THE GOD OF ROME EATEN BY A RAT.
Has God given us ears to hear, eyes to see, and intelligence to
understand? The Pope says, no! But the Son of God says, yes. One of the
most severe rebukes of our Saviour to His disciples, was for their not
paying sufficient attention to what their eyes had seen, their ears
heard, and their intelligence perceived. “Perceive ye not yet, neither
understand? Have ye your heart yet hardened? Having eyes, see ye not,
having ears, hear ye not? and do not ye remember?”—(Mark viii: 17, 18.)
This solemn appeal of our Saviour to our common sense, is the most
complete demolition of the whole fabric of Rome. The day that a man
ceases to believe that God would give us our senses and our intelligence
to ruin and deceive us, but that they were given to guide us, he is lost
to the Church of Rome. The Pope knows it; hence the innumerable
encyclicals, laws, and regulations by which the Roman Catholics are
warned not to trust the testimony of their ears, eyes, or intelligence.
“Shut your eyes,” says the Pope to his priests and people; “I will keep
mine opened, and I will see for you. Shut your ears, for it is most
dangerous for you to hear what is said in the world. I will keep my ears
opened, and will tell you what you must know. Remember that to trust
your own intelligence, in the research of truth, and the knowledge of
the Word of God, is sure perdition. If you want to know anything, come
to me: I am the only sure infallible fountain of truth,” saith the pope.
And this stupendous imposture is accepted by the people and the priests
of Rome with a mysterious facility, and retained with a most desolating
tenacity.
It is to them what the iron ring is to the nose of the ox, when a rope
is once tied to it. The poor animal loses its self-control. Its natural
strength and energies will avail it nothing; it must go left or right,
at the will of the one who holds the end of the rope.
Reader, please have no contempt for the unfortunate priests and people
of Rome, but pity them, when you see them walking in the ways into which
intelligent beings ought not to take a step. They cannot help it. The
ring of the ox is at their nose, and the Pope holds the end of the rope.
Had it not been for that ring, I would not have been long at the feet of
the wafer god of the Pope. Let me tell you of one of the shining rays of
truth, which were evidently sent by our merciful God, with a mighty
power, to open my eyes. But I could not follow it; the iron ring was at
my nose; and the Pope was holding the end of the rope.
This was after I had been put at the head of the magnificent parish of
Beauport, in the spring of 1840. There was living at “La jeune Lorette,”
an old retired priest, who was blind. He was born in France, where he
had been condemned to death, under the Reign of Terror. Escaped from the
guillotine, he had fled to Canada, where the bishop of Quebec had put
him in the elevated post of Chaplain of the Ursuline Nunnery. He had a
fine voice, was a good musician, and had some pretensions to the title
of poet. Having composed a good number of church hymns, he had been
called “Pere Cantique,” but his real name was “Pere Daule.” His faith
and piety were of the most exalted character among the Roman Catholics;
though these did not prevent him from being one of the most amiable and
jovial men I ever saw. But his blue eyes, sweet as the eyes of the dove;
his fine yellow hair, falling on his shoulders as a golden fleece; his
white, rosy cheeks, and his constantly smiling lips, had been too much
for the tender hearts of the good nuns. It was not a secret that “Pere
Cantique,” when young, had made several interesting conquests in the
monastery. There was no wonder at that. Indeed, how could that young and
inexperienced butterfly escape damaging his golden wings, at the
numberless burning lamps of the fair virgins? But the mantle of charity
had been put on the wounds which the old warrior had received on that
formidable battlefield, from which even the Davids, Samsons, Solomons,
and many others, had escaped only after being mortally wounded.
To help the poor, blind priest, the curates around Quebec used to keep
him by turn in their parsonages, and give him the care and marks of
respect due to his old age. After the Rev. Mr. Roy, curate of
Charlesbourg, had kept him five or six weeks, I had taken him to my
parsonage. It was in the month of May—a month entirely consecrated to
the worship of the Virgin Mary, to whom Father Daule was a most devoted
priest. His zeal was really inexhaustible, when trying to prove to us
how Mary was the surest foundation of the hope and salvation of sinners;
how she was constantly appeasing the just wrath of her son Jesus, who,
were it not for his love and respect to her would have, long since,
crushed us down.
The Councils of Rome have forbidden their blind priests to say their
mass; but on account of high piety, he had got from the Pope the
privilege of celebrating the short mass of the Virgin, which he knew
perfectly by heart. One morning, when the old priest was at the altar,
saying his mass, and I was in the vestry, hearing the confessions of the
people, the young servant boy came to me in haste, and said, “Father
Daule calls you; please come quick.”
Fearing something wrong had happened to my old friend, I lost no time,
and ran to him. I found him nervously tapping the altar with his two
hands, as in an anxious search for some very precious thing. When very
near to him, I said: “What do you want?” He answered with a shriek of
distress: “The good god has disappeared from the altar. He is lost!
(J’ai perdu le Bon Dieu. Il est disparu de dessus l’autel!”) Hoping that
he was mistaken, and that he had only thrown away the good god, “Le Bon
Dieu,” on the floor, by some accident, I looked on the altar, at his
feet, everywhere I could suspect that the _good god_ might have been
moved away by some mistake of the hand. But the most minute search was
of no avail; the good god could not be found. I really felt stunned. At
first, remembering the thousand miracles I had read of the disappearance
and marvellous changes of form of the wafer god, it came to my mind that
we were in the presence of some great miracle; and that my eyes were to
see some of these great marvels of which the books of the Church of Rome
are filled. But I had soon to change my mind, when a thought flashed
through my memory, which chilled the blood in my veins. The church of
Beauport was inhabited by a multitude of the boldest and most insolent
rats I have ever seen. Many times, when saying my mass, I had seen the
ugly nose of several of them, who, undoubtedly attracted by the smell of
the fresh wafer, wanted to make their breakfast with the body, blood,
soul and divinity of my Christ. But, as I was constantly in motion, or
praying with a loud voice, the rats had invariably been frightened and
fled away into their secret quarters. I felt terror-stricken at the
thought that the good god (Le Bon Dieu) had been taken away and eaten by
the rats.
Father Daule so sincerely believed what all the priests of Rome are
bound to believe, that he had the power to turn the wafer into God,
that, after he had pronounced the words by which the great marvel was
wrought, he used to pass from five to fifteen minutes in silent
adoration. He was then as motionless as a marble statue, and his
feelings were so strong that often torrents of tears used to flow from
his eyes on his cheeks. Leaning my head toward the distressed old
priest, I asked him: “Have you not remained, as you are used, a long
time motionless, in adoring the good god, after the consecration?”
He quickly answered, “Yes, but what has this to do with the loss of the
good god?”
I replied in a low voice, but with a real accent of distress and awe,
“Some rats have dragged and eaten the good god!”
“What do you say?” replied Father Daule. “The good god carried away and
eaten by rats?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I have not the least doubt about it.”
“My God! my God! what a dreadful calamity upon me!” rejoined the old
man; and raising his hands and his eyes to heaven, he cried out again,
“My God! my God! Why have you not taken away my life before such a
misfortune could fall upon me!” He could not speak any longer; his voice
was choked by his sobs.
At first, I did not know what to say; a thousand thoughts some very
grave, some exceedingly ludicrous, crossed my mind more rapidly than I
can say them. I stood there, as nailed to the floor, by the old priest,
who was weeping as a child, till he asked me, with a voice broken by his
sobs, “What must I do now?” I answered him: “The Church has foreseen
occurrences of that kind, and provided for them the remedy. The only
thing you have to do is to get a new wafer, consecrate it, and continue
your mass as if nothing strange had occurred. I will go and get you,
just now, new bread.” I went, without losing a moment, to the vestry,
got and brought a new wafer, which he consecrated and turned into a new
god, and finished his mass, as I had told him. After it was over, I took
the disconsolate old priest by the hand to my parsonage for breakfast.
But all along the way he rent the air with his cries of distress. He
would hardly taste anything, for his soul was drowned in a sea of
trouble. I vainly tried to calm his feelings, by telling him that it was
no fault of his; that this strange and sad occurrence was not the first
of that kind; that it had been calmly foreseen by the Church, which had
told us what to do in these circumstances; that there was no neglect, no
fault, no offence against God or man on his part.
But as he would not pay the least attention to what I said, I felt the
only thing I had to do was to remain silent and respect his grief, by
letting him unburden his heart by his lamentations and tears.
I had hoped that his good common sense would help him to overcome his
feelings, but I was mistaken; his lamentations were as long as those of
Jeremiah, and the expressions of his grief as bitter.
At last, I lost patience and said: “My dear Father Daule, allow me to
tell you respectfully that it is quite time to stop these lamentations
and tears. Our great and just God cannot like such an excess of sorrow
and regret about a thing which was only, and entirely, under the control
of His power and eternal wisdom.”
“What do you say there?” replied the old priest, with a vivacity which
resembled anger.
“I say that, as it was not in your power to foresee or to avoid that
occurrence, you have not the least reason to act and speak as you do.
Let us keep our regrets and our tears for our sins; we cannot shed too
many tears on them. But there is no sin here, and there must be some
reasonable limit to our sorrow. If anybody had to weep and regret
without measure what has happened, it would be Christ. For He alone
could foresee that event, and he alone could prevent it. Had it been His
will to oppose this sad and mysterious act, it was in His, not in our
power to prevent it. He alone has suffered from it, because it was His
will to suffer it.”
“Mr. Chiniquy,” he replied, “you are quite a young man, and I see you
have the want of attention and experience which are often seen among
young priests. You do not pay a sufficient attention to the awful
calamity which has just occurred in your church. If you had more faith
and piety you would weep with me instead of laughing at my grief. How
can you speak so lightly of a thing which makes the angels of God weep?
Our dear Saviour dragged and eaten by rats! Oh! great God! does not this
surpass the humiliation and horrors of Calvary?”
“My dear Father Daule,” I replied, “allow me respectfully to tell you
that I understand, as well as you do, the nature of the deplorable event
of this morning. I would have given my blood to prevent it. But let us
look at that fact in its proper light. It is not a moral action for us;
it did not depend on our will more than the spots of the sun. The only
one who is accountable for that fact is our God! For, again, I say, that
He was the only one who could foresee and prevent it. And, to give you
plainly my own mind, I tell you here that if I were God Almighty, and a
miserable rat would come to eat me, I would strike him dead before he
could touch me.”
There is no need of confessing it here; every one who reads these pages,
and pays attention to this conversation, will understand that my former
so robust faith in my priestly power of changing the wafer into my God
had melted away and evaporated from my mind, if not entirely, at least
to a great extent.
Great and new lights had flashed through my soul in that hour;
evidently my God wanted to open my eyes to the awful absurdities and
impieties of a religion whose God could be dragged and eaten by rats.
Had I been faithful to the saving lights which were in me then, I was
saved in that very hour; and before the end of that day I would have
broken the shameful chains by which the Pope had tied my neck to his
idol of bread. In that hour it seemed to me evident that the dogma of
transubstantiation was a sic monstrous imposture, and my priesthood an
insult to God and man.
My intelligence said to me with a thundering voice: “Do not remain any
longer the priest of a God whom you make every day, and whom the rats
can eat.”
Though blind, Father Daule understood very well by the stern accents of
my voice, that my faith in the god whom he had created that morning, and
whom the rats had eaten, had been seriously modified, if not entirely
crumbled down. He remained silent for some time, after which he invited
me to sit by him; and he spoke to me with a pathos and an authority
which my youth and his old age alone could justify. He gave me the most
awful rebuke I ever had; he opened on my poor wavering intelligence,
soul and heart, all the cataracts of heaven. He overwhelmed me with a
deluge of Holy Fathers, Councils and infallible Popes, who had believed
and preached before the whole world, in all ages, the dogma of
transubstantiation.
If I had paid attention to the voice of my intelligence, and accepted
the lights which my merciful God was giving me, I could easily have
smashed the arguments of the old priest of Rome. But what has the
intelligence to do in the Church of Rome? What could my intelligence
say? I was forbidden to hear it. What was the weight of my poor,
isolated intelligence, when put in the balance against so many learned,
holy infallible intelligences?
Alas! I was not aware, then, that the weight of the intelligence of God,
the Father, Son and Holy Ghost was on my side; and that, weighted
against the intelligence of the Popes, they were greater than all the
words against a grain of sand.
One hour after, shedding tears of regret, I was at the feet of Father
Daule, in the confessional box, confessing the great sin I had committed
by doubting, for a moment, of the power of the priests to change a wafer
into God.
The old priest, whose voice had been like a lion’s voice, when speaking
to the unbelieving curate of Beauport, had become sweet as the voice of
a lamb when he had me at his feet, confessing my unbelief. He gave me my
pardon. For my penance, he forbade me ever to say a word on the sad end
of the god he had created that morning; for, said he: “This would
destroy the faith of the most sincere Roman Catholics.” For the other
part of the penance, I had to go on my knees every day, during nine
days, before the fourteen images of the way of the cross, and say a
penitential psalm before every picture, which I did. But the sixth day
the skin of my knees was pierced, and the blood was flowing freely. I
suffered real torture every time I kneeled down, and at every step I
made. But it seemed to me that these terrible tortures were nothing
compared to my great iniquity!
I had refused, for a moment, to believe that a man can create his God
with a wafer! and I had thought that a church which adores a god eaten
by rats must be an idolatrous church!