this to himself and needed immediate help.

On the next day, I was again summoned to the office of the superior. I was summoned alone. Accompanied by two other senior members of the Order, he accused me of plotting to murder my friend. I could not fathom what was behind this, but I insisted that my friend was under extreme stress and had been doing this to himself. I insisted that he needed immediate help. Then the superior revealed that he had in his hands the ribbon from my typewriter where the threatening notes had clearly been typed — but not by me.

Under obedience, for the next two weeks I was confined to my quarters and forbidden from speaking with anyone else. I was going through final exams for the semester in that same week. I excelled in them, but to this day I do not know how. This all happened in the spring of 1977.

At the end of those two weeks, the local superior summoned me again. One priest on the formation staff had been skeptical of the story and its outcome, so he spent a few nights in the friary library from where he could observe my friend’s room from a distance. On one of those nights he saw him come out of his room, return with a knife, and then plunge it with another note into his own mattress. My friend was then taken away.

The superior who later summoned me again told me only that his investigation was complete, and that he concluded that I had nothing to do with these events except that I was a friend of the other Capuchin. “You should just forget about all this and keep doing what you’ve been doing,” he said. And it was over.

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Still in the Eye of the Storm

But it wasn’t really over. Because I was barred from discussing these incidents, no one else in the Province was told the truth of this story or its outcome. All anyone knew was that my friend disappeared in the night, and I had been a suspect. I was also very concerned for my friend. I had not been able to learn any of what had happened to him, or why it happened, or where he went. To protect him from any further exposure, I told only one person, about this story and what I knew to date. That person was Father Benedict Groeschel, a psychologist and respected member of the Province. Among all the feelings of betrayal, injustice, and anger at the rush to judgment, I was first and foremost heartbroken.

When I learned that my friend had typed these notes on my typewriter while I was away and then carried out these assaults upon himself just as I had feared, I was furious — not with him but with those in authority in the Order who would not listen because their minds were already made up. I never saw or heard from my friend again, and I never learned what was behind his pleading cry for help made through me. I also never learned what became of him.

I was 24 years old then. I am nearly 74 now, and I still carry this after all these years. I also had no idea then that such devastating false witness would be repeated in my life 15 years later as a diocesan priest.

In 1978, one year after the events described above, the Province gave a strong recommendation, under the direction of Father Groeschel, in support of my decision to transfer to studies toward diocesan priesthood. In the ensuing years, I completed a Master of Divinity degree and Pontifical degree in Sacred Theology at Saint Mary’s Seminary and University in Baltimore. As written above, I was ordained for the Diocese of Manchester on June 5, 1982. There was one other candidate for ordination that year, but he dropped out just weeks before being ordained.

The story about my friend from Guam stayed buried for the next 42 years. Then, in 2019, a previously unknown factor in the story was revealed to me. A Capuchin priest from my former Province came to this prison for Mass and asked to speak with me after. He told me that he remembered this incident and hoped that I did not. I told him that my life was radically altered as a result of it. He said that he felt partially responsible. He had been pursuing a sabbatical study in Sacred Scripture at Harvard Divinity School in 1977, the same year as the events above. My uncle, a Jesuit priest and renowned Scripture scholar was a faculty member at Harvard at that time, and they had a chance meeting.

I mentioned earlier that there were hints of the demonic in this story. It was in the form of events that were set up like dominoes intended to fall in just the right way and at just the right time to steer this story.

My uncle approached the Capuchin priest at Harvard and asked him if he and I were in the same province. The Capuchin said that we were, and my uncle inquired about how I was. The events written above had all taken place in just the two previous weeks in 1977, but my uncle knew nothing of what had transpired in those weeks. The Capuchin told my uncle about these events, but this was before the discovery that I was not the cause of them. Upon hearing this partial story, my uncle shared with the Capuchin that I had a difficult life growing up in a home and family destroyed by alcoholism. My uncle expressed to the Capuchin that he was glad to know that I had the support of a religious community.

Forty-two years later, the Capuchin priest told me that he shared my uncle remarks with the leaders of my Province in 1977. It was what my uncle innocently divulged that caused the Capuchin superior and Provincial staff to jump to a conclusion that I must have been the deranged person responsible for the threatened acts of violence against my friend from Guam.

Gauging my reaction upon learning of this 42 years later told me how much the wounds left by these incidents still festered. Everyone in this account — the Capuchin priest, my Jesuit uncle, even my accusing religious superiors — all believed they had acted in what they thought was my best interest balanced with that of my friend. The betrayal did not belong to any one person, but I was the only one in this scene who knew of its insanity and acted to save my friend. Forty-two years later, my feelings of anger and betrayal smoldered anew.

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Haunting Echoes from the Past

In 1994, as you know, I was falsely accused again and faced trial with no evidence or corroboration beyond the jaded suspicions of a police officer now known to have been corrupt. Journalist Ryan A. MacDonald wrote of this account in “Police Misconduct: A Crusader Cop Destroys a Catholic Priest.” The demonic dominoes continued to fall.

After being so accused again, echoes of how helpless and oppressed I was during the first such encounter decades earlier were still with me. I became, perhaps understandably, despondent, and again I could reach out to no one. At the time, it was more than I could bear, and I fell. You can read about this in a post that has been in plain sight since I wrote it in 2017. It is, “How Father Benedict Groeschel Entered My Darkest Night.” I could have added the words, “… for the Second Time.”

In September, 2022, I wrote an article in these pages that shocked readers around the world. It might have shocked them a lot more had they known of the crucible of memories I had to face and set aside in order to write it when no one else could. It is a centerpiece of my priesthood. Had I not gone through everything described in this post, I would not have been wounded enough, wise enough, or strong enough to become for another the saving grace that Father Groeschel had become for me.

It was a story long overdue, but justice required it. I meticulously researched it and then wrote it. It is about events in the life of my friend, Pornchai Moontri, and it has eerie echoes of the past. The article is “Getting Away with Murder on the Island of Guam.”

I mentioned earlier that this story has elements of the demonic. I wrote of the devil’s ominous stage presence here, a presence that tips over the dominoes to great effect at just the right time and in just the right way. The post I wrote about this is “Saint Michael the Archangel Contends with Satan Still.” We will link to it again, and to other posts described here, at the end of this post. For now, Pornchai Moontri and I have both followed the advice of Saint Peter:

“Cast all your cares on the Lord for he cares for you. Stay sober and alert for your opponent the devil is prowling like a roaring lion seeking someone to devour. Resist him, steadfast in your faith, knowing that the same experience of suffering is required of your brethren throughout the world.”

— 1 Peter 5:7-9

On June 5, 2026, I marked 44 years of priesthood out here in the Oort Cloud, that distant region of space where, among our Solar System’s detritus, I encounter others cast out among the unwanted debris. Most of those I encounter here have suffered far greater wounds than my own.

Bing Crosby notwithstanding, priesthood has never been going my way. But I have done what is recommended in another post I wrote, “The Holy Spirit and the Book of Ruth at Pentecost.” I have mourned what was lost. I have let it ascend. And I surrender to the life, and priesthood, that I am called to live now. As I mark 44 years of priesthood in pursuit of the True Presence, in spite of all, the Lord has done great things for me, and perhaps even a few great things through me.

Note from Father Gordon MacRae: Thank you for reading and sharing this painful post, and these related posts:

Saint Michael the Archangel Contends with Satan Still

How Father Benedict Groeschel Entered My Darkest Night

Police Misconduct: A Crusader Cop Destroys a Catholic Priest

And for those Blessed among us who thirst for justice …

Getting Away with Murder on the Island of Guam

The Eucharistic Adoration Chapel established by Saint Maximilian Kolbe was inaugurated at the outbreak of World War II. It was restored as a Chapel of Adoration in September, 2018, the commemoration of the date that the war began. It is now part of the World Center of Prayer for Peace. The live internet feed of the Adoration Chapel at Niepokalanow — sponsored by EWTN — was established just a few weeks before we discovered it and began to include in at Beyond These Stone Walls. Click “Watch on YouTube” in the lower left corner to see how many people around the world are present there with you. The number appears below the symbol for EWTN.

Click or tap here to proceed to the Adoration Chapel.

The following is a translation from the Polish in the image above: “Eighth Star in the Crown of Mary Queen of Peace” “Chapel of Perpetual Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament at Niepokalanow. World Center of Prayer for Peace.” “On September 1, 2018, the World Center of Prayer for Peace in Niepokalanow was opened. It would be difficult to find a more expressive reference to the need for constant prayer for peace than the anniversary of the outbreak of World War II.”

For the Catholic theology behind this image, visit my post, “The Ark of the Covenant and the Mother of God.”

Old Max Moontri Had a Farm, EIEIO!

Having built with pick and shovel a 150 meter walkway on a property he landscaped, Pornchai Moontri spent his 50th Birthday plowing and planting an acre of farmland.

September 13, 2023 by Fr Gordon MacRae

I stumbled upon a late night TV movie recently — though I do not know the title — just as a young man was visiting his father in prison. I was late tuning into the film so the plot was not immediately clear. It seemed that the father was innocent of whatever crime sent him to prison and his son was very anxious to prove it. I was riveted to the scene. Through security glass where they conversed via monitored telephones, the father was urging his son to move on with his life and be free. The young man protested, “But I want YOU to be free!” His father replied, “My freedom is in witnessing yours.”

I pondered this for a few moments laying there in the dark of night in a prison cell. And then I began to cry. That was most unusual. In nearly 30 years of seeing my life implode from false witness, I can count on one hand the number of times I have shed even a single tear. It just isn’t in my nature to cry easily. I wrote once that women seem to cry much more easily than men. Perhaps men do not cry nearly enough.

That night I could not contain what was spilling out from within me. I realized with an emotional collision of joy and sadness that a part of me now compensates for my loss of freedom by witnessing it unfold in the life of Pornchai Moontri with whom I spent 15 years surviving in a prison cell. In that time, a bond of trust grew between us in a place where trust is the rarest of commodities. We became each other’s family, and the basis of our connection was always fatherhood. Pornchai never had a father. I spent the last forty one years being called one.

I was 20 when Pornchai was born, and on September 10 this week, he turned 50, so do the math. Fatherhood in this case was not an event, but a process. Over time, while learning the entire story of Pornchai’s tragic life, it gradually became my own life’s mission to secure his freedom even above my own.

Overtime, we encountered mystical connections in this bond. They include Divine Mercy and the intercessory graces of a Patron Saint who also surrendered his life in this life to save another. I do not fully understand these connections, but I know in my heart that they are there. Embracing fatherhood makes men see their lives differently. As I quoted in a recent post:

“When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways. Now we see dimly as in a mirror, but then we shall see face to face. Now I understand only in part, but then I shall understand fully even as I am fully understood.”

— 1 Corinthians 13:10-12

Three years after Pornchai’s deportation to Thailand, I still find myself, as any true father would, reveling in his freedom as though revisiting an inspired work of art that I somehow had a hand in creating. This was perhaps evident in our recent post about the earliest days of this blog and the first posts I wrote back then. Some readers told me that it made them cry as well, but not just from sadness. I hope you did not miss “Maximilian Kolbe: The Other Prisoner Priest in My Cell.”

A Passage to India

The interconnectedness of our lives did not suddenly end because of time and distance. In his final years here, Pornchai and I were the sole figures offering assistance to other prisoners facing deportation. Regardless of what anyone thinks about whatever offense brought them to this pass, deportation is often an inhumane nightmare impacting bonds within entire families.

One of the persons we assisted in navigating deportation was a young Cambodian man who was brought to the United States at age two. At age 22, he pled guilty to a petty crime without ever being told that doing so would result in his forced deportation. He spoke not a word of Khmer, the language of Cambodia. He was left in the city of Phnom Penh, and since then has disappeared.

One of our good friends here, Abishek, a native of India, had been in the United States for much of his adult life before some out-of-character and out-of-culture domestic dispute and breakup landed him in prison. As with most such situations, Abishek lost not only his freedom, but the entire infrastructure of his life. His close-knit family in India kept in contact from a great distance, but he leaned on Pornchai and me for moral support when he most needed it as the time of deportation approached.

In 2020, Abishek was understandably interested in the process Pornchai was facing because he knew he would soon face the same thing. He was alarmed to learn that Pornchai remained in the dismal custody of Immigrations and Customs Enforcement (ICE) for over five months at the height of the global Covid pandemic. I wrote of this ordeal in 2020 in “ICE Finally Cracks: Pornchai Moontri Arrives in Thailand.”

We hoped this process would be easier for Abishek once the pandemic receded, but that was not the case. He ended up serving six months beyond his prison sentence, but could not seek release because of the ICE hold on him. After waiting six months for ICE to act, I helped Abishek write to Regional ICE Headquarters in Burlington, Massachusetts. Just two weeks later, he was suddenly gone in the night. That was six months ago, and for all that time we assumed that he was safely back in India adjusting to freedom, family and a new life. We thought no news was good news.

But we were wrong. A few weeks ago when I called Pornchai in Thailand, he told me that he received a call at 1 AM during the night before. ICE detainees without resources get one free five-minute call per week. Abishek used it to call Pornchai in Thailand. It turned out that for six months since leaving this prison, Abishek was stranded just 50 miles away in a jail where ICE rents space for detainees awaiting deportation. Abishek was now one year past his prison sentence.

Pornchai and I were powerless to do anything directly so I sent an email message from the tablet in my cell in Concord, New Hampshire prison to Clare Farr, a trademarks attorney in Western Australia who helped Pornchai immensely. She then called Pornchai in Thailand who gave what little information we knew about our friend’s plight. Clare contacted the Indian Embassy in Canberra, Australia and conveyed all that we told her. The Indian Embassy in Australia then contacted the Indian Government which in turn contacted the Indian Consulate. Two weeks later, just days before I type this, Abishek’s odyssey came to an end. Thanks to the intervention of Clare Farr in Australia, Abishek is now reunited with his family in India.

The bizarre thread of this story is worth repeating. Indigent ICE detainees get one free five-minute phone call per week. From ICE detention in New Hampshire, Abishek called Pornchai Moontri in Thailand at 1 AM. Pornchai then contacted me in New Hampshire. I contacted Pornchai’s advocate, Clare Farr in western Australia, who then contacted the Indian Embassy in Canberra. Then the Embassy contacted the Indian Government in New Delhi, who contacted the Indian Consulate in New York instructing them to prepare Abishek’s travel papers and fax them to ICE in Burlington, Massachusetts. ICE then booked a flight for Abishek to get him out of ICE detention in New Hampshire. After a six-month delay, Abishek arrived in India two weeks after his free five-minute phone call to Thailand. We could not make this story up!

Chalermpon Srisuttor, Mayor of Phuviang, and Pornchai Moontri.

Pornchai Set His Heart on Plowing Furrows (Sirach 38:26)

As all of the above was going on, Pornchai sent me some photos of his finished, back-breaking work creating a 450-foot walkway on property he landscaped in Pak Chong, Thailand. I actually tried to talk him out of his next project, but as the quote from the Book of Sirach implies above, his mind was made up. Pornchai has not yet received any income from the work we described in “For Pornchai Moontri, Hope and Hard Work Build a Future.”

All his hard work is building hope for a future livelihood as Thailand builds a high-speed railroad with a depot in each of the places where Pornchai is working now. I have been sending him a small amount of money each month for food and expenses. It does not take a lot — $100 U.S. dollars equals about over 3,000 Thai baht at the current exchange rate. It helps Pornchai manage food and necessities for a month while waiting for the tourism season and rental housing customers.

Pornchai is no stranger to hard work so he decided to take on another project while waiting. About 250 miles north of Pak Chong, where Pornchai now lives in the District of Nakhon Ratchasima, is the village of Phuviang (Pu-vee-ANG) . It is the place where Pornchai was born, was orphaned, and then was taken from at age eleven. There is a lot of pain there. There is also a small house and piece of land that once belonged to his mother. The house was only half built when Pornchais Mother, Wannee, traveled to Guam to her death in 2000, an unforgettable story told in “Getting Away with Murder on the Island of Guam.”

Not far from that unfinished house is an acre or so of farmland that belonged to Wannee. Pornchai’s extended family cultivates rice nearby, so Pornchai decided to go up to Phuviang and plant a crop. It had to be something that he could plant and then leave alone. He chose to plant cassava, a crop that grows in Asian tropical zones and is self-sustaining until harvested.

The cassava plant grows up to about 8-feet in height and its edible roots are typically three inches in diameter and up to three feet long. The roots are akin to a sweet potato, and are a staple in some Asian countries. Ground into flour, cassava is also used to make sweet bread or cakes.

Growing cassava is easy, but planting it is an enormous amount of work. Cassava roots from a past crop have to be cut into smaller pieces and soaked in water for several days. The pieces are then planted along plowed furrows as in the photo atop this post. Pornchai is pictured there along with a local helper. The photo above was taken by Chalermpon Srisuttor, the Mayor and Town Manager of Phuviang who has become a friend to Pornchai — enough of a friend to help him plow and plant an acre of cassava!

The planting was finished just in time for Pornchai’s 50th birthday. I now want to remind him that when he arrived in Concord, NH from a long stint in solitary confinement in Maine in 2005, I had just turned age 52 while Pornchai was 32. He liked to circulate handmade birthday cards for our friends to sign for my birthday. They contained snarky little phrases like “Father G loves history so much because he was there for most of it!” and “Father G knows Latin because it was his first language!” Pornchai thought I was really old back then.

What goes around comes around! Happy Birthday, Max!

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Upper right: Chalathip Chiradomrong; Chalermpon Srisuttor, Mayor of Phuviang; and Pornchai Moontri. Lower left: Since Phuviang is very near to the Thailand headquarters of the Society of the Divine Word Order where Fr John Hung Le is local Superior, he stopped to spend an afternoon with Pornchai and even to pitch in a bit on the plowing and planting. Upper left and lower right: First signs of growth a few days apart.

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Note from Fr Gordon MacRae: Thank you for reading and sharing this post. You may also like these related posts from Beyond These Stone Walls:

Maximilian Kolbe: The Other Prisoner Priest in My Cell
ICE Finally Cracks: Pornchai Moontri Arrives in Thailand
For Pornchai Moontri, Hope and Hard Work Build a Future
Getting Away with Murder on the Island of Guam

The Eucharistic Adoration Chapel established by Saint Maximilian Kolbe was inaugurated at the outbreak of World War II. It was restored as a Chapel of Adoration in September, 2018, the commemoration of the date that the war began. It is now part of the World Center of Prayer for Peace. The live internet feed of the Adoration Chapel at Niepokalanow — sponsored by EWTN — was established just a few weeks before we discovered it and began to include in at Beyond These Stone Walls. Click “Watch on YouTube” in the lower left corner to see how many people around the world are present there with you. The number appears below the symbol for EWTN.

Click or tap here to proceed to the Adoration Chapel.

The following is a translation from the Polish in the image above: “Eighth Star in the Crown of Mary Queen of Peace” “Chapel of Perpetual Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament at Niepokalanow. World Center of Prayer for Peace.” “On September 1, 2018, the World Center of Prayer for Peace in Niepokalanow was opened. It would be difficult to find a more expressive reference to the need for constant prayer for peace than the anniversary of the outbreak of World War II.”

For the Catholic theology behind this image, visit my post, “The Ark of the Covenant and the Mother of God.”