Today is the feast of St. John Vianney, patron of parish priests, of which I am the least. Every priest must admit that he is “the least,” completely incapable of the task given to him. But by God’s grace, as St. Paul wrote, “I am what I am.” Fr. Vianney would usually refer to himself as “his poor self,” and as “a poor priest,” a “miserable priest.”
If that sounds like a self-esteem issue to modern sensibilities, consider these thoughts from his sermon on the virtue of humility: “My children, we are in reality only what we are in the eyes of God, and nothing more. Is it not quite clear and evident that we are nothing, that we can do nothing, that we are very miserable? … If we were to consider well what we are, humility would be easy to us, and the demon of pride would no longer have any room in our heart.”
In weaker moments, Fr. John Vianney lamented his pastorate at St. Sixtus parish in the village of Ars. The people left him almost no time to read, to pray and to rest, such that he slept only 2-3 hours a night. He longed to escape to a Trappist monastery “to spend his remaining years weeping over his sins.” John Vianney was not depressed. Sad priests do not draw people in, but by 1845 over 20,000 people a year were coming to his parish from all over Europe, such that the French government had to open a special train line to his village. John Vianney was not “miserable” in a sad way, but he certainly did not feel up to the task of parish priest. In fact, he tried to escape his parish several times….
One of my favorite John Vianney stories happened just a few years before the Good God finally allowed him to retire. He had written his bishop several times asking to be released from parish work, and he had already tried to leave his parish twice. One night in 1853 he tried to escape again, getting as far as the outskirts of the village, across the little river La Pierre, on his way to the nearest Trappist Monastery. His parishioners were ready for this, however, and called to him from the other side of the river. Mon Père, Mon Père, they cried, où est sa bréviaire? (“Father, Father, where is your breviary?”) The hapless priest feverishly searched his bag but came up empty-handed. The triumphant parishioners held up the black prayer book, and Fr. Vianney sheepishly returned to his parish. He died six years later, still yoked to his parish, hearing confessions right to the end.
Before smartphones, priests would refer to breviaries as our “wives.” In the seminary if you misplaced your breviary you would call out “has anyone seen my wife?” Priests make a vow to pray our breviaries five times a day, and they are never far from us. We prop up books on them, use them as pillows on backpacking trips, and store all sorts of essentials in their capacious leather covers (reading glasses, writing instruments, notepaper, emergency cash, holy cards, drivers’ licenses, and Latin cue cards, among other fundamentals). Most of us even sleep with our breviaries, or at least keep them at our bedsides (when not using them as a pillow on the trail).
Nowadays many priests pray the divine office on their phones rather than from their breviaries, which is certainly more convenient. I must confess that I pray from my phone while camping or riding, because a phone weighs far less than a breviary and takes up less room in the backpack or cycle pocket. It is good for priests, however, to pray from their breviaries, and to keep their breviaries close. Unlike a smartphone, a breviary is all and only the Word of God.
Love for his breviary brought Fr. John Vianney back to his parish. May we parish priests hold our breviaries close, with great affection, as did our patron saint.
If that sounds like a self-esteem issue to modern sensibilities, consider these thoughts from his sermon on the virtue of humility: “My children, we are in reality only what we are in the eyes of God, and nothing more. Is it not quite clear and evident that we are nothing, that we can do nothing, that we are very miserable? … If we were to consider well what we are, humility would be easy to us, and the demon of pride would no longer have any room in our heart.”
In weaker moments, Fr. John Vianney lamented his pastorate at St. Sixtus parish in the village of Ars. The people left him almost no time to read, to pray and to rest, such that he slept only 2-3 hours a night. He longed to escape to a Trappist monastery “to spend his remaining years weeping over his sins.” John Vianney was not depressed. Sad priests do not draw people in, but by 1845 over 20,000 people a year were coming to his parish from all over Europe, such that the French government had to open a special train line to his village. John Vianney was not “miserable” in a sad way, but he certainly did not feel up to the task of parish priest. In fact, he tried to escape his parish several times….
One of my favorite John Vianney stories happened just a few years before the Good God finally allowed him to retire. He had written his bishop several times asking to be released from parish work, and he had already tried to leave his parish twice. One night in 1853 he tried to escape again, getting as far as the outskirts of the village, across the little river La Pierre, on his way to the nearest Trappist Monastery. His parishioners were ready for this, however, and called to him from the other side of the river. Mon Père, Mon Père, they cried, où est sa bréviaire? (“Father, Father, where is your breviary?”) The hapless priest feverishly searched his bag but came up empty-handed. The triumphant parishioners held up the black prayer book, and Fr. Vianney sheepishly returned to his parish. He died six years later, still yoked to his parish, hearing confessions right to the end.
Before smartphones, priests would refer to breviaries as our “wives.” In the seminary if you misplaced your breviary you would call out “has anyone seen my wife?” Priests make a vow to pray our breviaries five times a day, and they are never far from us. We prop up books on them, use them as pillows on backpacking trips, and store all sorts of essentials in their capacious leather covers (reading glasses, writing instruments, notepaper, emergency cash, holy cards, drivers’ licenses, and Latin cue cards, among other fundamentals). Most of us even sleep with our breviaries, or at least keep them at our bedsides (when not using them as a pillow on the trail).
Nowadays many priests pray the divine office on their phones rather than from their breviaries, which is certainly more convenient. I must confess that I pray from my phone while camping or riding, because a phone weighs far less than a breviary and takes up less room in the backpack or cycle pocket. It is good for priests, however, to pray from their breviaries, and to keep their breviaries close. Unlike a smartphone, a breviary is all and only the Word of God.
Love for his breviary brought Fr. John Vianney back to his parish. May we parish priests hold our breviaries close, with great affection, as did our patron saint.
My beloved breviary, serving as a bookstand.
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