Priesthood Promises

Sixteen of our deacons made priesthood promises tonight.


We are witnesses of these things,as is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him.

It is said that the rector has only two commands. The first you have all already heard. It is the invitation to be here. From the very first day of your arrival the rector said: “Be here”. It was a command, but also an invitation.

Be here and witness the power of the love of God in the ordinary workings and inner workings of this community, in the laughter and tears of your brothers, in the wonder of new discovery, in the satisfaction of hard work.

Be here and know the miracle that Christ can wrought in lives full of doubt and despair, the hope that Christ can give in men who seem to have no hope.

Be here and see the daily foibles of men slouching toward Jerusalem in fits and starts until they are finally able to run the race with grace and dignity.

Be here and witness the annual joy of work completed, prayers answered, lives fulfilled in ordination, insights gained, spiritual realties revealed in the horizons of faith that are ever expanding, ever broadening, ever deepening.

The first command of the rector is to be here. Obey him. Or rather obey God.

We are witnesses of these things,as is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him.

The second command you have also heard and tonight I repeat it to our brothers who are publically proclaiming their priesthood promises. Now at the end of your sojourn on this Hill the rector says: “Get out”. It is a command, but also an invitation.

Get out and confront the Body of Christ in all of its personal grandeur and depravity. See in the eyes of your brothers and sisters, men and women and children who long for the human dignity so often denied them in the quotidian commerce of the world.

Get out and observe in your trembling hand the host, the chalice, the contents of a universe, the Lord and Master of All, in what appears to be bread and wine. See in those simple things the miracle that nothing is what it seems to be, not bread and wine, not the world, not the parish, not brothers and sisters, even the nasty ones.

Get out so you can realize that you are called to another place and when you have arrived at the other place, be there. Give your lives there; pour out your blood there. Give that place where you will be for three weeks, three months, or three years, everything you have. Hold nothing back because the Body of Christ deserves good priests, they deserve the best priests.

Get out and be aware perhaps for the first time of the skills and knowledge you have gained here. And be aware perhaps for the first time of what you do not know, cannot know without the living witness of the Body to inform you.

Get out and realize that you hold in your hand, in the promises you make tonight your passport. These promises are food for a hungry world. They are hope. They are the promise that men and women are still free, that it is still possible to make a commitment for life, that it is still possible to sacrifice and love in the sacrifice, that it is still possible to profess faith in something greater than the ephemeral, passing interests of popular culture, that it is still possible to give your life to something greater than your tastes, your opinions, your momentary whims.

For the one whom God sent speaks the words of God.He does not ration his gift of the Spirit.

We are witnesses of these things,as is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him.

You will make these promises tonight in the presence of this community, but you make them in light of those other communities, in towns and pit stops from here to Iowa, to Louisiana, to Minnesota, to Kentucky, to Ohio, to Switzerland, to Alabama, to Indiana, to India, to the farthest corners of the world. You make them for men and women, for people you have never met, for the thousands upon thousands of people whose lives you will touch in your decades of priesthood, you make these promises for them and for us.

We are witnesses of these things,as is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him.

Now, I also want you to make some additional promises tonight. I want you to make some promises to us as you prepare to leave us, leave this Hill, and leave Saint Meinrad.

Promise us that in the twilight of some evening wherever you may be, when you are downcast and distressed you will see in some glimmer, in some golden glow off a surface, the golden sandstone of these walls in the spring evening and be comforted.

Promise us that when you are crying, when you are feeling sorry for yourself, when you are sad, you will remember some stupid joke, some turn of phrase that made you laugh in these echoing halls so long ago and be consoled.

Promise us that in all of the difficult places that life will take you in the coming years, you will occasionally remember the Unstable, and cheap beer and the best pizza in Southern Indiana, and the prosthetic nose of an elk.

Promise us that as you traverse the classrooms of your future ministries, the numerous schools, you will remember B106 (which will somehow remain forever B106) and those tables lined up and the order in which everyone sat.

Promise us that when you think of your alma mater you will think of the laughter not the tears.

Promise us that when you can no longer kneel because of your knee replacement you will remember days of prayer in this chapel, and on this Hill.

Promise us that you will remember all the characters that were here and stayed or were here and left in vivid detail.

Promise us that you will remember the old monks who have devoted their lives, every ounce of their lives to the formation of men like you.

Promise us that your will remember the bells, those irritating bells when you need to be called back to sanity and reality.

Promise us that your will remember those sandstone crosses and their vigil candles on a blustery November night, every time you bury the dead.

Promise us that every time you pass a Wendy’s on the streets of towns in Iowa or Louisiana you will feel the exhilaration of escape and remember moaning and complaining in the drive through of the most inefficient fast food joint in the Americas.

Promise us that you will remember the Holly Tree, and chant, and roadtrips and unread books and indifferent food and black napkins and caramel macchiatos and the scholar shop and the Celtic cross and the stained glass glow of these windows at 8:00 in the morning and Esther’s voice and eggs and Easter and the Angelus.

Promise us that whenever you are awake at 2:30 in the morning worrying about the finances of the parish, or drafting a difficult letter for the third time you will remember the old rector of your seminary who may be sitting at that very hour in his room, head in hands, praying for his lost sheep.


Promise us that every year in the early autumn you will take a moment to remember the now faceless, nameless men who will climb this hill with their hearts full of fear and hope and joy and expectation and will hear some future rector say to them: “Be here” and promise us that you will pray for them as so many faceless, nameless alumni of this sacred place have remembered each of your journeys and feared and hoped and rejoiced and expected again to be revived in an invitation to promise their lives for the good of the Church and the world.

Now for the last time: Obey the rector. Or rather, obey God.

Because we are witnesses of these things,as is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him.