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FISH ON FRIDAY And Other Sketches Leonard Feeney (Sheed and Ward, 1934) I have a little Protestant Minister all to myself. I
practically own him. I do not wish to imply by this statement that I have
stolen him away from his congregation. He is very devoted to his congregation
and serves his flock with zeal, edification and much spiritual profit. His
people admire and respect him tremendously, as he deserves. But, being a poor
pulpit orator (his voice is small and timid), and being ignorant of the
tactics employed by those social lions in Israel known as “oyster-supper
pastors,” and being temperamentally reverent and unwilling to indulge in any
“stunts” in order to attract a crowd to his church on Sundays, he has never
been able to make his parishioners ENTHUSIASTIC about him. There are only
four people who are ENTHUSIASTIC about him: his wife, his two small
daughters, and myself. I allow his wife and his two small daughters to
possess him for the greater part of the time. But one afternoon a week
(usually on Thursdays) he is wholly mine. I more than enjoy the hours I spend with My Little
Minister. He is ten years older than I am, but he never allows me to be
afraid of him for that reason. Sometimes we go to the library and discuss
books, sometimes we take long walks along the country roads, sometimes we
play pinochle on his back porch (he is an astounding pinochle player); but,
whatever we do, once a week he becomes my private property and possession. I
would not trade him for a whole boatload of High Church ritualists. I would
not part with him for much gold. I did not come by My Little Minister easily. It took
much time and considerable patience to get him. Our friendship began in the
public library. I used to find him sitting — or else he used to find me
sitting — in the “encyclopedia” section of the library, I learned later that
we both have a passion for such things as almanacs, directories, and “Who’s
Whos.” We both like our erudition in concentrated form. For weeks we did not speak. I knew he was always
painfully aware of my presence opposite him at the library table, and I was
definitely aware of his presence opposite me. I could almost feel the
clerical crease in his trousers. I knew he could almost feel the Roman
collar-button on the back of my neck. We shared a common lamplight together,
our elbows rested on the same surface, our shoes nearly touched under the
table, but we never spoke. And what wonder! ‘‘Intolerance” was my name on his
lips and ‘‘Heresy’’ was his name on mine. We could not sniff a common air in
comfort. He glared at my black shirt-front. I glared at his red mustache. And yet, for all our differences, our antics were, for
all the world, like the antics of young lovers before their first avowal. We
both pretended to read, but did not read. We looked out the window at each
other. I never lost him in the corner of my eye, and he kept my image
securely focused in the rim of his spectacles. I cleared my throat at him
many times. He rumpled the pages of his book back at me. Once we arose and
approached the bookcase together in search of the same volume. Our shoulders
bumped. Rome and the Reformation collided. I coughed, and he blew his nose. It was the lady librarian (may Heaven bless her!) who
brought us together. “Here,” she said one afternoon last fall. “Here! This
ought to interest you two!” and she laid a folder of ecclesiastical drawings
on the table between My Little Minister and me. “You two” — the words were like magic. He was figuratively
converted to the Catholic Faith, and I figuratively apostatized to Calvinism.
Priest and parson, we were united by a common dogma: the absurdity of trying
to dislike likable people, and — in connection with the drawings we were
examining — the complete preeminence of the Gothic for purposes of church or
chapel architecture. “Of course Renaissance architecture is ridiculous, bald,
open, devoid of all wonder and awe and mystery,” (He patted me on the back.) “The Byzantine reminds me of an amorphous beetle.” “It reminds me of an over-fed octopus.” “There should be pillars in a church, even though they
do cut off the view of pulpit or altar.” “Better to lose pulpit and altar than lose the reason
why pulpit and altar have come into being.” “The nave should be narrow.” “And the walls high.” “Art is never fat and cumbrous.” “Indeed, no. The Muses are tall girls and slender and
graceful.” “The clerestories should be well elevated, lest Heaven
and Earth be confounded.” “And the window saints should be very much in the sky,
because rubbing elbows with their holy presences might make us forget to kiss
the hem of their garments. “Split the organ if necessary, but do not let the best
window in the church, the rear one, be blinded with organ pipes.” “Exactly, The passerby, who may have other errands on
church nights, has a right to know that the lights are shining in the House
of God.” “The common argument against the Gothic is that it does
not make you ‘feel at home’ in church. That is no argument.” “No argument whatever. One should never be made to ‘feel
at home’ in church. One should be made rather to ‘long for home’ in church,
through being enticed by something he sees there to search into the
inscrutable wonder of his own soul.” “Hurrah for the Gothic! Hurrah for crevices and crannies
and nooks and frescoes and saintly hiding places out of which, at any moment,
a seraph may step or an archangel may poke his wing to startle a worshiper at
his orisons.” “And to perdition with the art (or lack of it) that
would give us for churches four walls full of nothing but air, whose mystery
is absolved in a single look! . . . ” My Little Minister and I were laughing out loud
together. As we finally agreed to put it: “If the Gothic does nothing else,
at least it induces the churchgoer to sit in a different part of the edifice
each Sunday, if only for the sake of curiosity,” As to HOW churches should be
built, My Little Minister and I were in perfect accord. In this regard we
were “one fold and one shepherd.” As to WHY they should be built — I do not
remember that we even remotely discussed that question. We were too anxious
to become good friends. I have often tried to decide just why My Little Minister
and I are so fond of each other. We have both been made to suffer much for
our friendship. Several Catholics have been mildly scandalized at seeing me
walk with him on the country highway, The other day the garage man to whom
dying in a good fight for the Faith would be a lark, raised his hat to me
reluctantly when I passed because “that guy was with you.” The trustees of My
Little Minister’s church have openly rebuked him for talking to me in the
library; not only that, but one of his most affluent parishioners has
cancelled her pew-offering (which, like herself, is a large affair) because
“he is known to have played pinochle with a priest.” And yet, withal, let them wag their noses as they may,
My Little Minister and I are loath to give each other up. I think the reason
must be because we are a perfect complement one for the other. He is a living
example of what I should like to be in the way of nobility, sincerity,
kindliness, and singleness of purpose. I am definitely what he longs to be in
the way of spiritual power. He can forgive injuries, but I can forgive sins.
He can soothe the dying; I can anoint the dying. The size of his Sunday
congregation depends on the sun; mine on the Son of God. His sermons are well
written, but his service is meaningless. My sermons are very poorly written,
but my service is the sublimest act of religious worship ever conceived. He
has two lovely children, but his title is “Mister.” I am homeless and
childless but thousands of loving hearts call me “Father.” He outweighs me by
fifteen pounds, but is sufficiently diminutive to be named “My Little
Minister.” Ecce sacerdos magnus
the choir sang on my ordination day, and, though I say it with shame and
confusion, I do humbly avow they sang the very truth. My Little Minister said a strange thing to me the other
afternoon when we were climbing the hill that leads beyond the town. “Do you
know, Father, there is not a single dogma of the Catholic Faith I am
temperamentally opposed to. I wish they all were true. The only trouble is
that they are not.” This startled me. It was so unlike My Little Minister. We
had both tried to be so careful. I stopped and looked at him from head to
foot. “And do you know,” I replied with great firmness, “there is not a
single doctrine of the Calvinistic Faith that I wish were true. Even if your
religion were true, I should wish that it were not so . . . ” I have found by many sad experiences that it never pays
to be sarcastic. I have never once indulged in any bitter or ironical remark
that I did not feel miserable about it afterward. My Little Minister had no
intention of hurting me. His statement was wholly casual. He was just
thinking out loud. My retort was deliberate and willful. Never, till the day
I die, shall I want anybody to give me such an appealing and disappointed
look as My Little Minister gave me that afternoon. I reached out my hand to
him. “Forgive me!” I said, and we walked for half an hour in silence. Finally My Little Minister spoke. “Please let me think
it out for myself, will you? Don’t hurry me. Just let me think it all out for
myself, and ask God to help me.” And he put his hand to his head as though
thinking were an agony, “Sometimes,” he went on, “I feel so empty and
purposeless and disgusted. I feel like a shell. All I can do is talk, talk,
talk to people. I can’t DO anything for them like you can. I try to preach
the Gospel. But how do I know my ideas about the Gospel are the right ones?
Many of my colleagues disagree with me on the interpretation of the most
fundamental texts. And some of the sayings of Holy Writ are so hard. I can’t
make any sense out of them. Last Sunday I preached to my flock on ‘The
irremissible sin!’ What is ‘the irremissible sin’? I don’t know what it is.
And yet I preached on it for an hour. The people were restless and
unimpressed. They were angry because I did not give them a sermon on
‘Hoover.’ Doctor Y over in the next village preached a sermon on ‘Hoover’ and
the church was packed. I can’t preach on Hoover. I voted for Hoover, but I
haven’t got him mixed up with Jesus Christ!” It took me a long time to bring My Little Minister back
to his usual gay and cheery manner. I reminded him of how happy he ought to
be with his pretty home, his lovely garden, his wealth of books, his charming
wife, and above all his adorable little daughters. “Do you envy me my little
daughters?” he said teasingly, with a twinkle of pride in his eye. I did not
answer. But it pleased him so much to know that he had something which I did
not have. Soon we were in our favorite place on the back porch,
which he has all windowed in for the winter. There was buttered toast and hot
tea. And of course there was pinochle. I was so afraid My Little Minister
would lapse back into one of his sad moods again that I let him beat me at pinochle.
“Let him beat me” is a very decided euphemism. If the truth of our respective
religions were to be decided by my proficiency at pinochle, then long before
this the Church of Rome would have crumbled and the Gates of Hell would have
prevailed against her. |