I saw a great multitude, which no man could number, of all nations, and tribes, and peoples, and tongues, standing before the throne, and in sight of the Lamb (Revelation 7:9).
First it was one voice. “O salutaris, Hostia.” Then more voices joined. “Quae caeli pandis ostium.” And then, the multitude cried out, “Bella premunt hostilia da robur fer auxilium.” The final note of the Amen faded, and a hush, heavy like wet snow filled the arena. And the multitude knelt in rapt adoration of Jesus present there on the altar. Shining like the sun under the glare of the spotlight in the darkness, he tugged at the hearts of the youth around me. They were being inexorably drawn, like iron to a magnet, into him, into his love, into his mercy, into his healing.
This was the third day of a week-long trip. Sixty people (mostly teens with a handful of chaperones), and hundreds of miles guaranteed a bus rank with the smell of traveling adolescents roused too early from slumber. The days had been long and the nights short. We walked five miles and more daily. Lines for bathrooms, vendors, food, and impact sessions were long, and the wait regularly consumed the lion’s share of what free time was available. The breakout sessions were excellent, but the cool, darkened lecture halls lulled most of our group to restless sleep. That night, at the stadium, the talks focused on forgiveness and healing. As the final presenter concluded, we briefly considered leaving. Could the kids take another hour? We had to stay. After all, we had come to see Jesus, not the speakers. And so it was, that I found myself surrounded by young people aching for the infinite.
Into the silence, a deep bass note sounded, as though from the drone of a bagpipe. Then a second, and a third, and a fourth. “Let all mortal flesh keep silence’” they intoned. “And with fear and trembling stand.” Suddenly, the bass droning was no longer coming from the direction of the altar. It was rising to Heaven all around me. The boys were singing! Not murmurs or whispers, but full-throated, they begged the Almighty, “Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, Lord Most High!” Then, silence again, broken only by the quiet sounds of gentle tears.
“What happened last night?” I asked them later. “I don’t know. I was just that I suddenly knew I wasn’t alone,” one boy told me. Another said, “I felt like Jesus picked me up and carried me.” A girl told me, “I don’t know what happened. It just felt different.” Another said, “I heard him say my name.” Over and over they told me they had discovered that Jesus knew them, loved them, was with them, cared about them, and would help them.
The National Eucharistic Congress was a resounding success. I have so often begged Jesus in my own prayer, “Please, do something.” He did something, alright. Something big, something real, something amazing. These kids confessed their sins honestly and completely. They spoke openly and vulnerably to Jesus. They allowed themselves to feel the aching they all experience for the “Something more” that life this side of eternity cannot give them. By the time we arrived at the closing Mass, the message they were hearing was, “Go!” And I think they will. Back to Martin, and to Wall, and to Lemmon, and to Rapid City, and Spearfish, and Bison. And they will know that everywhere that a red sanctuary light is burning, there Jesus is waiting for them in the tabernacle. They are different now. They have tasted heaven. They are marked by his love, and now they know it. They have fulfilled what St. John the Evangelist foresaw so long ago:
They cried with a loud voice, saying: Salvation to our God, who sitteth upon the throne, and to the Lamb. . . and they fell down before the throne upon their faces, and adored God, Saying: Amen. Benediction, and glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, honour, and power, and strength to our God for ever and ever. . . . They shall no more hunger nor thirst, neither shall the sun fall on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb, which is in the midst of the throne, shall rule them (Revelation 7:10-17).
It was fourteen years ago that I published the first post to this blog. It was, at that time, meant to help memorialize and process the many first experiences of priesthood and to include others in that process. It served that purpose well for five years, and then it became more difficult. I was assigned to a small town. Too many people would be familiar with the details I disclosed to write honestly. And I was busy, getting busier. Now, at the end of fifteen years of priesthood, without a parochial assignment, in possession of a sharp tongue and a dim wit, I find myself headed to our nations capital in August to commence the study of canon law. I am not so much intimidated by the thought of returning to school, but I am repulsed by the thought of life in a metropolis after my bucolic existence in Bennett County.