Advice to a Young Priest
The illusion of one being
perpetually young was shattered in my case recently when a publishing firm
asked me to write some advice to a young priest from the perspective of an
elder. For me, youth was a permanent state. I was the very youngest in my
college class and, in my Anglican years, at twenty-six I was the youngest
parish rector in the nation. So defensive was I about this, that at my
installation I had a friend, who eventually became a United States senator,
read for the first lesson: “Let no man despise thy youth… (1 Tim. 4:12).” That
was in the days of Beatle haircuts and my self-assurance was not affirmed when
one lady remarked upon seeing me in an elaborate cope at Evensong, that I
looked like the Infant of Prague.
These
years later I find it difficult to recognize that I am of “a certain age” and have
been asked to speak from the platform of senior experience to those younger,
but that is the case and the reality, and so I can pass along some thoughts
about the parish priesthood which, had I known then what I know now, would have
made those years easier, but less of an adventure. I copy here a small bit of
the advice I passed along to that publisher.
Characteristics of a
Well-run Parish
First of all, a good shepherd can say after the Sublime Model of pastors: “I know my sheep and my sheep know me (John 10:14).” It is good to cultivate a gift for remembering names, and I regret that I never had that gift to cultivate to begin with. In defense, remembering faces and voices and the ups and downs of people’s lives is more important. There are those who amaze others with an ability to remember names, as if it were some sort of parlor trick, but they never get behind the name. Wherever the parish is, big or small, it will have various identifiable personality types, and the good pastor will quickly identify them, remembering all the while that however attractive and helpful or dismaying and belligerent, Christ died for each of them, and the pastor will be accountable for each of the on the Day of Judgment. If a parish priest is available in crises, is at sick beds and mourns with those who mourn, he will be absolved of minor disagreements with the flower guild and finance committee. If he forgets their names, what counts is that the faces of those who have departed will pass before him on the first two days of November.
First of all, a good shepherd can say after the Sublime Model of pastors: “I know my sheep and my sheep know me (John 10:14).” It is good to cultivate a gift for remembering names, and I regret that I never had that gift to cultivate to begin with. In defense, remembering faces and voices and the ups and downs of people’s lives is more important. There are those who amaze others with an ability to remember names, as if it were some sort of parlor trick, but they never get behind the name. Wherever the parish is, big or small, it will have various identifiable personality types, and the good pastor will quickly identify them, remembering all the while that however attractive and helpful or dismaying and belligerent, Christ died for each of them, and the pastor will be accountable for each of the on the Day of Judgment. If a parish priest is available in crises, is at sick beds and mourns with those who mourn, he will be absolved of minor disagreements with the flower guild and finance committee. If he forgets their names, what counts is that the faces of those who have departed will pass before him on the first two days of November.
This is
more important than being amiable, and indeed it is the very opposite of false
amiability. The “jolly good guy” kind of pastor can be an irritant. Such a
caricature of agape recalls the indelible image of the happy clown on the
circus midway, who is all confusion underneath. It is prudent not to equate the
dignity of sacramental office with the way a man exercises it, and it is wise
indeed to be especially careful not to think that Christian joy is the same as
the self-conscious jollity and even buffoonery with which some clerics
camouflage their discomfort with the Truth of Christ. Ministers of the Gospel
are not used car salesmen whose heartiness is a mile wide and an inch deep. A
bemused layman told me that a bishop joked with him, but turned away like a
startled deer when asked an important question. The Lord himself was betrayed
with a cold kiss, and stared back with unfathomable eyes.
While
the daily schedule is busy and often derailed by pastoral emergencies,
preparing homilies should be a weeklong job, starting out with reflection of
the forthcoming Gospel. Prayerful meditation is the paramount form of
reparation. The Internet is a resource unique to the present generation that an
older parish priest might wish he had when he began his priesthood. The real
challenge is “discernment of spirits” because often there is too much
information to draw on, and not all of it provides worthy insights. For some
decades “story telling” was a fad in homiletics. Surely the Parables are the
best stories, but grasping for illustrative images, let alone belabored humor
which are not witty at all, should be avoided. The best stories are the lives
of the saints and historical events. If a preacher is hard pressed, he need
only relate the story of a saint. That never fails. Christ is the Lord of
History and the neglect of history in a priest’s formation is one of the
serious deficiencies of our time.
Looking
back on decades as a parish priest, a chief regret is the amount of time wasted
in meetings. The less the churchman knows what he is doing, the more meetings,
seminars, conferences, and conventions he will summon or attend. Meetings are
the opiate of the bureaucrat. They should be avoided as much as possible. A new
generation, happily, has less time for these indulgences than did the members
of religious orders in their decline, and chanceries and parish councils.
As
years pass, the priest begins to realize, too, how wanderlust can be a
seductive kind of escapism. The current pope has said, “Avoid the scandal of
being airport bishops.” This applies as well to priests. The Lord calls men to
“become” priests because he wants them to “be” priests. The holy Curé d’Ars
spent his entire priestly life in one parish. While there is some cogency to
term limits for parish priests, there is also much to be said for stability. A
priest looking ahead to another parish, like a bishop with his eye on another
diocese, is like an alderman aiming at a governorship, and a governor with his
eyes on the White House. The man becomes so circumspect in his actions that he
fears making waves, and by so doing he starts to drown. Saint John Chrysostom
used another maritime metaphor in his disdain for careerists when he said that
if a priest trims his sails in the interest of preferment, he will not know how
to be a prophet when he gets what he wanted.
The
Holy Mass is the heart of the Christian life, but to be that, it must proceed
from the Sacrament of Confession. With exquisite subtlety the Risen Christ
prompted Peter to confess before he sent him out to offer the Eucharist to the
heart of the empire. The parish priest should not let a day pass without some
time in the confessional, and if no one shows up, that time can be one of
prayer, and eventually the people will come. Weekly confession should be the
goal for the priest himself. Often the Anti-Christ will tempt the priest to
absent the confessional for one reason or another just before a seriously
burdened penitent is about to ask to be heard. Humble confessions heard in the
sacred tribunal often inspire the priest beyond anything the penitent could
understand. Humility is never discouraged by a good examination of conscience,
for the Good Physician always has a cure for sickness of soul, be it a defect
of the intellect or a weakness of will. Over the decades, I have had the great
encouragement of real saints, most of them unacknowledged but a few of them
already canonized. Once as a student in Rome I was running out of breath during
a 7.5 kilometer race, but I got a second wind when some friends along the
street cheered us runners on. I have come to hear the voices of saints like
that many times. Sometimes we may be hearing “angels unawares” (Hebrews 13:2).
The Discourager is never Christ but always the Anti-Christ. As he is haunted by
God, he lurks in the holiest places in the holiest moments. I used to be
rattled when he caused distractions, sometimes lurid ones, at Mass. It is
permissible to curse him privately in such moments. Better yet, mock him, for
mockery poisons the pride of which he is the prince.
It may
not take long for the newly ordained priest to perceive that in some clerical
quarters, honesty is not the instinctive culture. This is more than a defect:
it is a blasphemy among those consecrated to Christ whose “word is truth” (John
17:17). I allude to this gingerly as a delicate matter, for mentioning it
without qualifications risks calumny, but long experience has accustomed me to
being told by churchmen of high rank, things that “do not conform to the
truth.” That is ecclesiastical jargon for simple lying. Sometimes it is pious
dishonesty in the form of falling silent when asked a direct question. A forthright
cardinal told me that lying was the normal policy among those on his staff and
they simply stared at the floor when challenged. Attached to this dishonesty is
the infection of gossip and envy. Brothers in Christ should nurture and promote
the various talents of their fellows for the prosperity of the Gospel. Such is
not an untutored habit among all of the brethren. Insecurity prefers mediocrity
over excellence.
The
younger priests should learn first of all that these temptations are backhanded
compliments by Satan whose hatred of priests has scorched every century one way
or another. In these matters it would be unrealistic to expect more of bishops
than one expects of oneself. The young priest sobered by a history older than
himself, will remember modern bishops who were serious men: for instance,
heroes in the German Church like Michael von Felhauber, Clemens August von
Galen, Konrad von Preysing and Josef Frings, while some others were satisfied
to adjust to those barbaric times. As remedy for cynicism, it is well to
remember what was said by Saint John Fisher upon realizing that he was the only
bishop in the Tudor realm willing to speak truth to power and to die for it:
“The fort is betrayed even of them that should have defended it. And therefore
seeing the matter is thus begun, and so faintly resisted on our parts, I fear
that we be not the men that shall see the end of the misery.” The parish priest
will not let the timidity of some distract him from the stoic grandeur of
Ignatius and Polycarp and sturdy bishops through the present years:
Pierre-Marie Gerlier in the secret catacombs of Lyons, Bishop Patrick Byrne
dying in the snows of Korea, and Nguyen Van Thuan isolated in a Vietnamese
prison, for they are the true successors of all but one of the apostles.
Having
spent years in Rome, I am immeasurably grateful for the experience, and in no
little measure because it sobered me with the realization that the Church’s
supernatural character is not understood without the revelation of her human
character with both its virtues and flaws. The priest’s love for the Church is
rooted in sacrifice and not romanticism, lest her wrinkles and scars, as the
years progress, dismay the priest’s bond with the Bride of Christ. I have
profited much from the words and wisdom of Ronald Knox whom I think was the
finest preacher of the twentieth century, and whose singularly original
insights will rescue any priest preparing his homilies in uninspired hours, and
so I have come to understand more profoundly his explanation for rarely
visiting Rome: “He who travels in the Barque of Peter had better not look too
closely into the engine room.”
There
is no flattery in God’s choice of a man to act in his name. “But the foolish
things of the world hath God chosen, that he may confound the wise; and the
weak things of the world hath God chosen, that he may confound the strong” (1
Cor. 1:27). The parish priest is sent by the Lord to catch souls. As a priest
gets older, he may be tempted in the manner of fishermen to exaggerate the size
of his catch, or to regret when the net is empty. On the Last Day he cannot lie
to the Righteous Judge who asks, “Children, have you caught anything…?” Our
reply may be barren, but we will notice with astonishment that he calls us
Children, even though the world has called us Father. Then, like a burst of
light, it will dawn that he is the High Priest and we were fathers only because
of his elegant condescension and delegation. He makes great beyond counting
what was our very poor catch, because if we have saved one soul in all our
feeble years, it will be to him as if we had brought the whole world to him.
No comments:
Post a Comment