Chapter 10
It is a melancholy fact that many hundreds of Catholics live for years without ever seeing a Priest and die without receiving the Last Sacraments…
Before Joseph could serve at the altar, he had so much to learn: how to fill and swing a thurible; how to pour the cruets; how to hold a paten; how to hand the Priest his biretta; how to bow moderately and then profoundly.
There were many wrong ways to do these things, and there was a proper way.
It was like a mathematical formula: if they did everything right, the living God would come into their midst, would change the bread and wine into His own Body and Blood.
The other boys behaved as if serving were only a duty to be endured.
How could they not see what an honor and blessing it was, to assist every day in a miracle!
Father McEncroe was patient with all of them, and he praised Joseph’s pronunciation of Latin.
“When you speak,” the Priest told them, “remember that you represent the entire congregation.”
Joseph supposed Father McEncroe meant the coloreds in the gallery too.
Sometimes during Mass, when he was only standing or kneeling and waiting, Joseph would allow himself to look up.
Noisette was not as easy to pick out as Joseph had thought; the Frenchman’s skin was tawny from the sun, so he was darker than a few of the colored people.
Glance by glance, Mass by Mass, Joseph found the children who were also his slaves: Louis, his two older brothers, and a little girl with braided hair who often sucked her thumb.
A colored woman sat with them—that must be Celestine.
She and Noisette would sometimes lean their heads together and whisper.
“Celestine” was Latin for “heavenly.” There had been five Popes named Celestine. Joseph was thinking about this when Noisette’s Celestine approached the rail to receive Communion at Easter. Joseph realized she was expecting another child, and he nearly dropped the paten.
Mama spent weeks sewing Joseph a soutane and embroidering a surplice. The first time he wore them, she held his face in her hands and started weeping.
‘They fit me perfectly, Mama!’ Joseph assured her.
‘Yes, they do,’ she answered. ‘I am not crying because I am sad!’ Mama raised his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. ‘I have prayed for this since the day you were born. This is why Our Lord did not allow me to become a nun. I doubted Him then, but I understand now.’
Joseph did not think it was a good exchange. A nun’s vows were perpetual, and he would serve only a few years.
Sometimes, he was sorry to put on the soutane and surplice. He knew he should not mourn anyone who died in Christ. He should rejoice at such funerals. Still Joseph wished God had allowed Grandpapa to stay with them a little longer.
Grandpapa had been ill for years. The pain was worst when he relieved himself.
Papa said it was all because of a stone lodged inside him.
Finally Grandpapa allowed one of Papa’s doctor friends to cut it out.
(Papa was a physician, not a surgeon.) Everything went well, and Grandpapa seemed to be healing.
But three days after the surgery, he began shivering and sweating.
Neither Papa nor his friend could stop it.
Bishop England himself gave Grandpapa Extreme Unction, Absolution, and Viaticum. Grandpapa died without fear.
Joseph’s Uncle Bastien was not so blessed. That winter, Joseph returned from school to find Mama trying to comfort Grandmama on their piazza. Mama’s own eyes were red from crying.
‘Joseph, do you remember your Uncle Bastien?’ she asked. ‘You would have been six, seven years old when he went to North Carolina.’
Joseph recalled only a few things about his uncle, but he knew Papa, Mama, and Bastien had been inseparable when they were children. Unlike her sister, Mama’s brother had eagerly learned how to sign. Even after Uncle Bastien left Charleston, he corresponded faithfully.
‘Today we received a letter from his wife—his widow. There was an accident at his mill…’
‘It’s been months since Bastien last saw a Priest!’ Grandmama snatched up her handkerchief to blot her eyes and her nose.
‘You understand what this means, Joseph?’ Mama said with shaking hands. ‘Your uncle is in Purgatory, and he will be for a very long time unless we help him. Father McEncroe has already agreed to say the first Mass for Bastien tomorrow. You will pray for him too, Joseph?’
It didn’t seem fair. Why should a faithful Christian have to suffer for hundreds of years in Purgatory just because there wasn’t a Priest to give him the Last Sacraments? And if Uncle Bastien had committed a mortal sin with no chance to confess it…
Mr. Künstler joined their family at the first Mass for Uncle Bastien’s soul. When it was over, Joseph walked with his teacher to the seminary, letting Mr. Künstler lean on him as well as his cane.
“There are not nearly enough Priests in this diocese.” Joseph’s teacher shook his head. “And those who do come leave almost as quickly.”
“Why don’t they stay?”
“There are many reasons,” Mr. Künstler sighed.
“America is still a missionary country. The congregations are small and usually poor, so they have trouble supporting a Priest. Many of the Priests can’t speak English well.
Our diocese has an added obstacle: the peculiarity of our climate.
‘Stranger’s fever’ is called that because it is most fatal to new arrivals.
Some never recover, and those who do suffer relapses, like Bishop England.
To a European Priest, coming to our Southern states is an exile if not a death-sentence. ”
Joseph hadn’t thought of their country that way. It sounded as bad as Africa or China.
“As Dr. England has said many times, what we need is a native clergy. That’s why he established this seminary.
” They passed through its door. Once, it had been only a house.
“You understand that the school for boys your age, the minor seminary, is meant to support the major seminary? Financially for now, but soon—we hope—pupils will continue from the one to the other.”
Most of the other boys weren’t even Catholic. They came to the school because their parents had few other choices. His Protestant classmates complained about it while they mocked Joseph for wanting to kiss the Pope’s feet.
It was early yet, so the classroom he and Mr. Künstler entered was still empty.
“A native clergy is essential if we are ever to convert our separated brethren. Protestants view us with suspicion at best. They see that we are mostly immigrants, and they are convinced that we serve the Pope first, that we’ll never be truly American.
” Joseph’s teacher sat heavily in the chair he kept at the front of the room.
“We need Priests who understand American democracy and language, who have grown up in this climate. But there are so few American vocations. And a Priest born in this city of Sybarites—well, he would be a true rara avis.” Mr. Künstler rubbed his bad leg, but he smiled.
“Can you tell me the origin of that expression?”
“Sybarites or rara avis?”
“Do you know both?”
Joseph nodded eagerly. He always paid attention during lectures.
“Sybaris was a wicked city in ancient Italy, like Sodom and Gomorrah—so a Sybarite is someone who lives only for luxury and pleasure.” Mr. Künstler looked very proud of him, so Joseph continued: “Rara avis comes from Juvenal. Literally it means ‘rare bird.’ He was talking about a black swan. For centuries, people thought they didn’t exist.”
“Technically, Juvenal was talking about a perfect wife—he said such a woman was as rare as a black swan!”
Joseph knew Mr. Künstler was still a bachelor. Was that why? He’d never found his rara avis?
Joseph realized the humor had drained from his teacher’s face.
“I know you weren’t born in America, Joseph, but you’re very nearly a native.
” Mr. Künstler was staring at him in the strange, expectant way adults often stared at him.
“Surely God has been calling you to the Priesthood? Have you been listening?”
Joseph could hardly breathe. “M-Me?”
A few days ago, as Joseph extinguished the altar candles, Father McEncroe had commented: “I think you have a vocation, Joseph.” He’d said it so warmly and casually, Joseph had assumed Father McEncroe simply meant assisting him.
When Mama had wept and kissed his hand to see him in his soutane and surplice, when she told him she’d been praying for this… She’d meant the Priesthood too. He hadn’t been listening.
Joseph had dreamed about becoming a Priest—of course he had.
He dreamed about it every day when he watched Father McEncroe raise the Host, or when he heard Bishop England preach.
But he wasn’t like them. He was a terrible sinner.
Surely they never had impure thoughts. Joseph felt unworthy even washing a Priest’s hands.
And he was not as brave as his great-granduncle Denis, who had died rather than renounce his faith.
But Joseph wanted to be brave like that.
“Yes, Joseph,” Mr. Künstler assured him. “I’ve seen you when you’re serving at Mass. You make it look effortless—like you belong there. When you say, ‘I will go to the altar of God, Who gives joy to my youth,’ you mean it, don’t you?”
Joseph nodded. His Protestant classmates—and most of the Catholic boys—cared only about new clothes, impressing girls, hunting, and card games. Nothing important. Nothing that would last. Joseph wanted to be useful like Papa. But even Papa’s medicine wouldn’t last for all eternity.
“Envy is a grave sin,” Mr. Künstler mused, “yet I envy you, Joseph—the chance you have. I wanted desperately to be ordained myself.” His expression darkened, and he stared down at his club-foot.
“But a Priest cannot be damaged. He must be perfect.” Mr. Künstler drew in a deep breath and laid his hands on Joseph’s shoulders.
“You are an exceptional young man, Joseph. You would make an exceptional Priest. Promise me you will pray about it, and listen for God’s voice? ”
Joseph nodded. He still couldn’t breathe.