The Archbishop Wore Combat Boots. Nancy A. Collins
Читать онлайн книгу.
the troubles of all humans, are often characterized by family turmoil, hatred or conflict. Recalling them we were consoled and directed.
Since every church is also a temple of Christ, whose Presence in the Blessed Sacrament in the tabernacle is the center of, and reason for, its existence, so every visit was also its own sermon on the Presence of Christ, brought to that altar by the Mass. Therefore, the focal point of our visits was the recitation of prayers, spontaneous or traditional, directed to Christ the High Priest.
A few yards away from the College, an added source of inspiration, was a Perpetual Adoration chapel where two Sisters consecrated every moment of the day to Christ with prayers and dedication. To avoid any distraction the Sisters wore slippers. “They come in and out like snowflakes,”as someone said. Frequently during those days I slipped into the chapel to add my personal intentions. In retrospect, the beginning of the war was the best preparation we could receive for our ordination and service in the priesthood. In fact, every event of the War was a source of spiritual education. Even now, I recall the succinct, three-word opinion of an old, Italian priest during speculation about Hitler’s designs on conquest: “Superbia semper ascendit” (“Pride always increases or expands.”) He was correct. Neville Chamberlain had no clue.
Since the U.S. State Department decreed that it would issue no visitor visas, travel to Italy was now impossible. This prevented any of my relatives from attending the ordination. We neither mailed invitations nor made plans for a party. Our focus was singular — ordination to the priesthood of Christ to be given by the Rector in the venerable chapel of the College.
Ordination Day
Ordination was conferred on December 8, 1939, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. It was the beginning of a new life. The words of the famous hymn, “You are a priest forever” (Tues sacerdos in aeternum), sung beautifully, expressed the whole transcendent reality.
Only one outsider managed to find her way into the ordination Mass, a disturbed but gentle woman known as “The Abbess.” A convert from Richmond, Virginia, whose wealthy family allowed her to stay in Rome, she frequently wandered in and out of the chapel. Following the ceremony, the newly ordained priests gathered in a room at the College for a reception, where we entertained friends and classmates from the Gregorian University. Kneeling for a blessing, they then rose to receive the most prized gift that we could impart at the time — a cigarette.
I celebrated my first Mass on December 9, 1939, in the Greek Chapel of the Catacombs of St. Callistus, which I had discovered during one of my early walking tours of Rome. The oldest picture of the Mass in the Greek Chapel — all the inscriptions are in Greek — illustrates the Eucharistic celebration being offered at a table with the patron, a woman, seated next to the celebrant. It reminded me of an old, respected family picture, and I came to think of the people in it as my nameless, saintly ancestors. Consequently, celebrating my first Mass there was both thrilling and humbling. Today, that is no longer allowed. In fact, I was turned down, to my great disappointment, when I pleaded with the Benedictine Sisters, the caretakers of the Catacombs of St. Callistus, to celebrate Mass there during my 60th year of ordination in 1999.
On the occasion of that first Mass, I wrote this poem.
First Mass
By Father Philip M. Hannan
Rome, December 1939
Boyhood dreams of long ago saw an altar fair consecrated, trembling hands lifted there in prayer.
And those dreams have led me on dreamlike though they seemed. Now, dear friends, thank God with me, I am what I dreamed.
Other dreams have I today, brighten spite of fears that this human heart may be Christ-like thru the years.
Think of me when on your knees that this dream comes true, bowed before that altar fair, there I’ll think of you.
On December 10, 1939, I celebrated my second Mass at a side altar of St. Peter’s Basilica. St. Peter’s is the heart of the Church, and there could be no more appropriate place for a priest to consecrate the Eucharist. My third Mass was at the Basilica of St. Mary Major, the oldest and greatest church in Rome dedicated to the Blessed Mother, built in 432. What is believed to be relics from the crib of Christ rest under the high altar. The ceiling of this magnificent church is decorated with the gold Christopher Columbus brought back from the New World.
After Mass and breakfast each day, we went to the Greg for the remaining classes of those days. We were ordained for a purpose, and nothing was allowed to infringe on that purpose. Ordinations for our class were held in two sections — one on December 8 and the other early in the next year. In subsequent years I have often thought about the grim circumstances of our ordination and the remarks that it was “a shame” to have such war-time deprivations. But, I have always come to the same conclusion — the whole class consisted of thirty-seven students, and only one of them left the ministry of the priesthood; that one student received a dispensation and has led a very Christian life. That record speaks for itself.
The dignity of the priesthood certainly resulted in our being more attentive in class, and, for me, it was the best scholastic year of my life. We remained at the College for another semester to complete our theological studies. Somehow I contracted rheumatism for two weeks in April 1940, and I was so sick the doctor came to pay me several visits. His prescription was one for the ages: I was to drink red wine, and not only that, I had to make sure I heated it up first. When the pain increased, I increased the level of the red wine “cure,” but to no avail. The rector decided I should be admitted to the hospital, staffed by the Irish “Blue Nuns,” aptly named for the color of their habit.
The Sisters were very supportive, but they put me on a no-salt starvation diet, and I was getting weaker by the day. Finally, the doctor, accompanied by the Sister Superior of the hospital, came to my room and solemnly told me I must resign myself to the prospect of not being able to walk for two years. The diet had no effect except to make me very hungry. The pain increased to the point of affecting even my eyes, so the electric lights in the room were turned off and a candle with a shade was installed. A few nights later, I felt the pain spike noticeably, and it seemed to be gradually approaching my heart. I prayed very intently. Before morning, the pain began to subside from my heart, and I was convinced I was on the mend. Now I uttered some prayers of very deep gratitude.
Convinced that my salt-free diet was useless, I arranged for one of my classmates, Henry Cosgrove, to come to the infirmary with several bananas. Henry performed like a true secret agent, stashing the bananas beneath his cassock. When he gave them to me I voraciously wolfed a few down and saved some for later. “But you’ve got to help me get rid of the evidence,” I told him. “Before you go, open the window.” Even though I was still too weak to get out of bed, my baseball arm was equal to the task — I threw every peel out of the window onto the lawn below. As soon as I ate the bananas, I felt very invigorated. Even though the doctor had said I would collapse if I tried to get out of bed, I began walking around just fine.
The next day when the doctor came to see me, I told him I was feeling great and I showed him so by walking around the bed. He said simply, “It’s a miracle!” When I told him I didn’t really think it was a miracle, he replied, “It is a miracle. You’ve got to believe that, and if you don’t, you’re a bad priest.” He was implying that I wasn’t thankful for what God had done to heal me. Just then the gardener came into the infirmary in a white-hot rage and said, “I clean this place up every day, and now I’m picking up banana peels on the lawn. It’s coming from a room near here.” By that time I put on my overcoat and told the sister who was the floor nurse, “Sister, it’s time for me to go back to the seminary.”
Weak from the ordeal, I got permission from the Rector to take a week of convalescence in Sicily. I went to a good pensione in Taormina, with its dramatic setting on the sea and directly in front of snow-capped Mount Etna. The homegrown food was even better than the bananas, and I recovered fully.
Incidentally, upon returning to the United States, I asked my doctor-brother Frank to examine me, and I told him the whole story. After a thorough exam, he said, “I can’t find a thing wrong with your heart.