All Souls Day in the 50's

It was dark at 4:00pm. Winter comes early in Wisconsin. And here I was, a first-year student in a seminary about thirty miles from Milwaukee. My family had dropped me off just two months ago, my mother waving in tears as their car pulled away and I turned to begin my adjustment to seminary life.

I found it to be exciting and challenging, especially the Latin part. Latin in the 1950s was the official language of the Church and an absolute requirement for anyone contemplating the priesthood.

We had Latin classes twice a day that first year, along with all the other typical studies of the era. There were no gender studies, ethnic studies, or special seminars to deal with gun or gang violence; no illegal immigration and no problems with police violence or mass shootings. Pius XII was on his throne in Rome and Ike ruled the roost in Washington. About the worst thing was something called "juvenile delinquency" but of course that didn't include us. It was a peaceful, almost carefree time.

The days were quite regular: an early rising before six, daily Mass and Communion; a hearty breakfast, and then off to classes, followed by a recreation period, dinner, study hall, and lights out. There were two Masses on Sunday: the typical early Low Mass and then a High Mass at 10:00 am. The liturgies were all in Latin and we sang Gregorian Chant for the High Mass, with Saturday practice sessions to make sure we got everything right.

We had a choir, called a "schola," which would alternate with the main body of the church in psalms and responsorial parts of the Mass. To be a member of the schola was quite an honor and I was happy to be one of the only freshmen even accepted into this elite group. Our singing was good enough to attract a crowd of local citizens for the Sunday liturgy, which included Vespers in the afternoon in addition to the morning High Mass.

A sense of excitement began to arise as we worked our way through the liturgical year. The days were getting shorter, evenings colder and the Wisconsin landscape was beautiful. We had enjoyed swimming in our lake but now all we could do was watch the sun dip below its chilly waters.

We knew we would be able to go home for a visit over Christmas, and some were getting excited about it. But first we had to make sure we were progressing well enough in our studies and deportment to make sure that we would be expected to return in the new year and not be advised that "well, maybe this just isn't quite right for you." Several of our classmates made a one-way trip home that first, and every subsequent year.

Of course Latin was the gremlin, the "sine qua non" of the whole endeavor. We strived for mastery of it and, I'm proud to say, I was able to help some of my classmates with the Roman tongue.

As the year wound down, All Saints Day appeared. It's a major joyous feast and we handled its elaborate liturgy flawlessly. All Souls Day, which follows immediately, has a much more somber character. In fact it was almost spooky.

In those days a priest was able to offer three Masses for the departed. It was a Requiem Mass, a Mass for the dead, not some uplifting "celebration of life" with sappy songs. No, we sang the "Dies Irae" and meant it. We sang "Culpa rubet vultus meus" (My guilt reddens my face). There were no Eagles Wings to carry us to eternal life. We had to make it on our own, fearful of "quando Justus est venturus" (when the judge will arrive). And "quid sum miser tunc dicturus?" (what is a miserable sinner like me supposed to say then?")

I had heard those words a thousand times during my grade school days when my sister dropped me off for Mass before school began, but I never knew what they meant. Now I did and I was scared. This was serious business. Sure, God was our Father; but he was also our Judge.

There was further trepidation to come as, after our evening meal that All Souls night, we all grabbed hats and coats and gathered for a late night procession to a cemetery about a mile away. As we marched along we sang a sort of liturgy with a haunting refrain. I tried to figure out the words, as we had never sung it before. It began "Miseremini mei." "Have mercy," I thought. No, that would be "Miserere mei." Then after repeating "Miseremini mei" it continued, "Saltem vos, amici mei." "At least you, my friends."

"Friends?" I thought. Then it started to make sense. This wasn't someone asking for mercy. He was asking for pity, thus "Miseremini" and not "Miserere"; and not from God, but from his friends! This was a tormented soul crying out for pity. But why? What happened? I parsed the words in my head.

"Quia manus Domini," it began. "Because the hand of the Lord." What did the hand of the Lord do to this man? "Tetigit me!" God's hand touched him. "Because the hand of the Lord has touched me" was his cry. Alone and abandoned, he is seeking pity from his friends because the Lord has him in his grasp.

Who was this man, and why was God tormenting him? I soon discovered it was Job crying out in frustration and grief. (Ch. 19) I also thought it could very easily be me someday.

"Miseremini mei, miseremini mei, saltem vos, amici mei; quia manus Domini tetigit me!" I shuddered every time we repeated those words in our litany. They still have a sting.

We finally reached the cemetery, where we prayed the rosary before a huge crucifix, lighted for the occasion. We laughed and joked on the way home, where we were greeted with cider, cocoa and donuts. Then we went to bed, those words echoing in our dreams.