Houses of Worship

Recently, my college roommate became a priest. Even though he was the only Catholic among us, and we live scattered in Vancouver, Montreal and New York, all of his senior-year roommates attended the ordination at the Cathedral of Mary Our Queen in Baltimore.

Justin was shocked to see us. But, the scientist among us reasoned, "this is Justin's marriage."

None of us went home disappointed -- the ordination was awe-inspiring. Bells pealed as the processional began with two bishops, seven candidates, and nearly 100 priests -- all dressed in white, but wearing a rainbow of stoles. Justin wore his alb, a white garment, covered with white deacon's robes.

While in our college days Justin had been clad in crimson, a Greek god seeking glory for Harvard and football, now, as a Jesuit, he was going to apply his discipline and intelligence seeking glory for God -- and salvation for humanity. As his friends blazed career paths, he embarked on what the presiding bishop called "a faith journey." As we worked on securing professorships and partnerships, he was trying to save souls. Our vocabulary was one of promotions and raises, of successes and failures; his was a language of love, of holiness, of mysteries. After the ceremony, when the lawyer among us asked Justin to reveal the mysteries -- and show us the Jesuits' secret decoder ring -- he replied: "You know that mysteries are to be contemplated, not solved."

Despite Justin's circumspection, it was striking how graphic, how literal, was all the talk about God. While this should not be surprising for a ceremony that was, essentially, deputizing seven mortals to serve as God's emissaries, it was still jarring. These raw expressions of faith underscored how much most of us have banished God-talk from the public sphere -- even in many churches and synagogues.

In the rites, the transcendent melded with the traditional, rooting these novices in the church's history. After the bishop instructed the candidates on their ministry, after the candidates vowed obedience, the seven candidates spread out along the main aisle of the cathedral. They then prostrated themselves as the choir sang the "Litany of the Saints," reinforcing the chain of transmission linking these newly reborn leaders with their predecessors. The bishop then laid his hands on each candidate and prayed, whereupon each of the hundred priests laid hands on each candidate. This bestowal of 700 blessings was seamlessly choreographed -- and the time many of the priests took made it clear that the blessings were not perfunctory.

Watching the clerics welcome new colleagues into this venerable fraternity of spiritual leadership, I felt ashamed by our crass culture, a culture so self-indulgent that we mock the priest's self-discipline, a culture so negative that it demonizes all priests because of the sins of the few, a culture so cynical that many of us seem relieved to find that God's supposed emissaries have feet of clay.

After the ceremony, newly ordained Father Justin said that the fellowship he felt from everyone by the altar "was what I have felt since I entered the order, and will sustain me for the rest of my life."

It is easy to get swept up by the majesty of the ceremony, and to make Justin into something he is not. He is still a man, though a man of God. Still, choosing to be a Jesuit priest today is exceptional -- and the ceremony reflected it. Even many of the older Catholics there had never attended an ordination. All of us, old and young, Catholic and Protestant, Muslim and Jew, could not help but be inspired by the ceremony, uplifted by our association with our gridiron great turned pastor.

Before the candidates were elected, the bishop asked their spiritual mentor, "Are they worthy?" As the supervising provincial described 10 years of training throughout the world, we felt proud of Justin and his six comrades. Justin, characteristically, deflected the compliments. The next day, before offering his first Mass at his home parish, Justin thanked his friends, family and teachers.

These days it is fashionable to harp on all the cultural toxins in the modern world. But if our society still leaves room for a journey like Justin's, maybe, just maybe, there is hope for us all.

Mr. Troy teaches history at McGill University in Montreal.