THE HOLY FATHERS—NEW MENTAL TROUBLES AT NOT FINDING THE DOCTRINES OF MY
CHURCH IN THEIR WRITINGS—PURGATORY AND THE SUCKING PIG OF THE POOR MAN
OF VARENNES.
The most desolate work of a sincere catholic priest is the study of the
Holy Fathers. He does not make a step in the labyrinth of their
discussions and controversies without seeing the dreams of his
theological studies and religious views disappear as the thick morning
mist, when the sun rises above the horizon. Bound, as he is, by a solemn
oath, to interpret the Holy Scriptures only according to the unanimous
consent of the Holy Fathers, the first thing which puzzles and
distresses him is their absolute want of unanimity on the greater part
of the subjects which they discuss. The fact is, that more than
two-thirds of what one Father has written, is to prove that what some
other Holy Father has written, is wrong and heretical.
The student of the Fathers not only detects that they do not agree with
one another, but finds that many of them do not even agree with
themselves. Very often they confess that they were mistaken when they
said this and that; that they have lately changed their minds; that they
now hold for saving truth, what they formerly condemned as damnable
error!
What becomes of the solemn oath of every priest, in presence of this
undeniable fact? How can he make an act of faith when he feels that its
foundation is nothing but falsehood?
No words can give an idea of the mental tortures I felt, when I saw
positively, that I could not, any longer, preach on the eternity of the
suffering of the damned, nor believe in the real presence of the body,
soul and divinity of Christ in the sacrament of communion; nor in the
supremacy of the sovereign pontiff of Rome, nor in any of the other
dogmas of the church, without perjuring myself! For there was not one of
those dogmas which had not been flatly and directly denied by some Holy
Fathers.
It is true, that in my Roman Catholic theological books, I had long
extracts of Holy Fathers, very clearly supporting and confirming my
faith in these dogmas. For instance, I had the apostolic liturgies of
St. Peter, St. Mark, and St. James, to prove that the sacrifice of the
mass, purgatory, prayers for the dead, transubstantiation, were believed
and taught from the very days of the apostles.
But what was my dismay when I discovered that those liturgies were
nothing else than vile and audacious forgeries presented to the world,
by my Popes and my church, as gospel truths.
I could not find words to express my sense of shame and consternation,
when I became sure that the same church which had invented these
apostolic liturgies, had accepted and circulated the false decretals of
Isidore, and forged innumerable additions and interpolations to the
writings of the Holy Fathers, in order to make them say the very
contrary of what they intended.
How many times, when alone, studying the history of the shameless
fabrications, I said to myself: “Does the man whose treasury is filled
with pure gold, forge false coins, or spurious pieces of money? No! How,
then, is it possible that my church does possess the pure truth, when
she has been at work during so many centuries, to forge such egregious
lies, under the names of liturgies and decretals, about the holy mass,
purgatory, the supremacy of the Pope, etc.”
“If those dogmas could have been proved by the gospel and the true
writings of the Fathers, where was the necessity of forging lying
documents? Would the Popes and councils have treasuries with spurious
bank bills, if they had had exhaustless mines of pure gold in hand? What
right has my church to be called holy and infallible, when she is
publicly guilty of such impostures?”
From my infancy I had been taught, with all the Roman Catholics, that
Mary is the mother of God, and many times every day, when praying to
her, I used to say, “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for me.”
But what was my distress when I read in the “Treatise on Faith and
Creed,” by St Augustine, chapter iv., § 9, these very words, “When the
Lord said: Woman, what have I to do with thee? Mine hour is not yet
come.” (John xix: 4.) He rather admonishes us to understand that, in
respect of His being God, there was no mother for Him.
This was so completely demolishing the teachings of my church, and
telling me that it was blasphemy to call Mary, mother of God, that I
felt as if struck with a thunderbolt.
Several volumes might be written, if my plan were to give the story of
my mental agonies, when reading the Holy Fathers, I found their furious
battles against each other, and reviewed their fierce divisions on
almost every subject. The horror of many of them at the dogmas which my
church had taught to make me believe from my infancy, as the most solemn
and sacred revelations of God to man, such as transubstantiation,
auricular confession, purgatory, the supremacy of Peter, the absolute
supremacy of the Pope over the whole church of Christ. Yes! what
thrilling pages I would give to the world, were it my intention to
portray in their true colors, the dark clouds, the flashing lights and
destructive storms which, during the long and silent hours of the many
nights I spent in comparing the Fathers with the Word of God and the
teachings of my church. Their fierce and constant conflicts; their
unexpected, though undeniable opposition to many of the articles of the
faith I had to believe and preach; were coming to me day after day, as
the barbed darts thrown at the doomed whale when coming out of the dark
regions of the deep to see the light and breathe the pure air.
Thus, as the unexpected contradictions of the Holy Fathers to the tenets
of my church, and their furious and uncharitable divisions among
themselves, were striking me, I plunged deeper and deeper in the deep
waters of the Fathers and the Word of God, with the hope of getting rid
of the deadly darts which were piercing my Roman Catholic conscience.
But it was in vain. The deeper I went, the more the deadly weapons would
stick to the flesh and bone of my soul. How deep was the wound I
received from Gregory the Great, one of the most learned Popes of Rome,
against supremacy and universality of the power of the Pope of Rome as
taught to-day, the following extracts from his writings will show: “But
I confidently say that whosoever calls himself universal bishop, or
desires to be called so, in his pride, he prefers himself to the rest.
And he is led to error with a similar pride. For as that wicked one
wishes to appear a God, above all men, whosoever he is, who alone
desires to be called a supreme Bishop, extols himself above the other
bishops.” (Bk. vii. Int. 15. Epist. 33, to Maurituus Augustus.)
These words wounded me very painfully. I showed them to Mr. Brassard,
saying: “Do you not see here the incontrovertible proof of what I have
told you many times, that, during the first six centuries of
Christianity, we do not find the least proof that there was anything
like our dogma of the supreme power and authority of the Bishop of Rome,
or any other bishop, over the rest of the Christian world? If there is
anything which comes to the mind with an irresistible force, when
reading the Fathers of the first centuries, it is that, not one of them
had any idea that there was, in the church, any man chosen by God, to be
in fact or name, the universal and supreme pontiff. With such an
undeniable fact before us, how can we believe and say that the religion
we profess and teach is the same which was preached from the beginning
of Christianity?”
“My dear Chiniquy,” answered Mr. Brassard, “did I not tell you, when you
bought the Holy Fathers, that you were doing a foolish and dangerous
thing? In every age, the man who singularises himself and walks out of
the common tracks of life is subject to fall into ridicule. As you are
the only priest in Canada who has the Holy Fathers, it is thought and
said in many quarters, that it is through pride you got them; that it is
to raise yourself above the rest of the clergy, that you study them, not
only at home, but that you carry some wherever you go. I see with
regret, that you are fast losing ground in the mind, not only of the
bishop, but of the priests in general, on account of your indomitable
perseverance in giving all your spare time in their study. You are also
too free and imprudent in speaking of what you call the contradictions
of the Holy Fathers, and their want of harmony with some of our
religious views. Many say that this too great application to study,
without a moment of relaxation, will upset your intelligence and trouble
your mind. They even whisper that there is danger ahead for your faith,
which you do not suspect, and that they would not be surprised if the
reading of the Bible and the Holy Fathers would drive you into the abyss
of Protestantism. I know that that they are mistaken, and I do all in my
power to defend you. But, I thought, as your most devoted friend, that
it was my duty to tell you those things, and warn you before it is too
late.”
I replied: “Bishop Prince told me the very same things, and I will give
you the answer he got from me; ‘When you ordain a priest, do you not
make him swear that he will never interpret the Holy Scriptures, except
according to the unanimous consent of the Holy Fathers? Ought you not,
then, to know what they teach? For, how can we know their unanimous
consent without studying them. Is it not more than strange that not only
the priests do not study the Holy Fathers, but the only one in Canada
who is trying to study them, is turned into ridicule and suspected of
heresy? Is it my fault if that precious stone, called 'unanimous consent
of the Holy Fathers’ which is the very foundation of our religious
belief and teachings, is to be found nowhere in them? Is it my fault if
Origen never believed in the eternal punishment of the damned; if St.
Cyprien denied the supreme authority of the Bishop of Rome, if St.
Augustine positively said that nobody was obliged to believe in
purgatory, if St. John Chrysostom publicly denied the obligations of
auricular confession, and the real presence of the body of Christ in the
eucharist? Is it my fault if one of the most learned and holy Popes,
Gregory the Great, has called by the name of Antichrist, all his
successors, for taking the name of supreme pontiff, and trying to
persuade the world that they had, by divine authority, a supreme
jurisdiction and power over the rest of the church?’”
“And what did Bishop Prince answer you?” rejoined Mr. Brassard.
“Just as you did, by expressing his fears that my too great application
to the study of the Bible and the Holy Fathers would either send me to
the lunatic asylum, or drive me into the bottomless abyss of
Protestantism.”
I answered him, in a jocose way: “that if the too great study of the
Bible and the Holy Fathers were to open me the gates of the lunatic
asylum, I feared I would be left alone there, for I know that they are
keeping themselves at a respectable distance from those dangerous
writings.” I added seriously. “So long as God keeps my intelligence
sound, I cannot join Protestants, for the numberless and ridiculous
sects of these heretics are a sure antidote against their poisonous
errors. I will not remain a good Catholic on account of the unanimity of
the Holy Fathers, which does not exist, but I will remain a Catholic on
account of the grand and visible unanimity of the prophets, apostles and
the evangelists, with Jesus Christ. My faith will not be founded upon
the fallible, obscure and wavering words of Origen, Tertullian,
Chrysostom, Augustine or Jerome; but on the infallible word of Jesus,
the Son of God, and His inspired writers; Matthew, Mark, Luke, John,
Peter, James and Paul. It is Jesus, not Origen who will now guide me;
for the second was a sinner, like myself, and the first is forever my
Saviour and my God. I know enough of the Holy Fathers to assure your
lordship that the oath we take accepting the Word of God according to
their unanimous consent, is a miserable blunder, if not a blasphemous
perjury. It is evident that Pius IV., who imposed the obligation of that
oath upon us all, never read a single volume of the Holy Fathers. He
would not have been guilty of such an incredible blunder, if he had
known that the Holy Fathers are unanimous in only one thing, which is to
differ from each other on almost everything; except we suppose that,
like the last Pope, he was too fond of good champagne, and that he wrote
that ordinance after a luxurious dinner.”
I spoke this last sentence in a half-serious and half-joking way.
The bishop answered: “Who told you that about our last Pope?”
“Your lordship,” I answered, “told me that, when you complimented me on
the apostolical benediction which the present Pope sent me through my
Lord Baillargeon, ‘that his predecessor would not have given me his
benediction for preaching temperance because he was too fond of wine!’”
“Oh yes! yes! I remember it now,” answered the bishop. “But it was a bad
joke on my part, which I regret.”
“Good or bad joke,” I replied, “It is not the less the fact, that our
last Pope was too fond of wine. There is not a single priest of Canada
who has gone to Rome, without bringing that back as a public fact, from
Italy.”
“And what did my Lord Prince say to that,” asked again Mr. Brassard.
“Just as when he was cornered by me, on the subject of the Virgin Mary,
he abruptly put an end to the conversation, by looking at his watch and
saying that he had a call to make, at that very hour.”
Not long after that painful conversation about the Holy Fathers, it was
the will of God, that a new arrow should be thrust into my Roman
Catholic conscience, which went through and through, in spite of myself.
I had been invited to give a course of three sermons at Varennes. The
second day, at tea time, after preaching and hearing confessions for the
whole afternoon, I was coming from the church with the curate, when
half-way to the parsonage, we were met by a poor man, who looked more
like one coming out of the grave, than a living man; he was covered with
rags, and his pale and trembling lips indicated that he was reduced to
the last degree of human misery. Taking off his hat, through respect for
us, he said to Rev. Primeau, with a trembling voice; “You know, Mr. le
Cure, that my poor wife died, and was buried ten days ago, but I was too
poor to have a funeral service sung the day she was buried, and I fear
she is in purgatory, for almost every night, I see her in my dreams,
wrapped up in burning flames. She cries to me for help, and asks me to
have a high mass sung for the rest of her soul. I come to ask you to be
so kind as to sing that high mass for her.”
“Of course,” answered the curate, “your wife is in the flames of
purgatory, and suffers there the most unspeakable tortures, which can be
relieved only by the offering of the holy sacrifice of mass. Give me
five dollars and I will sing that mass to-morrow morning.”
“You know very well, Mr. le Cure,” answered the poor man, in a most
supplicating tone, “that my wife has been sick, as well as myself, a
good part of the year. I am too poor to give you five dollars!”
“If you cannot pay, you cannot have any mass sung. You know it is the
rule. It is not in my power to change it.”
These words were said by the curate with a high and unfeeling tone,
which were in absolute contrast with the solemnity and distress of the
poor sick man. They made a very painful impression upon me, for I felt
for him. I knew the curate was well-off, at the head of one of the
richest parishes of Canada; that he had several thousand dollars in the
bank. I hoped at first, that he would kindly grant the petition
presented to him, without speaking of the pay, but I was disappointed.
My first thought, after hearing his hard rebuke, was to put my hand in
my pocket and take one of the several five-dollar gold pieces I had, and
give it to the poor man, that he might be relieved from his terrible
anxiety about his wife. It came also to my mind to say to him: “I will
sing your high mass for nothing to-morrow.” But alas! I must confess, to
my shame, I was too cowardly to do that noble deed. I had a sincere
desire to do it, but was prevented by the fear of insulting that priest,
who was older than myself, and for whom I had always entertained great
respect. It was evident to me that he would have taken my action as a
condemnation of his conduct.
When I was feeling ashamed of my own cowardice, and still more indignant
against myself than against the curate, he said to the disconcerted poor
man: “That woman is your wife; not mine. It is your business, and not
mine, to see how to get her out of purgatory.”
Turning to me, he said, in the most amiable way: “Please, sir, come to
tea.”
We hardly started, when the poor man, raising his voice, said, in a most
touching way: “I cannot leave my poor wife in the flames of purgatory;
if you cannot sing a high mass, will you please say five low masses to
rescue her soul from those burning flames?”
The priest turned towards him and said: “Yes, I can say five masses to
take the soul of your wife out of purgatory, but give me five shillings;
for you know the price of a low mass is one shilling.”
The poor man answered: “I can no more give one dollar than I can five. I
have not a cent; and my three poor little children are as naked and
starving as myself.”
“Well! well!” answered the curate, “when I passed this morning, before
your house, I saw two beautiful sucking pigs. Give me one of them, and I
will say your five low masses.”
The poor man said: “These small pigs were given me by a charitable
neighbor, that I might raise them to feed my poor children next winter.
They will surely starve to death, if I give my pigs away.”
But I could not listen any longer to that strange dialogue; every word
of which fell upon my soul as a shower of burning coals. I was beside
myself with shame and disgust. I abruptly left the merchant of souls,
finishing his bargains, went to my sleeping-room, locked the door, and
fell upon my knees to weep to my heart’s content.
A quarter of an hour later, the curate knocked at my door and said: “Tea
is ready; please come down!” I answered: “I am not well; I want some
rest. Please excuse me, if I do not take my tea to-night.”
It would require a more eloquent pen than mine to give the correct
history of that sleepless night. The hours were dark and long.
“My God! my God!” I cried, a thousand times, “Is it possible that, in my
so dear Church of Rome, there can be such abominations as I have seen
and heard to-day? Dear and adorable Saviour, if thou wert still on
earth, and should see the soul of a daughter of Israel fallen into a
burning furnace, wouldst thou ask a shilling to take it out? Wouldst
thou force the poor father, with his starving children, to give their
last morsel of bread, to persuade thee to extinguish the burning flames?
Thou hast shed the last drop of thy blood to save her. And how cruel,
how merciless, we, thy priests, are, for the same precious soul! But are
we really thy priests? Is it not blasphemous to call ourselves thy
priests, when not only we will not sacrifice anything to save that soul,
but will starve the poor husband and his orphans? What right have we to
extort such sums of money from thy poor children to help them out of
purgatory? Do not thy apostles say that thy blood alone can purify the
soul?
“Is it possible that there is such a fiery prison for the sinners after
death, and that neither thyself nor any of thy apostles has said a word
about it?
“Several of the Fathers consider purgatory as of Pagan origin.
Tertullian spoke of it only after he had joined the sect of the
Montanists, and he confesses that it is not through the Holy Scriptures,
but through the inspiration of the Paraclete of Montanus that he knows
anything about purgatory. Augustine, the most learned and pious of the
Holy Fathers, does not find purgatory in the Bible, and positively says
that its existence is dubious; that every one may believe what he thinks
proper about it. Is it possible that I am so mean as to have refused to
extend a helping hand to that poor distressed man, for fear of offending
the cruel priest?
“We priests believe, and say that we can help souls out of the burning
furnace of purgatory, by our prayers and masses; but instead of rushing
to their rescue, we turn to the parents, friends, the children of those
departed souls, and say: “Give me five dollars; give me a shilling, and
I will put an end to those tortures; but if you refuse us that money, we
will let your father, husband, wife, child, or friend endure those
tortures, hundreds of years more! Would not the people throw us into the
river, if they could once understand the extent of our meanness and
avarice? Ought we not to be ashamed to ask a shilling to take out of the
fire a human being who calls us to the rescue? Who, except a priest, can
descend so low in the regions of depravity?”
It would take too long to give the thoughts which tortured me during
that terrible night. I literally bathed my pillow with my tears. Before
saying my mass next morning, I went to confess my criminal cowardice and
want of charity towards that poor man, and also the terrible temptation
against my faith which tortured my conscience during the long hours of
that night! And I repaired my cowardice by giving $5.00 to that poor
man.
I spent the morning in hearing confessions till ten o’clock, when I
delivered a very exciting sermon on the malice of sin, proved by the
sufferings of Christ on the cross. This address gave a happy diversion
to my mind, and made me forget the sad story of the sucking pig.
After the sermon, the curate took me by the hand to his dining room,
where he gave me, in spite of myself, the place of honor.
He had the reputation of having one of the best cooks of Canada, in the
widow of one of the governors of Nova Scotia, whom he had as his
housekeeper. The dishes before our eyes did not diminish his good
reputation.
The first dish was a sucking pig, roasted with an art and perfection as
I had never seen; it looked like a piece of pure gold, and its smell
would have brought water to the lips of the most penitent anchorite.
I had not tasted anything for the last twenty-four hours; had preached
two exciting sermons, and spent six hours in hearing confessions. I felt
hungry; and the sucking pig was the most tempting thing to me. It was a
real epicurean pleasure to look at it and smell its fragrance. Besides,
that was a favorite dish with me. I cannot conceal that it was with real
pleasure that I saw the curate, after sharpening his long, glittering
knife on the file, cutting a beautiful slice from the shoulder, and
offering it to me. I was too hungry to be over patient. My knife and
fork had soon done their work. I was carrying to my mouth the tempting
and succulent mouthful, when, suddenly, the remembrance of the poor
man’s sucking pig came to my mind. I laid the piece on my plate, and
with painful anxiety, looked at the curate and said: “Will you allow me
to put you a question about this dish?”
“Oh! yes; ask me, not only one, but two questions, and I will be happy
to answer you to the best of my ability,” answered he, with his fine
manners.
“Is this the sucking pig of the poor man of yesterday?” I asked.
With a convulsive fit of laughter, he replied: “Yes; it is just it. If
we cannot take away the soul of the poor woman out of the flames of
purgatory, we will, at all events, eat a fine sucking pig!”
The other thirteen priests filled the room with laughter, to show their
appreciation of their host’s wit.
However, their laughter was not of long duration. With a feeling of
shame and uncontrollable indignation, I pushed away my plate with such
force, that it crossed the table, and nearly fell on the floor, saying,
with a sentiment of disgust which no pen can describe: “I would rather
starve to death than eat of that execrable dish; I see in it the tears
of the poor man; I see the blood of his starving children; it is the
price of a soul. No! no, gentlemen; do not touch it. You know, Mr.
Curate, how 30,000 priests and monks were slaughtered in France, in the
bloody days of 1792. It was for such iniquities as this that God
Almighty visited the church in France. The same future awaits us here in
Canada, the very day that people will awaken from their slumber and see
that, instead of being ministers of Christ, we are vile traders of
souls, under the mask of religion.”
The poor curate, stunned by the solemnity of my words, as well as by the
consciousness of his guilt, lisped some excuse. The sucking pig remained
untouched; and the rest of the dinner had more the appearance of a
burial ceremony than of a convivial repast.
By the mercy of God, I had redeemed my cowardice of the day before. But
I had mortally wounded the feelings of that curate and his friends, and
forever lost their good-will.
It is in such ways that God was directing the steps of his unprofitable
servant through ways unknown to him. Furious storms were constantly
blowing around my fragile bark, and tearing my sails into fragments.
But, every storm was pushing me, in spite of myself, towards the shores
of eternal life, where I was to land safely a few years later.