“The Master is come, and calleth for thee” (Jn. XI, 28)

Growing up on the coast of Maine, I often saw huge freighters heading out to sea. In my childish imagination, I pictured myself at the helm, going to unknown lands, conquering villains and finding buried treasure. I still love the ocean and ships, but since coming to the Seminary, I have an entirely new and continually expanding understanding of what Our Lord meant when He said to His disciples, “Launch out into the deep, and let down your nets for a drought” (Lk. V, 4).

My family started attending the Traditional Mass when I was nine, and I rushed to take my place among the servers. God had blessed me with a religious soul, and the ceremonies at the altar held me spellbound. An enormous change, however, takes place in a little boy’s heart as he progresses from boyhood to adolescence to manhood, and I was no different. My childhood innocence, with its fascination with the Faith, was abruptly challenged during my high school years. As a teenager, I became far more interested in fitting in with my friends and being a part of the popular culture around me. I gravitated towards companions who were not interested in matters of faith. We wanted to be away from our parents and on our own out in the world with all of its attractions. I retained enough of my early religious feeling to avoid joining my friends in activities that I considered too dangerous for my soul, but it was only narrowly, by the grace of God, that I did not lose the Faith.

Looking back on those teen-age years now that I am at the Seminary, I know that I was being protected from doing something that would have irrevocably ruined my life. I truly think the fact that my mother had consecrated me to Our Lady as a child is what saved me. Our Lady employed several means to protect my soul. The first was the death of my three year old brother William. He and I had been so close, and then one day when I returned from school, he was gone. When I looked into his tiny coffin, the great realities of life came clearly to my vision, blurred though it was by tears. The desire to please and conform to my bad companions vanished in the face of death and eternity.

In my senior year, my natural mother, certainly inspired by my spiritual Mother, sent me on an Ignatian retreat. After that, I could no longer be the same – life was serious. I started wholeheartedly to try to please God for the first time in my life. I meditated, served Mass and did spiritual reading daily. I refused to watch television or turn back on the rock music that I had come to like so much. It was a start, but it was not enough. God and Our Lady wanted a greater sacrifice. After high school graduation, I started my college classes. I had gained some maturity from my experiences and thought that I was now ready to make some wise decisions about what to do with my life. I was determined to work hard in college, associate myself with good people and learn about my Faith. After getting my bachelor’s degree, I found a high-paying job, learned to enjoy spending my hard-earned money and started to think about raising a family. I was sure that God could not have any objections to this plan.

Before continuing, I have to explain that the possibility of a vocation had certainly crossed my mind. My mistake lay in expecting some clear and unmistakable sign to show me that I was called to the priesthood. Before I was going to follow God, I wanted Him to show me exactly where I was going. Until then, I would continue on my way. Strangely enough, I never really felt at peace. I decided to speak to a priest about this nagging sense of dissatisfaction that I was experiencing. I thought he would tell me to say some specific prayers, or to be more fervent, or to go on another retreat. Actually, that was what I was hoping he would tell me. I did not realize it, but I wanted a solution that would allow me to keep my life just the way it was, but help me feel better about it. He was extremely kind and patient with me, but he was also clear in telling me that I would never be at peace until I abandoned myself to the Divine Will and that I had been mistaking my comfortable life for true peace. Then came the bombshell: he thought I might have a vocation to the priesthood. It is humorous for me to look back on this conversation now, for when he said that, I fervently wished that I had never asked to speak with him. He was forcing me to decide. Almost panicking, I blurted out, “But I don’t want to be a priest.” I told him it seemed like a hard, lonely life. Even as I said those words, I realized how untruthful I had been all those times I had told myself how much I wanted to serve God. I will never forget his reply: “You have to understand that what you want doesn’t matter. If you want peace, you have to do what God wants you to do. The question for you to answer right now is not whether or not you want to be a priest. The question is whether or not Our Lord is calling you to be a priest. And from what you’ve told me, and what I have seen in you over the years, this seems to me to be a real possibility.” He was merciless (or so it seemed to me at the time) and concluded with, “So the real question is: If Our Lord is calling you to be one of His priests, do you really want to reply, ‘Thanks, but no thanks, Lord. I’ve got some other things I’d rather do.’”

I was stuck, and I knew it. I realized I would have to go to the Seminary and test my vocation. I briefly considered delaying my application for a year or two, but, after that conversation, realizing how weak I was, I knew I would find some means of excusing myself from entering. This was the first time in my life that I was truly scared. I finally understood what St. Paul meant when he wrote about “dying to ourselves.” In a sense, I had to die to my plans, my desires, the life I had built up for myself – and it frightened me. It was not until I was well into my first year at the Seminary that I understood that, if we are faithful, God gives us all the graces we need to follow His Will.

I left behind my friends, relatives, house and job to arrive at St. Thomas Aquinas Seminary in the third week in September. I had cast out into the deep with no land in sight and feeling like I didn’t even have a boat to support me. My formation had begun.

“He went into a mountain alone to pray. And when it was evening, He was there alone” (Matt. XIV, 23)

St. Thomas Aquinas once said that if one were advised by the devil to pursue a vocation, he should follow it as good advice, even though it comes from the enemy. This seemingly shocking statement from the Angelic Doctor began to make sense to me after a few weeks at the Seminary. I realized that, regardless of what happened, whenever I left this building, I would forever be a different person, and a better one. Of course, I had no definite idea yet whether I was called to the priesthood. With the help of my new superiors, I would listen and discern my vocation; it could take months, or perhaps years. Either way, every moment in this religious house would be time well spent.

When I had been in the world, I had thought that I had a strong spiritual life. I accomplished my daily religious duties and added to those other prayers and devotions. Yet I was only like a frail plant trying to grow in the desert. Surrounded by the noise, dissipation and all-out hustle of the workaday world, I could never really break forth and sprout buds. Meditations were tedious, and prayers moved along at a pace far too slow for a mind preoccupied with life’s all-consuming details. Transplanted into the Seminary, I found a totally different environment, a veritable greenhouse where the temperature is constant and the soil soaks in the dew of divine grace. The silence, the regularity and balance of the days together with the hours of prayer in the chapel all make it possible for a young seminarian to nurture his spiritual life and achieve a growth commensurate with the eternal priesthood he seeks.

That is not to say, however, that all was sunny. Even if the devil were so foolish as to recommend a vocation, the Seminary is the last place that he wants you! When I was thrown into the unique atmosphere on Stockton Hill, I was not prepared for the constantly ringing bells, the exact schedule, the seemingly infinite number of rules and sixty new “brothers.” The Evil One played on all of these inconveniences, magnifying their importance. He reminded me how positively “wonderful” it was in the world. There was so much freedom! I was bound by no will but my own.

These besetting temptations are poison that must be ignored by a young man trying to make the innumerable adjustments needed to adapt to seminary life. Perhaps one of my classmates succumbed to them, for he left after a few weeks. I seriously considered following him. I had brought with me long-established habits acquired in the world. Possessing my own car and my own apartment, I could go where I wanted without needing anyone’s permission, but here at the Seminary, there seemed to be so many restrictions. My conscience was quick to remind me how much of a slave I really had been. Working 40 hours a week and having to take care of the many responsibilities of life, I actually had had little freedom at all. I was preoccupied with the modern way of living, which never allows a temperate pace. No, the bells were helping me use my time wisely, while the silence and strict schedule were bringing me closer to God. That was true freedom, although at the time I did not understand it so clearly. After a few weeks of adaptation, I began to consider the choice of a spiritual director. I had until November to make my decision. In different ways, all the priests impressed me. I visited each of them in turn and then consulted Our Lady. Fr. Spencer would be the one. I confessed to him and then poured out my soul. It was the first of seven years of weekly meetings. I felt like someone who had spent years trying to learn a subject simply by studying textbooks, until finally an experienced professor came along to instruct me. He would guide me to fulfill God’s design for my life; all I had to do was confide my soul to him without guile. Knowing this gave me the peace of mind that only comes from surrendering one’s will to God. Encouraged by spiritual conferences, the example of others and my growing acclimation to seminary life, I felt myself ready to put my best effort into the pursuit of the priesthood, one day at a time. It would start with my first year, the year of Humanities.

“He shall eat butter and honey that he may know to refuse the evil, and to choose the good” (Isaias VII, 15)

The Humanities program was a new addition at the Seminary. The professors had realized that it was no longer enough to give men a six-year formation in philosophy and theology. Mass media and hectic lifestyles had affected even the most Catholic households. As a result, many young men needed supplements for a fragmented education, as well as for the correction of erroneous notions. The Seminary’s solution: “Humanities” – a year designed to acclimate students to the demanding schedule, easing them out of the world and into the Seminary. The course load was light, the responsibilities few, but in all other aspects the Humanities students lived the lives of ordinary seminarians. Their education consisted of a liberal arts program combined with physical labor. The professors wanted to ensure that knowledge – and God’s grace – would be well received in the years to come by disposing and maturing the character of each young man that walked through the Seminary’s doors.

I began my first year not knowing what to expect. Despite feelings of loneliness and uncertainty, I gave every ounce of my strength to the completion of my duties. Within a few weeks, things were looking brighter. I was just in my fourth week of classes, but already I was captivated by the studies. They were unlike anything I had received in the world. I had only learned how to assemble computers and write software applications. While this knowledge earned me considerable money, it left me empty inside. My education had never given me a vision or challenged me to perfection. Throughout my four years of “higher education,” I had learned little more than numbers and computer jargon. I was given no language, no culture, no art. I had become a machine – or a part of one.

At the Seminary, each of my classes focused on some human field of study. Latin, literature, music, history – each was brimming with life. An entire world began to take shape before my eyes, a world I had never appreciated, a human realm beyond memory chips and hard drives. We began studying the ancient civilizations, which, together with our readings in literature, created a single panorama of human history that yielded invaluable insights into humanity, and each course was tied to the Faith. Our crash course in musical study was a shock to my senses. I had listened to Beethoven and Mozart in the past, but I was never able to appreciate their intrinsic beauty. I didn’t know how. My modern ears were too accustomed to the driving beat of contemporary rhythms. Although I admit I entered the class a skeptic, I left a believer. For the first time in my life I realized that not all music ignited the passions. Good music was on a higher plane; a plane which could elevate the intellect and the soul. With my newfound knowledge, it became clear that the world of classical music and Gregorian Chant would soon eradicate my fondness for modern rock. As our music professor said, “Rock music cannot subsist in a soul elevated to the Divine.” Mid-winter arrived and I got my first taste of semester examinations. My stress level was high and the days seemed painfully long. But after a difficult two weeks, I pulled through no worse for wear. Although it was a gratifying feeling to have completed my first half-year at the Seminary, it was premature to celebrate. Latin still loomed on my horizon. Not having had any previous knowledge of the language, the exercises proved to be extremely challenging. I knew that if I could not learn Latin, I did not have a vocation. But I was determined not to give up. If it was God’s Will, I would certainly receive the necessary helps to succeed.

Undoubtedly the hardest part of my Humanities year was its spiritual aspect. Here at the Seminary, with its periods of silence and dimmed halls, under the careful guidance of Fr. Spencer, I was facing my most difficult challenge: myself. For the first time, I was finding out who I was, who I really was, with all my defects and inadequacies. This was my greatest battle front, having to do violence to myself to purge bad habits, ingrained vices and deep-seated pride, trying to empty myself of selfishness in order to give place to God. It was sometimes humiliating and often exhausting; only by God's sustaining hand did I continue forward.

I had conformed to the strict schedule, seeing in it, as Fr. Spencer had taught me, the Will of God for me at that moment. I tried to look at every menial task as a drop of spiritual gold which would be stored in the treasury of graces from which I would draw over the next six years. I answered the bells promptly, cleaned the bathrooms more or less cheerfully and even recreated with all the seminarians, despite personal likes and dislikes. I was changing, and in ways I had never imagined.

The winter months ended and, before I knew it, the Seminary was preparing for its annual Ordinary ceremony. Although preparations for Ordinations took up many of the hours that had been previously spent on class work, I still found time to be amazed at how far I had come in one year. I looked back on the panic I had felt at the thought of having to enter the Seminary and it seemed so silly now.  I still did not know whether or not I would be a priest, or how many years I would end up spending on Stockton Hill, but I was absolutely certain that coming to Winona had been the best decision I had ever made.  I had offered myself to God, as freely as I knew how, and He had repaid me a hundredfold.

“Be ye therefore perfect, as also your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matt. V, 48)

A year of Spirituality – this phrase puzzled me at first. I had followed Seminary life for nine months with (I thought) quite spiritual results. What would make this second year so different? The opening Ignatian retreat provided the first answer to this question. On the one hand, it helped to refocus my attention on spiritual realities after my weeks of apostolate and summer vacation. But it also set the tone for the upcoming year. The retreat master emphasized that the retreat was meant to last the whole year long – in a sense, our year of Spirituality was a retreat. The Seminary Rule employed several means to foster in us a continual state of recollection. My classmates and I were not to speak with the parishioners, nor were we to drive the priests to the airport for their mission runs. We also devoted less time to manual labor and more time to prayer.

Correspondingly, the academic focus shifted from a humanities curriculum to more spiritual topics. The cornerstone of the Spirituality course work is Ascetical and Mystical Theology, the theology of Christian perfection. It contains those principles which govern the progress of a soul toward the heights of sanctity. After covering each topic, the professor would ask if there were any questions. Then he would say, “No? Very good. Now you must apply what you have learned. It is more important to be a work of God than to do the work of God.”

“To be a work of God.” That phrase kept coming back to me again and again. I had always thought that holiness consisted in doing things. No, holiness comes through God working in me, when I cooperate with a pure intention. But that pure intention, of doing all for the greater glory of God, is only gained and maintained by a solid life of prayer. Rushing around to accomplish material tasks dissipates a soul unless it is constantly strengthened by prayer. My many duties would only be profitable if they were performed with God’s Will in mind. This was especially true for those tasks that were unpleasing to nature. I would have to embrace them as if I had chosen them myself.

This submission prepared me well for the reception of the cassock at the end of the first semester on the Feast of the Purification. In the past, I had imagined that receiving the cassock was already a proof of holiness. After all, not just anyone wears one. Now my outlook was different. My cassock was a manifestation of the reality that I wished to live. During our day of recollection before the ceremony, Fr. Rector told us, “Christ is like a sculptor who uses crosses as tools to chip away our selfishness and to reproduce His own image in us.” Wearing clerical dress would be a means for me to grow more like Christ. By accepting it, I was taking a step closer to Our Lord and becoming, like Him, the servant of all.

During the second semester, I even noticed a change in how I approached my classes. Whereas before, I had enjoyed them for their own sake or because they made me feel “smarter,” now I saw them as tools and resources which God was giving me to employ in His service some day. In Scripture I, I studied the true meaning and extent of biblical inspiration. I learned the history and development of the various texts, and I began to appreciate the vital necessity of the Church as the authentic interpreter of divine revelation. Acts of the Magisterium introduced me to the great papal encyclicals of the last two centuries. These documents opened my eyes to the poisonous errors that form the doctrinal pillars of the modern world. These false ideas are destroying many souls. I realized that, as a priest, one of my most important tasks would be to fight against modernist ideas and their effects in the world.

Each of my courses seemed to find its completion in the full liturgical life at the Seminary. Not only did I study the public prayer of the Church, I was also able to see it and participate in it. I would try to utter the correct notes in chant class, and then be able to sing them when it really counted, in the chapel during the divine liturgy. Vespers, Pontifical Masses, Compline and Benediction all found me in my choir stall or at the altar, joining in the chorus of my fellow seminarians. My studies and the knowledge they conferred were a new means for greater fervor. “The first and indispensable source of the Christian spirit,” as St. Pius X called the Church’s public prayer, had become a wellspring of graces.

As my Spirituality year drew to a close and I looked forward to the Ordination ceremony, I glanced back at my two years at the Seminary. I was still at war with myself and far from attaining the level of perfection that the priesthood demands, but I now had a definite vision of the goal to be achieved. Many illusions and misconceptions had been swept away by submitting to my daily responsibilities and accepting the wise counsels of Fr. Spencer. I was grateful to Our Lord for having gently guided me some distance along the path that leads to His priesthood. I had a long way to go, but whatever service I might render towards my Lord and King during the years to come would be but a pittance compared to the graces I had received. With this truth in mind, I braced myself for the years of philosophy and theology which would amplify in every respect the challenges of my first two years. “O God, give me a generous heart that I may be your faithful servant. Amen.”

“Show, O Lord, Thy ways to me, and teach me Thy paths. Direct me in Thy truth, and teach me; for Thou art God, my Savior; and on Thee have I waited all the day long” (Ps. XXIV, 4-5)

My first year of Philosophy was a trying time. The studies shifted from treatises on the spiritual life to the difficult abstractions of philosophy. The studies were more complicated and advanced than anything I had previously experienced. Long words with abstruse meanings, rules and axioms in Latin whizzed in one ear and out the other without stopping to reveal their secrets to me. The sheer volume of work soon forced me to realize that I could not just memorize it as I had done in my years of secular education. Instead I had to start learning to think in a way that would enable me to grasp theological concepts. Logic was the basis of this training in thought. The course dissected the mental processes I had always taken for granted, explained them and reassembled them so that I would be able to think clearly and precisely. At the same time I began Introduction to Philosophy and this opened up a whole new world to my mind: an ordered world where knowledge was not a fragmented, compartmentalized chimera but a synthetic, interwoven tapestry. I still studied Liturgy but also Apologetics, and I joined the upper years in Church History and Scripture II. At times the amount and difficulty of the work seemed threateningly close to crushing me. At these times I knew, miserable man that I was, that it was only with God’s help that I could continue. As long as I stayed faithful to my duty of state God would enable me to persevere.

Over my two years of philosophy, I traversed Logic, finished Latin, and studied Cosmology, Psychology, Ethics and Metaphysics. The courses were thorough, explaining the major principles of each science, and giving me a desire to pursue the study of philosophy after the classes had ended. It was only in my second year of Philosophy, however, that I was able to grasp fully the many philosophical concepts and make them my own. It was then that I realized the great work these years were trying to accomplish: it was not about cramming my brain with abstract philosophical ideas; it was rather about forming a disposition towards the world, a philosophical disposition. In being able to properly view, reflect upon and understand God’s material creation, I had the foundation on which I was to build the theological training of my upcoming years at the Seminary. The habits of thinking and reflecting had become a part of me. Outside of studies, I unwittingly found myself receiving more responsibilities. I was now thoroughly familiar with seminary life and younger seminarians looked to me for advice and direction. Though still a novice myself in the spiritual life, I had to be a good example for new entrants, while also being a support for the upper-years who were approaching ordination.

I and my fellow “philosophers” were invited to enter the ranks of the clergy by receiving the clerical tonsure in our first year of philosophy. We had to submit a request in writing to be admitted. Our requests were to show that we freely and of our own wills desired this sacramental offered to us. I went forward, signing my name after much prayer, asking God to guide and protect my vocation if that was His Will. I ascended the altar, bowed my head before the bishop and chose the Lord as my portion and my inheritance.

In my second year of philosophy, I received the Minor Orders of Porter and Lector, bringing me two steps closer to the priesthood. Grace would come from these orders to strengthen me for the great journey yet ahead. With them, I also received privileges and responsibilities in the liturgy. When I went home for vacations, my parish priest looked to me to assist him with his parochial duties. I taught catechism, sang the Epistle at High Mass and accompanied Father on sick calls at the hospital. I was grateful for the chance to render service at my parish using the orders bestowed upon me by the Church for that purpose. It also strengthened my desire to ascend to the altar of God, as one of His priests.

Tastes mature and change with age, wisdom and grace. Even after four years in the Seminary, I was still sometimes subject to worldly temptations and thoughts of what “might have been” if I had chosen to raise a family. But I had come far enough to see these thoughts for what they were, insubstantial temptations trying to shake my resolve with hollow promises of worldly success and happiness. On vacations I found myself more and more adverse to the noise and bustle. While my body walked the streets and visited with old friends, my heart remained in the peaceful atmosphere of the Seminary. Having put my hand to the plow I would not look back; I did not want to look back. I had once chafed against the Seminary Rule, and later merely cooperated with it. Now, however, I wanted to embrace it, to live it; it was my sanctification, my duty of state and the backbone of my spiritual life.

My two years of philosophical formation were complete. As I helped disassemble the massive Ordination tent, under which several of my brethren had just hours ago become priests for eternity, I was shocked at how the time had passed – each day seemingly so long, yet each year passing so quickly. But it was all time spent in the service of God, and only now, the present moment, was the time to merit. And I had to merit now, for tomorrow I would be a priest.

“I will not now call you servants: for the servant knoweth not what his lord doth. But I have called you friends” (Jn. XV, 15)

I began my theological studies as one in the middle of an ascent that was becoming progressively more challenging. The labors of my first four years at the Seminary had afforded me a stunning vision of the world around me. I was now able to see every aspect of life in its relation to God: Truth Himself. Each discipline had its purpose and merit – philosophy, art, music, history, literature, language. I saw God’s beauty and wisdom in all of them and I wanted to continue to learn more.

Similarly, I felt that I could no longer be satisfied with my former mediocrity. From my new perspective, my lazy habits and halfhearted efforts of old were despicable. All of my disorders had to be singled out and attacked if I were to continue to breathe the pure air around me. Not only my tendencies to harbor resentment against others, to be overly curious about temporal affairs, to bristle at the slightest rebuke, but also the messiness of my room, my poor table manners and my sloppy handwriting – each and every imperfection had to be corrected so that I might reflect the dispositions of a person who is in habitual conversation with He Who is the source of all goodness and perfection.

While I would have loved to delve into more philosophy, literature and music, now that I appreciated their immense value, I could not pause there. Far above the plane of those natural sciences, I heard a voice calling down to me as from a mountaintop. It was that of someone who had attained perhaps the most sublime and profound vision that has ever been granted to any man. It was St. Thomas Aquinas. His Summa Theologica in hand – still priceless after 750 years – he was inviting me to learn of things divine. In Moral Theology, Dogma I and Dogma II, I listened to the voice of St. Thomas. I knew that I would never reach the heights that he had, but with every step towards him, the air would become purer and my vision more far-reaching.

A big cross during this period was not being able to devote more time to my studies. Upper-year seminarians are given extensive responsibilities. I had to show my superiors that I could handle practical situations with skill and prudence. For me, this meant the proper management of the Seminary bookstore and laundry room. These two departments were entrusted to me and their appearance and performance reflected directly on their manager. I often had to consult with Fr. Rector concerning repairs to be made on equipment and the appropriate books to be purchased for the bookstore. In each situation, I knew that he was evaluating my fitness for the priesthood.

With the passing of each day, the climax of my seminary career came closer: Major Orders, the Subdiaconate. For a long time now, God had spoken to my heart, asking for a complete, exclusive and profound consecration to His service. Six years before, I had recoiled and run away from this call. Now, I had the opportunity to change my answer forever. “Will you accept a life of sacrifice? Can you be a man of prayer?” Yes! I would say this time. Finally, I do accept the extraordinary gift that you are offering me, my God. I made the oath of obedience to my superiors before the Blessed Sacrament. The next day, I found myself clothed in a white alb, holding a lit candle, standing before the Bishop. “Consider carefully,” he said. “You will be no longer free to withdraw from the chosen course ... You will be under the obligation, with God’s help, to observe chastity and employ yourself in the ministry of the Church at all times. If you decide to persevere in your holy resolve, come forward in the name of the Lord.” I took one step forward ... and upward. I could not possibly refuse this exceptional grace, whose joy and reward far outweighed the burden.

From that day on, I was forever set apart. My fellow seminarians addressed me as “Reverend Mister” and I regularly hastened to the chapel to fulfill my duty of praying the Divine Office. The pressures of the Seminary continued, but they were only a taste of greater crosses awaiting me as a priest. I knew that I would spend the rest of my life putting aside what I wanted to do and applying myself to my duty of state. That was the key of priestly sacrifice. In times of stress, I only had to compare my goal to what I had left behind, and which seemed so far away now. This was enough to restore my peace. The avalanches of grace that my sacerdotal powers could bring upon the world made denials of selfish desires seem as little pebbles to be kicked out of the way.

I spent my last year as a deacon trying to make myself as worthy as possible for the priesthood. It was frustrating that, after having passed so much time in a religious house, I could still pinpoint faults, old and new, big and small. I was not worthy to be a priest; I recognized that and I trembled for myself. But I also knew that God wanted me with my weaknesses. He wanted me to know them and even keep them, so as to despise them and myself. Without those weaknesses, I would attribute holiness to myself, fall prey to the sin of pride and stop fighting and advancing. My seminary days were coming to a close. After a weeklong retreat, I found myself prostrate before the altar. The voices of the faithful – 2,000 strong – seemed to shake the ground beneath me. “Sancte Petre ... ORA PRO NOBIS!” The bishop placed his two hands on my tonsured head. Fifty priests followed him – Fr. Rector, Fr. Spencer, and others ... my fellow priests. “O my God, thank you for giving me the immeasurable grace to be a priest! My God, I am unworthy; never let me be unfaithful to my priesthood. Mary my Mother, Mother of the clergy, protect me, aid me, make me like your Son. Amen.”