mysterious depth that transcended life and death and overcame the tragedy of our earthly existence. That, and only that, was the reason I was on a hot train in a wrinkled suit bound for a novitiate in Huntington, Indiana. I had no time for parties. I was in search of treasures that would last. I reached for my rosary again, and the train rumbled on.
Indiana, as it turned out, was different from what I expected. I remember standing in front of the novitiate, my bag in my hand and my heart in my mouth, looking to the left and to the right. My first impression of Huntington was that it was comprised of nothing but Capuchins and cows. Because of the flat landscape you could see a great distance in all directions, but that didn’t matter very much because once the novelty of seeing cows wore off (which it did rather quickly) there really wasn’t much else to look at. I realized right away that I had arrived in what we in Jersey City used to call the boondocks. It had never occurred to me before that day that the boondocks could be quite so empty. However, if God wanted me to be in such a place, then that is where I would be—and I would learn to love it … or, failing that, to like it. At least that was my plan on the first day.
My heart was pounding a little as I walked up the steps, but my nervousness evaporated as soon as the door swung open, for I was greeted by the most perfect monastic doorkeeper in the entire world. This was Br. Ferdinando Piconi, about whom I have written before. He had the power to make a scared, young novice-to-be forget his fear and misgivings in an instant. Br. Ferdinando also had the gift of being able to make people smile, and he didn’t have to work very hard to do it. He was very short and very round. He also had what I have always thought of as a God-given natural tonsure. He was an elf of a friar and seemed incapable of being in anything but a good mood.
Br. Ferdinando welcomed me enthusiastically, but in the midst of his exuberant greetings, he kept asking me to pray that he would have a happy death. I readily agreed to do so, of course, but the request startled me. In fact, it took me aback. I looked at him closely but on the sly, figuring that there must be more going on with Br. Ferdinando than what appeared on the surface. Maybe he’s very ill, I thought. Maybe he’s near death and is only putting on a brave front. Maybe it takes all his strength just to open the door and show me to my room.
As it turned out, none of that was the case. Br. Ferdinando did die during my year in the novitiate. Yet it was not any slowly advancing and valiantly fought disease that took him, but a massive heart attack. He went quite suddenly and perhaps even painlessly. So I believe I witnessed him receive what he had so ardently desired. He had been asking people to pray for his happy death for years. Hardly a day passed when he did not mention it. I realize that for most people this might seem as bizarre a request as it did to me on that first day in Huntington. Br. Ferdinando, however, thought it the most natural thing in the world. And I find I understand that far better now than I did in 1951. I have come to see that he was completely focused not on the present and not even on the future, but on eternity. His was a simple and slightly unusual way of expressing such things, but his was also a simple if profound faith. I believe that it was this focus, this awareness of eternity that enabled him to be so cheerful and optimistic, yet so very aware of death. I also believe that in the final analysis his requests for prayers paid off rather handsomely.
Chapter V
The Capuchin Way
The Tale As Father Told It
I quickly got the lay of the land at Huntington and realized the novitiate was comprised of two wings extending in opposite directions. They were joined to each other by the chapel, which was right in the center, just as it should have been. One wing was for the novices; the opposite one was for the professed friars, many of whom, at that time, were elderly. As I look back at those days I can’t help but think that those two wings may as well have been in two different universes, because the friars’ wing was absolutely off limits to the novices, and our contact with the professed friars was designed to be as minimal as possible. I have to admit that this is something that has always baffled me. How can novices be properly formed if they are prevented from associating with the very people who should be their role models? Despite the apparent illogicality of it, however, this was the way things were done in the religious life before the Second Vatican Council; in fact, this separation was an almost universal feature of both men’s and women’s religious communities at that time.
Of course, we did see the older Capuchins from time to time, in the refectory and especially in the chapel. And, let me tell you, they seemed most impressive—so 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.
