A CURIOUS LESSON IN PASTORAL THEOLOGY
Just as the year 1906 was about to give its
parting salutations, it was my good fortune to get a practical lesson in
pastoral theology, the memory of which I shall cherish while I live. Mistake me
not, however. I do not mean that the incident I am about to relate is without
parallel, or that the like happens only in the lives of exemplary priests.
What I would say is that the experience was new
to me; it came so suddenly and unexpectedly that for the moment I lost my
mental moorings and looked for a tragedy where there was nothing but charity. I
was reminded, not of the prudence urged by able theologians, nor of the
suggestions and advice of seminary professors, but of what I had read in the
lives of the saints, and particularly of the conduct of St. Ambrose with the
Emperor Theodosius when the latter was publicly reproached for his misdeeds.
The occasion was a
funeral service.
Nothing out of the ordinary occurred until the final absolution had been given.
I was preparing to leave when a member of the choir whispered: “Wait. He is
going to preach.” “By no means,” I answered positively. The statutes of the
diocese forbid sermons at the obsequies of the laity; and, what convinced me
the more, this particular pastor is a strict observer of episcopal regulations.
My arguments were to the wind, as I heard him request the people to be seated.
Perhaps this is an exceptional case, I thought, and he has secured permission
to speak. The beginning was in no way different from the ordinary funeral
sermon; but when the conclusion was reached, I found it so unique
that I regretted not having paid closer attention to it all.
*******
In substance he spoke as follows:
Dear Brethren—Death is a subject that generally
appears in the abstract to us. It usually visits our neighbors. Sometimes,
indeed, it comes to our own houses and snatches away a brother or a sister, a
father or a mother, a husband or a wife, a son or a daughter. Then the thought
is brought home to us that our time must come; that the hour and the day are
uncertain; that a strict account is to be rendered sooner or later to an
omniscient God.
The imperative summons for the woman whose
remains are in this coffin came last Saturday. Her accounting is over now. By
this time she has seen what is recorded of her in the book of life; the good as
well as the evil works her hands had done from the dawn of reason until her
last breath were brought vividly before her, and the irrevocable sentence has
already been passed. It is not for me to judge her. What transpired between her
soul and God before she lost consciousness is unknown to any mortal.
Perhaps the good Lord dealt kindly with her,
seeing, as He does, what is hid from men. It may be that what seems contrary to
Christian principles in her was rather the effect of ignorance and human
frailty than of downright malice. To all outward appearance her life was far
from being a source of edification; but the priest was with her before she
died; and, for all I know, God may have pardoned all and admitted her to
Paradise. On the other hand, her neglect of religious duties may have proceeded
from a bad will. Perhaps resistance to grace was so manifestly voluntary in her
as to be inexcusable on every count. Should this be the case, she is surely in
hell now. For my part I know absolutely nothing of her present condition of
soul; nor do you, my friends.
You can not imagine how glad I am to have this
opportunity of speaking to you—I mean the relatives of the deceased. Death will
some day come to you. I need not tell you this. From the youngest person here
present, to him that is tottering in feeble old age, there is not one that
denies the existence of this dreaded, mysterious visitor. But you do not think
seriously enough of it. Otherwise you would serve God better; you would take
pity on your souls; you would not live—as I must confess you are now living—in
vain.
Hence I am glad to have this chance of speaking
plainly to you, in order to save you from eternal damnation. My words of
admonition do not reach you on Sundays, for I never see you here. Last night
the devotion of the Forty Hours was brought to a close in a manner that did
honor to the parish at large. I doubt much if any of you put in an appearance
to grace the ceremony. During all the time the Blessed Sacrament was exposed in
this church, I have not seen one of you enter to do homage to your Redeemer.
What is worse still, should I ask you if you
were at Mass last Sunday, none of you could in conscience answer yes. At least
you did not attend your parish church. Were I to ask you if you assisted at
divine service within the past month, or within the year that is nearing its
close, or within the last two years, which of you could in justice say yes? Yet
you know that it is a mortal sin to act thus. You keep on heaping guilt upon
guilt, as if there were no eternity, no hell, no God.
You are aware that to neglect one's Easter duty
is deemed a grave offense in the Catholic Church. The penalty in such a case is
to be deprived of Christian burial. And you are guilty of this outrage. Can any
of you stand up and say truthfully, "I have made my Easter duty this
year?" This is not by any means a private matter. Every parishioner has
knowledge of it. Of course you have some reason to give for your misconduct.
But do you think your excuses will stand before God? I fear not. Then what will
become of you? To my knowledge you have been idling on street corners, aye,
spending your precious time in saloons, while you should have been here in
church assisting at the holy Mass. I could reproach you with more shameful
deeds, but I forbear for the sake of your ancestors.
Now I have touched on a bright spot in the
history of your family. Tradition has it that forty or fifty years ago nobody
gave greater edification, nobody was more exact in what concerns the service of
God, at least in this part of the country, than those who bore your name. Since
you are their descendants, why do you not imitate them? Where is your
self-respect? Where is your family pride? Surely you do not wish to bring
disgrace upon the fair reputation of your ancestors. Not long ago a Canadian
priest visited me. Among other things he asked, "Are there any Y's in this
city?" "Why, yes," I answered, "a goodly number of
them." "The Y's form the backbone of my parish," he continued.
"You could not find better Catholics in a day's journey. Years ago, I am
told, some of them emigrated to places hereabouts. They must be fine people.
Pray, tell me of them. Are they models in this vicinity as they are in
Canada?" I could not answer affirmatively, and so I tried to evade the
question. But he insisted so pointedly that I was at length obliged to confess,
"Truly they are not as pious as they might be; but I cherish the hope that
they will square their actions with the law of God before they die."
Really that was the best report I could give of
you. Now, in order that my hope be realized, an important step is to be taken
before you leave this church. Death is so uncertain that you cannot promise
yourselves another day. Time may not be given you to send for a priest.
Besides, death-bed repentances are unsafe assurances to depend upon. Suppose
the priest arrives in time, does it stand to reason that after outraging the
mercies of Heaven all your life, you can in a moment, by his assistance, jump,
as it were, into eternal delight, which is the reward of the just, and not of
the wicked?
The woman who lies dead before you rented a pew
some weeks ago, when it became manifest that her illness was fatal; and at her
request a priest was called to administer the last sacraments. In this she
acted wisely. Now I want you to follow her example and that of your pious
forefathers before it is too late. Let
us begin at once. I request you to advance, place your hand on the coffin and
promise to start anew to serve God by attending Mass next Sunday.
For the sake of good example, the husband of
the deceased ought to come first.
*******
He came, carried out the instructions to the
letter, and shook hands with the pastor. The latter dismissed him with
"May God bless you!" spoken so loud and with such feeling that there
was many a tearful eye in church. One after another came forward, timidly,
meekly, some with moist eyes, and all evidently not without a struggle.
At the end five Our Fathers were said, but I was so full of emotion that I could
not speak. As the silent cortege
passed from the church, I went to the sacristy and thanked that courageous
priest for the lesson he had unconsciously given me. He was surprised when I
asked the privilege of shaking his hand. "Do you too wish to mend your
ways?" he remarked pleasantly.
TAKEN FROM THE AMERICAN
ECCLESIASTICAL REVIEW (Volume 36; 1907).
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