A Friar's Tale. John Collins

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      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. СКАЧАТЬ