For a dozen years, I’ve written a monthly essay for Magnificat Magazine called “Credible Witnesses.” The subjects are notable Catholics who have died and whose cause may have been opened, but who have not yet been — and may never be — declared a saint.
That’s how, in 2014, I came across Father Walter Ciszek, SJ (1904-1984). Born to a large Polish Catholic family in the mining town of Shenandoah, Pennsylvania, as a youth he headed up a street gang and proved so incorrigible that his father once went to the police and asked them to put him in reform school.
Instead, young Ciszek developed a private, secret desire to become a Jesuit priest. He studied in Rome, was ordained in 1937 and, despite the dangers, felt a passionate call to go to Russia. After working in a lumber camp for a year, he was arrested on trumped-up charges of being a Vatican spy and sent to the notorious Lubianka Prison.
He spent five years there, mostly in solitary confinement. In “He Leadeth Me” (Image, $18), a spiritual classic, he wrote of praying that the Holy Spirit would provide a clever retort to put his interrogators smartly in their place. Instead, in one particularly grueling session, he finally signed a false confession.
Back in his cell, he was devastated. He, who had prided himself on his strength, had been broken. For all his prayer and self-discipline, he saw he had still been relying largely on himself. The episode was a “purgatory” that left him “cleansed to the bone” and marked a turning point after which he abandoned himself completely to God’s will.
He was sentenced to 15 years of hard labor at a Siberian work camp and from the start, was determined to do the best job he could: every day, every minute.
He was also overjoyed to find that bread and wine for Mass were smuggled in by friendly priests, nurses, and friends. The barracks were lousy with snitches, so he and his fellow believers secretly celebrated the holy sacrifice at the work site on break.
“[T]hese men would actually fast all day long and do exhausting physical labor without a bite to eat since dinner the evening before, just to be able to receive the Holy Eucharist — that was how much the Sacrament meant to them in this otherwise God-forsaken place.”
“We said Mass in drafty storage shacks, or huddled in mud and slush in the corner of a building site foundation … there were no altars, candles, bells, flowers, music, snow-white linens, stained glass, or the warmth that even the simplest parish church could offer. Yet in these primitive conditions, the Mass brought you closer to God than anyone might conceivably imagine.”
Released from Siberia in 1955, he worked in Russia as an auto mechanic and served as village priest. In 1963 he was exchanged for two Soviet spies and, after 23 years, Father Ciszek came home. The twinkle in his blue eyes was intact, but the years had taken their toll. “In many ways,” he noted, “I am almost a stranger.”
Father Ciszek’s story moved me more than I can say, and I was thrilled to learn that his cause for canonization had been formally opened in March 2012, granting him the title “Servant of God.”
I’d learned over the years of the near-fanatic fervor of those who are promoting a particular cause. I’d snickered a bit at such people. Now I totally understood.
I bought a sheaf of Father Ciszek prayer cards.
I prayed for his intercession daily.
I told anyone who would listen about “He Leadeth Me.”
Then, a couple of weeks ago, I chanced upon a headline and my heart stopped. “Father Walter Ciszek’s cause for canonization terminated.”
Terminated! Give me a break! If Father Ciszek wasn’t a saint, who was?
The Vatican had given no reason — apparently, they don’t have to. Instead, the Servant of God title would drop. Father Ciszek would go back to being Father Ciszek.
It was as if there’d been a death in the family.
Part of my morning routine is praying the Litany of Humility, a practice often tinged by bitter laughter.
“O Jesus, meek and humble of heart, deliver me from the desire to be loved, esteemed, extolled, preferred, exalted…”
Right. That’ll be the day. Nevertheless, something to shoot for, I figure.
Still smarting over Father Ciszek’s “termination,” the next morning I read, “Deliver me from the fear of not being consulted,” and thought, “Exactly!” Why had no one consulted ME, one of 1.4 billion living Catholics? Why had no one sought MY vote?
The second part of the Litany of Humility runs: “That others may be loved more than I.” “That, in the opinion of the world, others may increase and I may decrease.” “That others may be chosen and I set aside.”
For no good reason, my heart suddenly softened. No one, I realized, would have prayed the Litany more fervently than Father Ciszek.
Maybe, it came to me, he had voluntarily stayed behind to accompany those of us who also long to be saints but will probably never quite make it.
“That others may become holier than I, provided that I may become as holy as I should.”
“Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.”
It will all be made clear, and right, one day in heaven.
In the meantime, know this, dear Father Ciszek. You are a saint to me.
