“You must stop thinking of them asyourmind andyourbody. They are God’s; you are returning them to Him. You must make yourself empty so that He can fill you.”
Like Saint Teresa.And remember that prayer of Saint Ignatius, Joseph berated himself as he watered the mustard seeds.Surrender yourself wholly. Not “mostly.” He wastrying…
“Purity is a habit, my son. You must practice it.”
“But how do I begin? Everything I’ve tried has failed.”
“You are an intelligent young man, Joseph. Perhaps at this stage, a little reason will help.” Father Verchese picked up a pair of shears from the nearby bench. His hands shook, but he used one of the blades like a saw to remove a bloom from a climbing rose. His confessor laid the blossom in Joseph’s gloved palm: freshly opened, damp with dew, and an exquisite shade of pink. “Beautiful, yes?”
Joseph nodded. He couldn’t take his eyes away. His filthy glove seemed an unjust resting place for such a treasure.
“Today, it is beautiful. But tomorrow, its beautywillfade. Admire it—chastely—on the vine, but remind yourself that such beauty does not last.” Father Verchese chuckled. “And remember the thorns! Myself, I do not envy husbands.”
Joseph smiled back, but without conviction. Because in this moment, the rosewasbeautiful.
“Celibacy is a sacrifice; buteveryman makes sacrifices, whether he chooses the Priesthood or an earthly family. The question is not: ‘What do we give up?’ but: ‘What do we gain?’ There is more freedom andjoyin the Priesthood than laymen can comprehend. To be able to perform God’s workwholeheartedly, without distractions or divisions in our affections; to step within the Holy of Holies andexperience the divine as only a handful of His creation can; to transform ordinary bread and wine into the Body and Blood of the God Who existed before time…”
Joseph remembered the longing he felt when he assisted at Mass, and he nodded. But he had not let go of the rose.
His confessor settled on the bench. “When I was in seminary, I had a friend who struggled until his final year.”
Joseph sat beside him.
“Let us call my friend Lot. As we progressed in our studies, as our Ordination to the Subdiaconate approached, Lot grew increasingly restless, increasingly curious: what was it really like toknowa woman? Finally he…stumbled, shall we say. And afterwards, Lot confided to me not only his profound regret but also his disappointment. The forbidden fruit proved far less delicious than he had imagined.”
Joseph frowned. That possibility had never occurred to him.
Father Verchese wagged his finger at Joseph. “Woman fell short of his expectations. But God will always surpass them.”
“Your friend still became a Priest?”
His confessor nodded. “Lot confessed and did Penance. Now, he is a fine pastor.”
Joseph stared down at the rose in his palm. He wondered what had happened to the woman who’d shared Lot’s sin. “What about…would you recommend mortification of the flesh?”
Father Verchese considered. “It has proven effective for numerous saints. When they were tempted, both Saint Benedict and Saint Francis stripped to the skin and threw themselves into thorn bushes.”
Joseph grimaced.
“One of the Desert Fathers found that even while fasting in the wilderness, he was haunted by obscene visions of one particular woman. Eventually word reached him that the woman had died, but even this did not quell his lust; he still dreamt of her. Finally, the Father travelled to the place where she had been buried months before. He unearthed her coffin, opened it, and dragged his robe through the putrescence that had been the woman’s body. Afterthat, whenever he lusted after her, he could bring the robe to his face, inhale the stench, and remember what had become of the flesh he’d so desired.”
Joseph closed his eyes against the image, but he should have pinched his nostrils: somehow the stench of that robe reached him even here. Or it might have been the manure he’d spread that morning. When Father Verchese patted his knee, Joseph started as if his confessor were a corpse—or a woman.
“Perhaps the mere thought of their fortitude will strengthen yours, my son,” Father Verchese chuckled as he stood.
Joseph swallowed and nodded. He admired the rose one last time. Already it was wilting. He leaned down to lay the bloom on the earth beside his bench.“Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return.”
CHAPTER 16
It seems that 60 men deprived of hearing and speech should have constituted a painful and grievous sight; but no, not in the least. The human spirit so animates their faces, most of which are truly beautiful, it so shines forth from their lively eyes, it blazes its way so rapidly to the tips of their fingers, that instead of pitying them, one is tempted to envy them.
— Société Centrale des Sourds-Muets de Paris,Banquets des sourds-muets(1842)
At the Propaganda’s villa, the seminary routines of silence and prayer changed little. Even if their families had been close enough to visit, such a prolonged return to the world would have offered dangerous temptations. Joseph found that swimming, clothed and alone, helped to ease the restlessness still humming in his rebellious body.
Though there were no lectures to attend during the summer, he and the other seminarians continued their studies through guided reading. Not a moment must be lost, or souls would be lost. While Canon Law stated that a Priest could not be ordained before the age of twenty-five, the Holy Office frequently granted dispensations,especially for missionaries. Bishop England had entered the Priesthood at the age of twenty-two.
The seminarians were permitted letters from their families, although the seals were broken. Most of Joseph’s correspondence was with his mother, his grandmother, and Hélène—nothing the censor judged harmful to his vocation. Joseph suspected that many of his father’s letters were destroyed, but it hardly mattered; he only glanced at the ones he did receive. When Bishop England sent a missive, Joseph cherished every word.
