Chapter 13
Among our Catholic negroes we sometimes find exemplary instances of that to them most difficult virtue,—purity. … negroes are, as a race, very prone to excesses, and unless restrained, plunge madly into the lowest depths of licentiousness.
Now more than ever before, Joseph knew he must become a Priest—if Holy Orders were even possible for a colored man. Was such hot blood capable of celibacy?
His sisters’ friends had started to peer at him and giggle, to look away shyly but invitingly. They seemed especially interested when Joseph was wearing his soutane and surplice. Little did they know what his vestments truly concealed.
In his encyclopedia on Saint-Domingue, Moreau de Saint-Méry had written: “The mulatto’s only master is pleasure.
” Some scholars argued that the Curse of Ham resulted not only from Ham disrespecting his father but also from Ham violating God’s command that everyone on the Ark remain continent.
Ham was the only one who disobeyed and lay with his wife, so his skin turned black to bear eternal testimony to his wickedness, and Ham’s descendants were cursed with servitude.
But weren’t Priests servants too? Wasn’t total devotion called “holy slavery”?
Joseph longed for a voice telling him what to do, for God to speak to him as He had to Noah and so many saints.
Because Joseph heard nothing, did that mean he didn’t have a vocation?
But he felt something when he served at Mass, or even kneeling alone before the altar of the cathedral as he was doing now.
Their Saint Finbar’s wasn’t a proper cathedral, the Grands had told him many times.
They had worshipped inside proper cathedrals in France.
Those were made of stone. Bishop England’s was of wood, small, squat, and shingled.
Its altar was simple, but it held what mattered: a Tabernacle—and inside it, the Real Presence of the living God.
That was what Joseph felt, rippling the still air: power and peace, something—Someone—that started outside him but filled him, exciting him into action. Surely that meant God was calling him.
But Joseph wanted words. He wanted God to cry out: “Whom shall I send?” so that Joseph could shout back: “Here am I, send me!”
Perhaps he was not showing sufficient humility. In the aisle of the cathedral, Joseph lay prostrate. He rested his forehead on his hands and begged for a sign.
“Take, Lord, all my liberty…” He had been following the Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius of Loyola. Joseph had recited this prayer so many times, he knew it by heart:
“Accept my memory, my understanding, my entire will. Whatsoever I possess Thou hast bestowed; to Thee, I surrender it wholly. Grant me only Thy love and Thy grace—with these I am rich enough and desire nothing more.”
He waited and waited. No answer came. Though he struggled against them, tears fought their way up behind his eyelids. “Accept me, please…”
Then Joseph did hear voices—and they seemed to be coming from the altar. He raised his head. He realized with disappointment that the voices were attached to bodies: Bishop England and Miss Joanna were standing outside the sacristy door.
She was carrying fresh altar cloths. His Lordship was reading his sister something from a newspaper, and he sounded angry. Framed by her mantilla, her face was a portrait of worry. Then Miss Joanna noticed Joseph and smiled.
“My lord!” Joseph pulled his legs beneath him in order to rise and honor his Bishop. But he hesitated. He should not cross the altar rail unless he was serving.
“Please, son—stay where you are.”
Joseph wished he were this man’s son, though he knew that was impossible.
“We didn’t intend to interrupt your devotions.” Bishop England folded his paper.
“You didn’t. I wanted…” Joseph remained kneeling, his eyes downcast. He wasn’t sure how to explain, so he greeted Miss Joanna instead.
She answered with her usual kindness. She set the clean altar linens on the priests’ bench and genuflected to Christ in the Tabernacle.
Then Miss Joanna went about her work, gathering the used altar cloths.
She handled the linens with utmost care because they might hold the remains of Christ’s Body.
His Lordship also genuflected before he passed through the altar rail. He sat in a pew and set his paper aside. “Can I help you at all?”
Joseph must begin somewhere. “My lord…I read about Pope Saint Calixtus, how he was born a slave. I know he wasn’t an African, but it made me wonder: Can a colored man become a Priest?”
“Of course. The Church has had a presence in Africa since the time of the Apostles. We have ordained many men there.”
His gaze on his knees, Joseph swallowed his disappointment and nodded. “A black Priest couldn’t serve here.”
Bishop England sighed. “Unfortunately, in this country, people would see only the color of his skin. They wouldn’t respect him.”
Joseph couldn’t ask about becoming a Priest himself, not today, or His Lordship might—
“If, on the other hand, his parishioners don’t know of his African heritage; if they believe his grandmother was Spanish, for example…”
Joseph sucked in a breath and his eyes snapped up.
His Lordship was smiling. Still he glanced across the altar rail at his sister (still busy with her task) before he whispered: “Your father told me, Joseph.”
Joseph’s first reaction was anger at his father, though relief soon replaced it. He no longer had to worry about concealing their secret, and he knew they could trust Bishop England. “A-A man’s blood doesn’t matter to the Church, then?”
His Lordship shook his head. “The Church welcomes everyone, whatever their origins. That’s why it’s called Catholic—universal, for all men.
You mentioned the Pope who was born a slave.
Pope Sixtus V, who finished the dome of St. Peter’s in Rome, was once a swineherd.
” Bishop England’s eyes rested on the paper beside him now, his dark brows pulled together.
“And do you understand, Joseph, that many people despise the Irish as much as they do blacks? I have heard my countrymen called ‘white negroes,’ even—if you’ll pardon me—‘niggers turned inside out.’ Many Englishmen and Americans view the Irish as a race of savages: filthy, indolent, ignorant, drunken, and helpless. ”
Joseph scowled. He’d heard negroes called all those same things.
“Perhaps you’ve seen some of the newspaper drawings.
The artists make us look like apes. Even the Irishwomen.
” Bishop England’s attention returned to Miss Joanna, who was folding the last soiled altar cloth.
She looked like an angel, or at least a saint.
“But God doesn’t see us the way men see us.
He sees an island of saints. He sees white souls beneath black skins.
He sees Popes in slaves and swineherds.”
“But there are men who can’t be Priests, aren’t there? No matter how badly they want it? Men like Mr. Künstler?”
His Lordship opened his mouth, hesitated, and then tapped the seat beside him. Joseph obeyed gratefully; his legs were falling asleep from kneeling so long on the bare floor.
“I know Mr. Künstler’s story must seem like a tragedy. But he’s found another way to serve.”
He was only a teacher. He wasn’t God’s representative on Earth.
“You must understand, Joseph: training a Priest takes at least a decade. It requires an enormous investment of time and resources. The Church must ensure that as many seminarians as possible will be able to serve for a lifetime. The duties of a Priest are exhausting even for someone in perfect health. An army cannot accept every soldier who wishes to join its ranks. Sometimes, unfortunately, ‘the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.’”
There were many kinds of fleshly weakness. Joseph glanced nervously toward Miss Joanna, who was laying out the new altar linens. Joseph lowered his voice. “Someone could be too wicked to be a Priest, couldn’t he?”
“He could, if he refuses to turn away from his wickedness.”
“How wicked is too wicked?”
“Are we talking about you, Joseph?” Bishop England’s words carried a lilt of amusement.
Joseph wished he understood why. He couldn’t meet His Lordship’s eyes. Here there was no confessional grille to separate this holy man from his own shame. At last Joseph whispered: “I have impure thoughts every day.”
“At your age, son, unfortunately that is normal.”
Joseph didn’t want to be normal.
“Time, self-discipline, and most of all grace will make those thoughts subside. Chastity isn’t something we accomplish on our own—it’s a divine gift.
You understand that with every Sacrament, God grants us a measure of His grace?
When a man becomes a Priest, God gives him the strength he needs to keep his vows.
Volition is what matters. Do you want to set aside the things of the world and choose the things of God? ”
Joseph nodded fiercely. He was afraid the tears might return. “I do.” When he raised his eyes, Bishop England was beaming.
“I have longed for this day!” He touched Joseph’s head the way his father used to do. From His Lordship, it felt like a blessing. “I knew Our Lord was calling you, Joseph. My sister and I have quarrelled over you more than once.”
Joseph too looked across the altar rail to where Miss Joanna stood grinning at him with her hand pressed over her heart.
“She insisted that I must let you come to me.”
“Wait till you hear what he has planned for you, Joseph!” With that, Miss Joanna gathered up the old linens and scurried back to the sacristy.
“My first question is this, son: Do you know any Italian?”
Was that a requirement for the Priesthood? Joseph shook his head.
“But your Latin is flawless, and I understand you’ve taught yourself some Spanish as well?”
“Yes.”
“Those will give you a good foundation. I am certain you will master Italian quickly. Your lectures and examinations will be in Latin, of course. But you will want to explore the city.”
“What city?”