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And now, from the Most Reverend Raphael J. Adams,

The Last Word

Once upon a time, in a faraway city, at the end of the Dark Ages -- though no age is truly dark as long as the ember of God's love still smolders beneath the cold ash of human ignorance and indifference -- there lived two great saints of God. They did not know they were saints (real saints usually don't) . One of them was a little priest, a recluse, who lived beyond the outskirts of the city in a hut of wattle, thatch, sticks, and mud. The other was a privileged young lady who lived in the heart of the city, in a big house of oak and stone. They became saints on the very same day, perhaps -- in the providence of God -- even at the very same moment. Their elevations to sainthood happened in an instant, though again, neither of them was aware of the transformation. Neither did anyone who knew them notice anything out of the ordinary had occurred, so as to be able to later say, "that was the moment." But that's how it was. In a split second, with nary a trumpet blare (or press release), each became a great saint.

To everyone who knew her, the wealthy young lady who lived in the great house seemed both happy and blessed. After all, she could have anything she desired -- indeed, she had acquired a great number of things that should have guaranteed her happiness. But the truth was that she was not happy. And the harder she tried to become happy -- "I'll have one of those, two of those, this one, and Ooooooo, that one over there" -- the unhappier she felt. One morning at Mass, as she was kneeling on her silken cushion, preoccupied with her unhappiness, she realized that the visiting priest was preaching about that very subject! Happiness. True happiness. Surely, she thought, he had been sent by God solely for her benefit. She listened attentively to the remainder of his sermon. His recommendation was simple enough: prayer. And not just any kind of prayer, but one prayer in particular. He has called it a prayer of "invitation", saying that the way to true happiness was to invite the Lord Jesus into one's life, into one's heart, into one's home. There was a lot more to this type of prayer, he explained, but this was the first and most important step. The rest would follow in subsequent homilies -- same time, same church, for the next several Sundays. Well, this was simple enough: a prayer of invitation. Short. Sweet. Not terribly inconvenient. She would do this very thing. Later. First she had some shopping to do.

But as the day turned into night, the young lady nearly forgot all about the prayer of invitation. At bedtime, she said her usual prayers, asking God to bless her family and friends. As none of the shops in the marketplace sold the things she still needed -- the big one being happiness -- she presented her requests to God. Then she crawled into her big, comfortable bed to go to sleep. Just as she was drifting off, and perhaps beginning to dream a little, she heard the voice of the visiting preacher. Again, he was talking about happiness. Without bothering to get up and kneel down, she mumbled a little prayer like the one the preacher had said she could use. "Lord Jesus," she murmured. "Come into my heart. Come into my life. Abide with me. Stay with me. Enter in to the circle of my family and make Yourself at home with us." Then she fell asleep.

At first light, the young lady sat up, stretched her arms, and made little waking up noises as the signal to her servants to bring her perfumed water with which to wash, fresh linens with which to dry, and then to help coif and dress for breakfast. Suddenly, there was a loud pounding on her bedroom door. It kept getting louder and louder and wouldn't stop. Alarmed, she rushed to the heavy door and pulled it open. She had been expecting to see her father or mother, or perhaps one of the servants, or even -- given the urgency of the knocking -- one of the household guards. But the man who stood before her was a total stranger, but he was also somewhat uncouth and more that a little untidy. His hair was disheveled and his clothing was really quite shabby. She was even more taken aback when he smiled at her. As disgusting as his smile was, she had to acknowledge that it was oddly charming, even endearing.

"Well," he said. "It's about time. Now, let's get tot work."

With no more of an introduction than that, he strode past her into the center of the room. He stood there for a moment, slouching a bit, arms akimbo, hands on hips, and surveyed the contents of the room. Abruptly, he walked to the window, threw open the shutters, then turned to her face. Again smiling disarmingly, he said, "This is going to take longer than I thought. There's so much clutter in here. Without another word, the stranger bent over, grasped her gilded, plush velvet-upholstered armchair, lifted it over his head, and hurled it out the window. Now in veritable frenzy, he rushed about the room, grabbing items at random and tossing them out without any apparent concern for the damage to her things.

So distraught she couldn't think what t do,the young lady just stood there, awaiting rescue -- surely one of the servants would hear the racket and come to investigate -- as she watched an apparent lunatic chuck everything she owned into the courtyard below. What incredible strength and energy he possessed! Why, he had even managed to single-handedly dismantle her enormous bed and toss it, too, out the window, as though it were mere kindling. She now found herself alone in a big, empty box with a perpetually smiling madman sitting cross legged on the floor. He was clapping dust from his hands and surveying the wide open space with apparent satisfaction. He looked up at her and motioned for her to sit across from him on the floor.

"Now," he said, "isn't this much better?"

Better? To have been rid of all her earthly belongings? The man was insane. Not only that, after what he'd just done, he wanted her o sit with him. And on the floor! This was simply too much. The young lady finally found her courage and her voice. She made her dainty hands into knobby little fists and shook them at the intruder. "Who are you?" she demanded. "What are you doing here? And why did you destroy all my things?"

The man continued to smile, further infuriating the young lady. After a moment, she saw his brow furrow and the expression in his eyes turn to both puzzlement and concern. "I thought you wanted me here. After all, you did invite me. And as for my disposing of all this clutter, you told me to make myself at home." He tilted his head to one side, "But, of course, if you've changed your mind..."

The stranger faded from the young lady's sight. Her chamber came back into focus, as it had appeared before his intrusion. All her things were in place, even her bed, in which she now found herself sitting up. Thank God, she thought the episode had only been a dream. And yet, as her pounding heart attested, it had felt so real. And the intruder had seemed so real. Besides, he had been so different from her, so alien to her,that she simply couldn't have imagined him. Yet she recalled that as foreign as he had been, and as much as he'd exasperated her, he had touched something in her. He had evoked something, perhaps with his smile. It had been so open, so genuine and sincere, and so persistent, even after she'd rejected his invitation to sit down with him. Then, too , there had been that look of concern in his eyes, real concern for her. He may have been a lunatic, but he was a friendly, kindly, happy lunatic she just happened to meet a very real dream.

Except, she knew it hadn't been a dream She didn't know how, but she knew. The Visitor, she suddenly and clearly understood, had been no intruder. He had been a Guest whom, just as He'd said, she'd invited. But she'd been most inhospitable hostess. The young lady, fast on her way now to becoming a saint, flew from her bed to the courtyard window. She threw open the shutters then tore to her gilded chair. With an exhilaration she had never known before, and a strength she never imagined she could possess, she clamped her dainty hands on the arms of the chair, hoisted it high above her head, and hurled it out the window. Clapping her hands, she surveyed the remainder of the contents of her room. "This is going to take longer than I thought," she said. "There's so much clutter in here."

And with that, the young lady became a saint.

Now, while the young lady had been fast asleep, dreaming (or as she later learned, not), the little priest was being visited by a delegation of noblemen and ecclesiastics. They had descended upon him as he was tending his vegetable garden. They were all dressed in scarlet and purple, in silk and linen, and fur. Surrounded by these visitors in their bright plumage -- dressed as he was in a patched, threadbare, colorless woolen tunic -- he felt like a scarecrow. Which was why, after he'd heard what they'd come to say to him, his first thought was that the must either be joking or mistaken. But he knew that these men were not given to precipitous judgment (or to humor either, for that matter). But whether they realized it it or not, he, at least, was certain that they had made a grievous error. They couldn't possibly want him to be the next bishop of the city!

Oh, but they did, they assured him. He had a reputation for holiness and charity, for meekness and humility, all of which are admirable qualities in a bishop. The city's last several bishops, they confided, had been "unfortunate" appointments. One had been a scholar, buried himself in books, letting the business of the church go awry. Thus, following his death, the next bishop was chosen because his noble lineage and wealth had accustomed him to keeping affairs -- especially financial ones -- in order, and to giving orders. As it happened, however, he had been much too organized and given way too many orders. He behaved as though the diocese was his personal property, managing it in the same manner as he had his family's estates. For that reason, he did not get on well with the citizenry and higher clergy, who resented his high-handedness. Much less did he attempt to interact with the commoners and low clergy. He behaved as though they were furniture or utensils rather than human beings with thought and feelings of their own. Upon his demise, not wishing to repeat its mistakes, the chapter sought a replacement who was equally as competent but less rigid. It therefore chose a successor who was likeable, both out-going and easy-going. Unfortunately, he had proven too easygoing The delegates did not want to say exactly how easygoing he had been (or with whom, or how often), though they did blush and bluster and equivocate until they had dropped the subject altogether. At any rate, the last bishop had resigned his dignity and moved away.

So, now, the chair was vacant. After some discussion, the electors had decided that perhaps the man who should next occupy it should not be chosen for his learning, nor his administrative competence, nor his superficial likeability, but for -- and here they beamed with pride in the novelty of their idea -- his piety and practice of the virtues! And since no one had a greater reputation for genuine piety and downright goodness than the little reclusive priest, he was their choice.

The little priest protested that his reputation was surely exaggerated, and in the event, he wasn't inclined to be the bishop of the city. Indeed, he had been appointed to his present benefice (exile?) because of a few eccentricities that had discomfited his peers and the late Bishop Maximus Efficiency. He admitted that at first, his exclusion from the city's clerical circle had rankled him, but he had so adjusted to the situation that he was now quite content to live in his hermitage. Indeed, his presence had actually become necessary to do it. He had acquired important responsibilities, such as sharing his tiny cloister with his adopted family of several dispossessed old peasants, cast-off children -- indigents of all varieties -- even a few lame animals. He also gave refuge to travelers (and the occasional highwayman or other such disreputable person, though he didn't tell them that part). Showing the delegates the vegetable garden he tended, he explained that it provided food for his family, visitors, and for those who couldn't provide it for themselves. Why, he'd found his niche here. He was able to do things that got him sent here in the first place, but with no one around to hector him or order him to stop. So, the little priest, asked, wouldn't the delegates kindly select someone else to be the next bishop?

The delegates wouldn't hear of it. They insisted that he leave his hermitage with them.

Now.

The little priest now pleaded with the delegates to choose another, worthier man.

But they persisted in their arguments that he was their man.

And soon, their arguments made sense to the little priest. Their appeals to his sense of responsibility struck a chord in him. Even more intriguingly, as they spoke, certain youthful fantasies played out in his mind. He saw himself in precious miter and embroidered cope, an ornately carved crosier held firmly in one frilly, white-gloved hand. The other hand, amethyst bejeweled, waved a blessing over the incense offering. Next, he was seated in the chapter house, enacting policies to benefit the commoners. Suddenly, he realized that these long-abandoned dreams could become a reality (except for the one about enacting policies to benefit the commoners. He knew that the chapter would never allow that to occur. But you can't have it all.) Lastly, if one prospect was irresistible, it was the vindication he would savor as he ascended to the episcopacy.

Still, the little priest put off the "ad sum" response that would clinch the deal. Unbeknownst to the delegates, their voices had all along been competing with another softer but more persistent one inside the hermit priest. Finally -- if for no other reason than to silence the delegation long enough to deal with the pesky inner voice -- he said, "But if I come with you, who will tend this garden?"

They Very Reverend Head of the delegation sniffed at the insignificance of the little priest's objection. "Surely," he said, "it is far more important to be the bishop of our great city than to tend a paltry garden."

Suddenly, though less to his surprise than he would have imagined, the little priest heard the small voice leap from the depths of his heart to his lips. "In your estimation!"

And with that, the little priest became as saint instead of a bishop.

Time passed. Eventually, the entire city heard about the hermit who'd stood his ground against the council and the cathedral chapter, and turned down the chance to become bishop. The young lady heard about him, too, and was inspired to choose to live as he did. She traveled to his hermitage and became and became a member of his little, ragtag family. The two saints worked and prayed together for many years. He lived in a hut on one side of the church, and she in a hut on the other. They lived in a spiritual partnership, a pious practice in those days. Other men and women came to live and work and pray with them. The little priest cared for the elderly, first like a son, but with the passage of time, like a brother. Affectionately they called him "Your Lordship". The young lady cared for the children, first like an older sister, then like a mother and grandmother. They lovingly called her "My Lady". With his brothers, he tended the vegetable patch. With her sisters, she tended the flower garden, They gather for Mass in the simple church (at whose door the two saints were eventually laid to rest, side by side, as St. Paula and St. Jerome had been in Bethlehem).The little priest offered the Sacrifice; his Lady Sister chanted the antiphons and responses. Every Sunday, after the Miracle of the Mass, the two saints stood side by side at the church door, singing passages from the Gospel book. The melody, since it came from their hearts, was never the same from one Sunday to the next. Indeed, they rarely sang the same tune together (though sometimes they were so inspired). But the words were always synchronous and clear, and they sang them in perfect harmony. Their duets were a sacramental practice, a private ritual that they shared with one another, but also with all the saints throughout the world, in every place and time. These are the verses they sang:

Jesus then said to his disciples,"If anyone wishes to be a follower of mine, he must leave self behind; he must take u his cross and come with me.
Whoever cares for his own safety is lost; but if a man will let himself be lost for my sake he will find his true self. What will a man gain by winning the whole world, at the cost of his true self? r what can he give that will buy that self back? For the Son of Man is to come in the glory of his father with his angels, and then he will give each man the due reward for what he has done" (Matt. 16: 24-27).

In that dark age -- and this one -- this is the last word.