Some years ago, a Vatican monsignor said to me: “What is your goal?”
We were sitting in a Vatican office, in rooms where other men had sat and talked in other centuries, and, God willing, will sit and talk in times to come.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“What is the goal of your writing?” he asked.
I sensed that he wanted to know, not just for himself, but for others as well, for the Vatican, let us say…
“The truth,” I replied.
“Ah!” he said. “The truth! Well, you had better be careful…”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“First of all, truth is hard to find,” he said.
I nodded, thinking, well, he’s right…
“You may only catch a glimpse of it, only fragments of truth,” he continued. “What will you do then?”
“Well, I’ll write the part that I see,” I said.
“But what of that which you don’t see?”
“I can’t write what I don’t see,” I said.
“Ah!” he said. “And what if the part that you do see could be harmful to the Church?”
I was silent for a moment. “Why is he asking me this?” I wondered.
“Well,” I said, trying to choose my words carefully, but also persuaded of my own courage and commitment to the complete truth, “the truth can never hurt the Church. I would still write the truth, knowing that ‘the truth shall set you free’… As Jesus himself said…”
“Ah,” said the monsignor. “Well, do what you think is right, but remember, there are souls in the balance, the souls of the simple faithful. And remember, the Church is the Bride of Christ — we must protect her from those who would do her harm…”
“How could a truth be used against the Church, if it is true?” I asked, puzzled. “A lie one could fear, as it might cause harm unjustly. But… the truth?”
The monsignor was silent.
“Sometimes, if it is partial, it can hurt,” he said.
“Well, if I understand you correctly,” I said, “perhaps I will have to find a way to tell the truth, without causing harm…”
“Be prudent,” he said. “And always love the Church above everything.”
Falling in Love Forever
“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.”—First Corinthians 13:7-8
I do not now remember clearly how I fell in love with her, or why.
All I know is that, when I was a boy, the life I experienced with her, the festivals, the prayers, the music, the silences, seemed tinged with eternity, as if this would never end, as if time and the evils of this world could never touch or harm the reality we shared.
And this was a great joy — indescribable.
Words fail…
The Joy of My Youth
“Introibo ad altare Dei, ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.” (“I will go up to the altar of God, to the God who gives joy to my youth.”) —The opening words of the old Mass; the first phrase was spoken by the priest, and the second phrase by the altar boy
It was a joy.
In my youth.
A joy that lingers in the memory.
A joy that is the beating heart of the “intolerable tenderness” of the past.
And the heart of hearts, the heart of the joy, was holiness.
“Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus…”
Not that I was holy, but that holiness was, that it existed, that it was in the world… that the source of holiness, hidden in eternity, could spill out its glory into time, through her, this beautiful lady, who seemed so ancient, yet so young, so beautifully adorned, so solemn yet so cheerful… like the nuns with their wrinkle-framed eyes twinkling as they moved my hand to form the letters which I still use to express the inner meditations of my heart…
Ecclesia dei.
The Church.
Unam, Sanctam, Apostilicam, Catholicam.
And the center of it all was the Mass.
And the center of the Mass was the Eucharist.
