What makes a good priest and what are we to make of a bad priest? These questions are at the heart of two classic twentieth century novels, published just four years apart. The first, Diary of a Country Priest by Georges Bernanos, published in 1936, recounts the struggles of a young priest, newly appointed to a rural parish in northern France; the second, The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene, published in 1940, tells of the travails of the “whisky priest” in post-revolutionary Mexico.
Bernanos’ “country priest” is characterized by his weakness, both physically and emotionally. He suffers from stomach cramps, nausea and the inability to digest food, and he feels himself to be socially inept and incapable of serving his parishioners as he should. These weaknesses leave him with a sense of utter inadequacy. He falls into periods of self-obsessive introspection that exacerbate his despondency. For the most part, the villagers consider him to be a pathetic figure, worthy of pity; others, lacking in charity, see him as an object of ridicule or contempt. Many suspect him, wrongly, of being a drunk.
But there is more to this weak and disheveled country priest than meets the eye. In his case, to a remarkable degree, appearances are indeed most certainly deceptive. What his parishioners don’t see is the excruciating pain with which he is struggling to cope, or sometimes with which he is failing to cope. The pains in his stomach prevent him from sleeping, and sometimes prevent him from praying, at least with any degree of active contemplative engagement. His distraction is not willful, however, nor is it the consequence of idle thoughts that wander world-wearily away from the divine. His distraction is imposed upon him by incessant, unremitting pain. How can he concentrate on prayer or even think straight when doubled-up in agony?
The country priest seems doomed to the dark and sleepless night of the soul, devoid of rest but never devoid of hope in the loving mercy of God. His spiritual life is desiccated, dried out on the arid plain of solitary suffering, but he never feels entirely abandoned by the grace that sustains him. He is in the desert but he never feels deserted by God. His faith falters but never utterly fails; his hope helps him in his despondency so that it never descends on the slippery slope of despair; his charity is challenged but always emerges, even in the midst of frustration, angst and anger. His holiness is unheeded by all except the most discerning of hearts and, of course, by the Sacred Heart which suffers with him and sustains him with all-sufficient grace. Perhaps we can conclude, therefore, that the country priest is a good priest who is seen by himself and by others to be a bad priest.
But what are we to make of the whisky priest? There is much that is good and laudable about him, irrespective of his predilection for hard liquor, not least of which is the real if resented suffering that he endures in his real if reluctant ministry to the persecuted Catholics of post-revolutionary rural Mexico. Yet his goodness is polluted by pride. He feels an “unwilling hatred” of the child and the sick woman to whom he ministers, blaming them for preventing his escape from the misery of Mexico. Even his vocation to the priesthood is polluted by pride. He “had believed that when he was a priest he would be rich and proud – that was called having a vocation”. What are we to make of this seeming inability to distinguish between a calling and a career, between a vocation and a vacation?
The whisky priest’s pride is also discernible in his resentment of the peasants who protect him from the Marxist government’s priest-hunters. He resents being left with a “burden of gratitude to carry round with him”. And what are we to make of his offering his soul in return for the salvation of his illegitimate child? “O God, give me any kind of death – without contrition, in a state of sin – only save this child…. I would give my life, that’s nothing, my soul.” The metaphorical symbolism of the appearance of “a tiny green snake” immediately after the priest’s attempts “to bribe God” speaks for itself.
Having condemned himself with such diabolism, the prayer of genuine contrition near the end of the novel seems to suggest that all will ultimately be well with his soul: “O God, forgive me – I am a proud, lustful, greedy man…. These people are martyrs – protecting me with their own lives. They deserve a martyr to care for them – not a man like me, who loves all the wrong things.”
Perhaps it is not for any of us to judge the soul of anyone, including priests, even fictional priests, but we can discern what makes a good priest and we can hope that such goodness is to be found in all priests. Having examined two flawed fictional priests, let’s conclude with Chaucer’s depiction of an ideal priest, the “poor parson of a town”. Although he embraces poverty, he is “rich in holy thought and work”. In his daily life, he is “wonderfully diligent” and always patient in adversity: “Christ’s gospel truly would he preach and his parishioners devoutly would he teach.” His parish is rural, with the homes of his parishioners spread far apart, but he never neglects to visit the homes of the sick or those in any kind of trouble. He visits those farthest away, the poor and the wealthy alike, travelling on foot, staff in hand, in rain or thunder or any type of weather. “This noble example he gave to his sheep, that first he wrought and then he taught.” First he practiced and then he preached, reminding himself before reminding others “that if gold rust , what should iron do?”
For if a priest be foul, in whom we trust,
No wonder that a sinful man will rust.
And shameful, let priests this knowledge keep,
To find a shitten shepherd and clean sheep.
Well ought a priest by his example give,
By his cleanness, how his sheep should live.
He is not sullied by ambition, placing his ministry for hire, “leaving his sheep encumbered in the mire”. He does not seek nor desire high office in the Church, like a mercenary, but guards his sheep from the wolves, especially wolves in sheep’s clothing. Above all, “Christ’s lore, and His apostles twelve, he taught, but first he followed it himself.”
Well may we agree with Chaucer’s judgment that his “poor parson” represents the perfect example of a good priest: “A better priest, I believe, that nowhere none is.”
The country priest and the whisky priest are clearly not better priests than the poor parson but one is clearly a better priest than the other. The country priest embraces his weakness with meekness; the whisky priest falters in the foolishness of his pride. It is true that neither can go to hell, being fictional characters, but the lessons they teach are real enough. May the lessons be learned. May we know the difference between a good and bad priest and may the Lord bless us with many holy priests.
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The featured image is “A Catholic Priest in Front of a Sarcophagus” (1857–1942), by H. A. Brendekilde, and is in the public domain, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.