CHAPTER XX.
THE PRIEST'S DEATH.
Sooner or later—soon at latest, for the longest life is short and fleet in ending—it will go abroad that we are dying. Our turn will be come. We who have lived to stand by and see so many die, as if we should live for ever, we shall be lying on our deathbed at last. Will that day come upon us unawares? And shall we have time for the last Sacraments? Priests often die without them. When our people are sick, however suddenly, we are always near to watch beside them; when we are sick there is not always a priest at hand. Many priests live alone, scattered at great distances from their brethren. Moreover, priests grow so familiar with death that they are often not alarmed soon enough, or they are unconscious of their danger. It seems strange that a priest who so long has been preparing others to die should need it himself. Sometimes he is too hopeful, sometimes he procrastinates, and what is often said is often true—he dies without the last Sacraments.
Some men do not like talking about death. Nobody dies of it. But it is ominous to some minds, like a winding-sheet in the candle, or the death-watch. They do not really believe these things, nevertheless they feel an unreasonable awe. They shrink from making their will. They have it in their room ready for signature. They put off signing it to to-morrow and to the next day, and at last they bequeath loss to the Church and trouble to everybody by dying intestate. Such are the freaks of the human spirit. A good man will not so fear death, and a wise man will often speak of it. Joseph of Arimathæa made his tomb in his garden, where he saw it day by day. S. Charles talked of his death continually. If we did so it would become a familiar and kindly thought, like rest after toil, and home after peril by land or by sea. We should be kept by the fear of death from resisting or grieving the Holy Ghost by any willing acts of variance with His will, and we should be trained by the thought of death to understand the words, Cupio dissolvi et esse cum Christo.[1] Mihi vivere Christus, mori lucrum.[2] Scio enim, cui credidi, et certus sum, quia potens est depositum meum servare in ilium diem.[3]
We are always saying, A subitanea et improvisa morte libera nos Domine, and no men have greater need; for our familiarity with death deadens the awfulness of the sight, and we may cease both to fear death and to prepare for it. It is to pastors especially that the words are spoken. To some: "I know thy works and thy labour and thy patience, and how thou canst not bear them that are evil." "But I have somewhat against thee, because thou hast left thy first charity. Be mindful, therefore, from whence thou art fallen, and do penance, and do the first works. Or else I come to thee, and will move thy candlestick out of its place, except thou do penance."[4] Again: "I know thy works, that thou hast the name of being alive, and thou art dead. Be watchful, and strengthen the things that remain that are ready to die, for I find not thy works full before my God." "If, then, thou shalt not watch, I will come to thee as a thief, and thou shalt not know at what hour I will come to thee."[5] And to many more among us these words are spoken: "I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot. I would thou wert cold or hot. But because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will begin to vomit thee out of My mouth." And to how many of us who are at ease in self-complacency the Divine Voice is ever saying, and often in vain, "Because thou sayest, I am rich and made wealthy, and have need of nothing, and knowest not that thou art wretched and miserable and poor and blind and naked, I counsel thee to buy of Me gold fire-tried, that thou mayst be made rich, and mayst be clothed in white garments, and that the shame of thy nakedness may not appear; and anoint thy eyes with eyesalve, that thou mayst see." If the sadder deathbeds here supposed be many, it is because they are of many kinds. All deaths of the penitent and the fervent are good: and one example is enough.
1. First, there is the death of a sinful priest; perhaps without the last Sacraments, as of an outcast, from whom it justly takes that which he seemeth to have; or, perhaps, and more fearful still, with the last Sacraments, but received in sacrilege. Next to the immutable malice of Satan is the hardness of an impenitent priest. Priests who fall, if they do not return to God with greater facility and speed than other men, may become blinder and more hardened in heart than all other sinners.[6] They have been so long familiar with all the eternal truths, they have preached them so often, they have handled all the holy things of the sanctuary, they have had so great a profusion of lights, warnings, and calls to repentance, they have had a gratia status so abundant, and all in vain, that their end is like the dying man, on whom all remedies, medicines, and skill have been exhausted, but death has fastened so firmly that the dying must surely die. How often he has preached truths which have converted and sanctified the humble, the clean in heart, the pure in life. But it was the dead preaching to the living. How often he has said Mass with a threefold sacrilege—in consecrating, in communicating to himself, in communicating to others. It was a life written within and without with judgment against himself, and a life of unworthy handling of holy things. Sancta non sancte sed perverse, turpiter, et ad mortem. Then comes the end. A brother priest stands by him; but what is the soul within him? Is there a pulse of life, a beat of the heart, a ray of self-knowledge, a will to repent? Perhaps he was once an innocent boy, a youth of many hopes, a quick learner, a promising seminarist, a priest full of early aspirations and sincere intentions and good resolutions. But there was a flaw in the heart—some sin of the flesh or of the spirit, some passion or some pride. It was, perhaps, known and resisted, long kept down; in an evil hour of opportunity, facility, fascination, weakness, and strong temptation the lurking enemy mastered his will, and the priest became a slave. Many years ran on; many falls, returns, and relapses; many seasons and means of conversion lost or taken from him by the sin or folly of others; and the root became ineradicable, and conscience at last was silent. Then came the end. Recordare Jesu pie, quod sum causa tuæ viæ, ne me perdas illa die.
2. Next, there is the death of a careless priest. He has had only one enemy, but the worst enemy of all, treacherous, ubiquitous, and ever about him—that is, himself; an easy, yielding, indolent will. He has made no enemies, for he has not been in earnest enough about anything to offend anybody. All men speak well of him. The character of priesthood has in him no visible and unmistakable outline. He is a welcome visitor, a pleasant companion, a ready and amusing guest; read up in the newspapers, and full of the events of the day. He is what is called a general favourite, hurting nobody but himself, and that so secretly that only God, his angel guardian, his confessor, and perhaps some unknown and watchful friend can see it. He does not see, or hardly sees it himself. His preparation for Mass is never altogether omitted, but it is short and hurried: his Mass is rapid—about twenty minutes—and mechanical: his thanksgiving is short and soon over: his office is said unpunctually, hurriedly, and with little attention spiritual or intellectual. Midnight overtakes him before he has said Prime, and he says the Rosary as a missionary privilege, without the exempting labour of a missionary priest. And yet he will go to his sick calls; sometimes, indeed, they are neglected, and sometimes he goes too late. When by the bedside of the dying, he is roused to a consciousness that he is in his place as a priest, but out of his place as a man. He gives the Sacraments and says the prayers in the Ritual. Then comes a silence. He has nothing to say. The habit of his life and the current of his thoughts are so remote from death and eternity that he has little to say. The dying soul is disappointed, and the friends standing by are saddened and vexed. When death overtakes such a priest it finds him little prepared. Perhaps he has not had forethought enough to send for some brother priest, and therefore, time being short, the last Sacraments come too late. How shall such a priest be saved from the sentence: "My people have been silent," in prayer and praise, "because they had no knowledge," through the neglect of their pastor: "because thou hast rejected knowledge, I will reject thee, that thou shalt not do the office of priesthood to Me."?[7]
3. Then comes the death of a lax priest. Laxity differs from carelessness in this. A careless priest may set up in his mind a high standard, and may draw strict theories of duty. But through carelessness he does not act up to them. A lax priest lowers his standard and minimises his obligations. He defends all opinions that favour human liberty, and looks upon strictness as rigour and Jansenism. He dwells largely on the first half of S. Paul's words, Omnia mihi licent, and passes dryshod over the last, "sed omnia non ædificant." He maintains that there are only two states, the one of liberty and the other of three vows: that the state of liberty is for those who do not aspire to be perfect, and the state of vows for those who are aiming at perfection. He directs those who are under his guidance to avoid two things, sin and strictness to avoid sin, of course; but to avoid strictness, as leading to scruples and as hindering liberty. Such priests excuse in themselves many things by the plea, "I am not a religious" and "I am only a secular priest." They are never at a loss for probable doctors and various opinions. They have communis opinio, et sine periculo tenenda, for all they wish. It will never be known till the secret of all hearts shall be revealed what havoc such men make in the spiritual life of those who are guided or influenced by them. The direct effect of such laxity is to discourage aspiration for perfection among the faithful whose lot is cast in the world. And yet all Christians are called to be perfect, in whatsoever state of life. They would, indeed, try to keep people out of sin, but leave them upon the low level of a life, harmless, but without "hunger or thirst for justice."
Such a life, if out of sin, is often in the occasions of sin. Liberty goes into the world and into all its laxities so long as sin is not manifest. But the world is covered with a network of occasions, as the veil of covering which is spread over all nations. Where one escapes a score are taken in the meshes. Now a priest who so instructs other souls assuredly first uses himself the liberty he gives so freely. And there can be no doubt that as a strict priest has both peace and sweetness in the restriction of his liberty, a lax priest has little of either in the freedom he allows himself. Theology cannot hold out for ever against conscience: sooner or later he begins to suspect and to see that he has forfeited fervour and aspiration and the "multitude of sweetness" which God has hid for those who fear Him. He has made his priesthood a yoke instead of a law of liberty. When such a priest comes to die, he often has little brightness, or joy, or confidence. He has not dealt generously with his Master, and in his last need he finds too late that they who have most denied themselves for His sake are most like Him; and that they are most free who have offered up their liberty by daily sacrifices of lawful things. A sad retrospect when life is ending: Erubescet aliquando rem videri qui semper fuerat judex.
4. After the lax priest comes the worldly priest, the true secular in name and spirit. He finds at last that he has served the wrong master, that in trying to serve two masters he has earned "wages to put it into a bag with holes."[8] The world is passing from him, leaving him empty-handed, and in the eternal world which is opening he has laid up little reward. I am not now speaking of the worldly priests of ages past, but of worldliness as it may infect us still in the nineteenth century. The ambitious rivalries and contentions of other days, when priests were courtiers, and the Church was rich and in honour, are indeed passed away. But the world has other snares for priests—popularity, flattery, pleasure, corrupt and ruin many. They make many a priest to be fond of society, of ease, of dissipation, of comfort, of indulgence in food, in conversation, in refined pleasures of literature and music, and the arts and fashions of luxury. The effect of all this is to make the life of a presbytery dull and monotonous, the long hours of the confessional irksome, the visiting of the sick and the poor repulsive, the study of sacred books tasteless, the society of priests tame and uninteresting. The world has stolen away the heart of such a priest. It is no longer in his silent room, nor in the fellowship of his brethren, nor in the sanctuary, nor in his priesthood. It is somewhere abroad, in some house, or in some friendship, or in some intimacy. And when such a priest comes to die he cannot choose but cast up his reckoning, and make a horarium of his life. How many hours have I spent at the altar, and how many in the world? how many in the homes of the poor, and how many in the homes of the rich? how many in teaching little children, or consoling the afflicted, or in giving help to the dying? and how many in conversation over dinner-tables or in drawing-rooms? How many hours have I wasted in wandering to and fro from house to house, where I never heard and never uttered the name of God? and how much time have I spent in preaching His Word, the chief end of my priesthood? How many hours have I given to some particular friendship, and how many to prayer, speaking with God? Cast up these hours, turn them into days and years, and what a reckoning will stand before us. But it is already cast up in the book of God's remembrance. If the worldly priest had given the energy and diligence which he wasted on the world to the work of his own perfection, he might have been a Saint.[9]
5. Lastly—for we must end—comes the death of a fervent priest. The world never knew him, or passed him over as a dim light outshone by the priests who court it. But in the sight of God what a contrast. Ever since his ordination, or earlier, ever since his second conversion to God, he has examined his conscience day by day, and made up his account year by year; he has never failed in his confession week by week, or in his Mass morning by morning, or in his office punctually and in due season. He has lived as if by the side of his Divine Master, and, beginning and ending the day with Him, he has ordered all the hours and works of the day for His service. He has lived among his people, and their feet have worn the threshold of his door. His day comes at last, and a great sorrow is upon all homes when it is heard that the father of the flock is dying, and the last Sacraments have been given to him. And yet in that dying-room what peace and calm. He has long cast up his reckoning for himself and for his flock. He has long talked familiarly of death, as of a friend who is soon coming. He fears it, as an awful transit from this dim world to the great white Throne, and as a sinner, an unprofitable servant, and a creature of the dust, he shrinks; for the Holy Ghost has taught him to know the sanctity of God and the sinfulness of sin. But it is a fear that casts out fear, for it is a pledge that the Holy Ghost, the Lord and Life-giver, is in the centre of his soul, casting light upon all that is to be confessed and sorrowed for, and absolving the contrite soul from all bonds of sin and death. None die so happily as priests surrounded by their flocks. As they have laboured, so are they loved; as they are loved, so are they sustained by the prayers of all whom they have brought to God. Wonderful bond of charity; closer and more vital than kindred, which shall be transfigured in the world of light, and unite pastor and flock to all eternity, when the flock shall all be told and the number be fulfilled, and the shepherds shall gather round the Great Shepherd of the sheep in the fold upon the everlasting hills.
If such be the death of a fervent priest it may be sudden: it cannot be unprepared. His whole life is a preparation for death. S. Charles as he departed said, Ecce venio, but his whole life was a continual approach to God. S. Vincent of Paul said, Ipse perficiet, as God was finishing His work in him. S. Hilarion said: "I have served a good Master for these seventy years; why should I be afraid to go and see Him?" S. Bede passed away on the eve of the Ascension, saying the antiphon, O Rex gloriæ, Domine virtutum; and S. Andrew Avellino died at the foot of the altar, saying, Introibo ad altare Dei. A deacon in Africa, in the days of persecution, was singing the Easter Alleluias in the Ambo, when an arrow pierced his heart and he ended his Alleluias before the Throne. Some have fallen as they preached the Word of God. Happy, too, were they. Such a death, though sudden, has no fear, but great benediction. It is well to bear this ever in mind, leaving the time and the way of our end in the hands of our good Master. It would make us more fervent if, when we go to the altar, we were to say: "This may be my last Mass;" or in our confession, "This maybe my last absolution;" or in preaching, "This may be the last time I shall speak for God;" or "This may be my last sick call—the next may be a call to me." How many companions of my childhood, boyhood, and manhood are dead. How many ordained with me or after me are gone before me. Venire differt ut minus inveniat quod condemnet. Wash me, O Lord, in Thy most Precious Blood; and then, "Come, Lord Jesus."[10]
- ↑ Philip, i. 23.
- ↑ Ibid. i. 21.
- ↑ 2 S. Tim. i. 12.
- ↑ Apoc. ii. 2, 4, 5.
- ↑ Ibid. iii. 1-3.
- ↑ "Quis unquam vidit clericum cito pœnitentiam agentem?"—Auctor Incert. in Matthæum, Hom. xl. tom. vi. p. 167.
"Laici delinquentes facile emendantur, clerici autem si semel mali evaserint inemendabiles fiunt."—S. Bonav. Pharetræ, lib. i. c. xxii.
- ↑ Osee iv. 6.
- ↑ Aggeus i. 6.
- ↑ "Ecce mundus sacerdotibus plenus est, sed tamen in messe Dei rarus valde invenitur operator: quia officium quidam sacerdotale suscipimus, sed opus officii non implemus."—S. Greg. Hom. xvii. in Evangelia.
- ↑ Apoc. xxii. 20.
THE END.