A Friar's Tale. John Collins
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impressive that even today the thought of them is not merely a thought. It is more like a flood of memory that sweeps over me, carrying me back more than half a century, providing me with a flawless and detailed picture of their dark brown habits and flowing white beards. I close my eyes and those old friars are as present to me as if it is still 1951, each standing in his choir stall chanting the Divine Office in Latin. I can still feel the fervency—the totality—of their devotion. I can see the expressions on their faces, expressions that hinted at a type of prayer that was unknown to me back then, a type of prayer that was something for which I yearned.
I must say that those memories are wonderful. Yet at the same time they are almost painful, for they remind me somewhat sadly that we rarely encounter such devotion today. So much has changed; so much has diminished since those long-ago days. I even wonder if it is possible for me to describe the prayer life of those friars in a way that contemporary readers will grasp. Perhaps all I can say is that their concentration and intensity were palpable, as was a certain quality that I do not hesitate to call their joy. When they were deep in prayer it almost seemed as if the very air around them vibrated or even shimmered. It didn’t, of course, but that is what it felt like to me then. I can find no other words to describe it.
This is what prayer really means, I realized. As I gazed at them, I thought of St. Teresa of Ávila, whose writings on prayer I had avidly read before I went to the novitiate. Back in New Jersey, I had thought I had understood her—at least to a certain extent—but as I watched those old Capuchins I realized that I had not even begun to grasp what she had meant. The men before me, however, certainly had. Prayer had suffused their lives so deeply that it had become a virtual constant for them; it was as natural as breathing, as dependable as the beating of their hearts. I was in awe of them, and I wondered if I could ever hope to be like them. I still wonder that today.
Many years after I left Huntington I wrote a book entitled Spiritual Passages. It was an attempt at an in-depth description of the spiritual life, which usually manifests itself in three distinct stages. Those stages are called the purgative way, the illuminative way, and the unitive way. The deeply spiritual among us slowly rise from one to the other, becoming closer and closer to God as they do. Part of this process, especially in the beginning, involves a step-by-step discarding of those things that are not essential and a turning away from all that separates us from our heavenly Father. It is absolutely necessary in the early stages of this journey that we shed those things that impede our progress toward what is true and good—toward God—and that we turn our gaze more and more to what matters, to what is eternal. This process is never easy and can, in fact, be very difficult. At times it even involves a great deal of suffering, but it is also very beautiful, and it culminates in an unshakable peace.
After many decades of observation I believe I have witnessed a number of people who have arrived at the great clarity of the illuminative way and even a few who have achieved the great intimacy with God that characterizes the unitive way. For example, I firmly believe that the Servant of God Terence Cardinal Cooke had entered the unitive way in his last days. I visited him as he lay dying and can attest that there was a peace about him, a simplicity, a joyful and total acceptance of God’s will in his life no matter what the cost. I felt that he was both with me in his little bedroom and with God at the same instant. I remember it as a profound and moving experience, something I can never forget.
I did not know the terms used to describe the spiritual life when I arrived in Huntington. In fact, I really didn’t know very much at all. But I could see or sense or feel that some of the older friars possessed some spiritual quality that made them very different from most of the people I knew. As I look back at them I realize now that they had probably arrived at the spiritual clarity of the illuminative way. They fascinated me, and it was frustrating not to be allowed to speak to them except on very rare occasions. I watched them as often as I could, however, trying to discern from their manner, from the way they moved, from the look in their eyes, why they were so different, so special. I could not, of course, but the fascination persisted, making me yearn for a glimpse into their souls, the way I had yearned for a glimpse into the tabernacle in Corpus Christi Church when I was five years old.
But I must say something more. There was one friar whose holiness was so visible, so very tangible, that he stood apart from all the others. That was the Venerable Solanus Casey, a remarkable man in every sense of the word. I have written and spoken about Fr. Solanus Casey more times than I can count, and yet every time I look back at him it is as if I see him anew. He was quite old and gray by the time I met him at Huntington, and he was a man of profound silence as well as great humility.
As a young seminarian he had not been thought intelligent enough to complete the studies necessary for priestly ordination. In fact, he actually failed theology. Yet for one reason or another it was decided that he should be ordained anyway. It was, however, understood that he would not ever hear confessions or preach. He accepted these limitations meekly and spent most of his life as a humble porter in his Capuchin monastery. Yet the depth of his spirituality became impossible to deny, and throughout much of his life miracles of one sort or another accompanied him. When I was a novice it was not uncommon to see people come from great distances to receive his blessing and to ask for his prayers.
It was clear to me that he was unique among the friars, that he had arrived at a place in his spiritual life that few people reach—that few people even approach. I chanced upon him in prayer once, alone in the chapel late one night. He was in what I can only call a type of ecstasy before the Blessed Sacrament. He was aware of nothing but his mysterious encounter with God at that moment. The world around him had lost all meaning for him. I don’t know that I have ever seen anything quite like it since. Seeing him like that was the sort of experience that transforms you. It dissolves all doubts. Through Fr. Solanus Casey I, as a young novice, was given an extraordinary gift: a glimpse into a type of holiness that was too real and too powerful ever to be ignored. It is a gift for which I will be forever grateful.
As I let my memory drift back to my days as a Capuchin novice I am amazed at the odd things that appear to my mind’s eye. Some are full of meaning, such as the great depth of prayer displayed by the older friars. Others are quite trivial, such as the immense beards worn by those same friars, which—amazingly—is what I’m thinking about right now. Why two such different things should be juxtaposed in my thoughts I have no idea, but they seem to be, perhaps because beards were such a constant feature of Capuchin life back then. They were by no means optional, you understand. If you were a Capuchin in 1951 you grew a beard, and that was all there was to it. This rule, to put it very mildly, was taken with the utmost seriousness. In fact, when it came to beards, the Old Testament patriarchs had nothing on the Capuchins I knew. Some of those old friars really did look like Moses or Abraham, and by the time I got to Huntington, their beards had been in progress for far longer than I had been alive. As a seventeen-year-old I guess I was impressed.
Yet it must be remembered that even those immense beards had come about for reasons that were ultimately spiritual. Beards were part of the ancient Capuchin constitutions because they were considered to be a direct imitation of Jesus and St. Francis, who both were bearded. Like our Divine Savior and St. Francis, the Capuchins did not trim their beards; they simply let nature take its course—which, in the Capuchins’ case, it sometimes did with a vengeance. I came to love this part of the Capuchin way of life, the fact that every aspect of daily living—even shaving or not shaving—seemed to be infused with a spiritual dimension. If one truly lived the Capuchin way of life the way it was meant to be lived, it would be hard not to advance in holiness.
And so, with great determination, I set about to grow a beard just like my Capuchin confreres. If I couldn’t pray like them I could at least look like them, I figured. Those who know me are aware that I have always worn a beard, not an immense old-style Capuchin one, but a modified one that is kept well under control. At seventeen, however, I must admit, the beard proved to be a challenge—one I began to fear might be insurmountable. The initial results were decidedly disappointing. Some people (those slightly lacking in charity) even said they were unnoticeable. If I had known about Miracle-Gro back then I might have been tempted to try it, but persistence (and getting a little older) finally paid off, and eventually I managed to produce a reasonably acceptable beard. I have kept it ever since. I consider it very much a part of my