In the seven years that you and I have been together here in the
summer, there are summer re-runs, as in television, summer re-runs.
And there are two of them. One is “Letters that Kids Write to God,”
which we did a few weeks ago. And the second, and last summer re-run,
is “Ordination Day.” When I first got here, a classmate of mine who
is a priest in San Francisco, said “Are you remembering the promise?”
I said, “What promise?” “Well, a promise we made when we were
ordained that, once a year, we would give a talk about Ordination
Day, about the priesthood. Just once a year.” I said, “Nobody wants
to hear about the priesthood!” Then he said, “Listen, Mike, according
to the New York Times only 2.7 percent of American priests have
disgraced themselves. Approximately 97 percent of the other American
priests are trying to do their jobs as best they can. You promised,
when we were ordained, once a year, you would talk about the
priesthood.” I said, “All right! OK.”

When I was very young in the seminary, I read a book called “Vessels
of Clay.” A “vessel” is kind of a fancy word for some kind of
container or jar. But it’s kind of special. A vessel is something
special, something elegant and sacred. And the book was a great book,
short and crisp. It was talking about priests. It’s only later I
realized what a great title it was, about priests, vessels of clay!
All right, vessels or conduits or channels that God uses for the Mass
and Communion and the Sacraments. But, boy oh boy, CLAY! Clay, not
marble, or even stone.... CLAY, vulnerable, moldable, easily
destroyed, have to keep it molded. So, vessels of clay, that’s the
underlining theme of the past forty-seven years. And don’t get
scared. I’m just going to talk about one particular day in May of
1960, May 28, 1960, when twenty-eight of us were ordained priests,
just the day itself..... to keep the promise I made on that day. OK.

You were not supposed to talk in the seminary, not in those days, no
television, no newspapers, no radio, nothing. You didn’t say a word
after night prayers, not a word. If you were caught chatting with
somebody, BIG, big penalties! But on the night before we were
ordained, some of us had been studying for this for twelve years.
(Smarter guys came in after college!) But I started in high school,
so the night before, and there were twenty-eight of us, and nobody
kept the rule. Everybody talked, all night long. One guy, who is
coming here tomorrow to talk at all the Masses, whose name is Tom
Fenelon sat on the window sill all night long, plucking his guitar,
the night before he was going to become a priest. And another guy
kept taking showers. I just paced, up and down, up and down, in true
neurotic fashion, up and down. And the next morning, we all climbed
downstairs and guys were talking. They weren’t playing cards or
anything, but some guys just talked to each other. Others of us, just
quiet and scared. Anyhow, we all came down the large staircase. This
seminary is in Yonkers, New York. And there was a bus waiting to take
us (It was five thirty a.m., but it was a lovely May Spring morning.)
We all climbed on the bus. Now, we had taken the bus to the cathedral
many times for certain liturgical functions. But this was the first
time we climbed on that bus to go from Yonkers to Manhatten to be
made priests. And it was the first time in all those years that
nobody, nobody, nobody said a word. Suddenly, there was absolute
voluntary silence, just looking out the window.

Now, we arrived at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City around an
hour later on a Saturday morning and they herded us into a side
entrance, through a side door of the cathedral, down a flight of
stairs, very Gothic, very dark, very twilight, even at that hour of
the morning. And we arrived downstairs and there was a long table, L
O N G table from that candle to this candle. And half of our names
were on this part of the table and the other half of our names, on
that part of the table. Let’s see.... twenty-eight..... fourteen and
fourteen. (Yes, I checked that with a calculator.) Our vestments
were there, all the vestments. And our names were there, little tags,
half of us that side and the other half of us over here. And there it
was for the first time, in print, “Reverend Michael Dibble.” Why
couldn’t it be “Bruce Biceps?” .... Michael Dibble.... Anyhow, the
Reverend Michael Dibble, and there were the vestments. Dead silence,
very chilly down there in the womb, the dungeons of the cathedral!
And what you put on is half of us here, half of us there. The first
thing you put on is this, called an “alb,” Latin for white, the alb.
The rest of the vestments, etc. you fold over your arm. And, as we
are doing this, I am looking at the other fourteen. “Oh, my God!
They’re going to make him a priest?! .... And that clown?” It was
only a long time later, I realized that many were looking at me....
in the same way, Anyhow, we got all dressed, except for this. We had
many more vestments in those days, but they were on our arms.

Then the omnipresent, ubiquitous clicker arrived. The clicker was
some very small, rather officious, monsignor who had his prop. And
his prop was a clicker. CLICK! We had been trained. You turn this way
and the other guys over there, that way. And we went up the stairs,
no talking, and we kept the rule this time. And they brought us up
the side of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and we went this way. And here
you are. It was packed, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, standing room only!
It was three hours long. Those people were masochists! I remember a
beautiful statue of Our Lady, holding the dead body of Christ, you
know, The Pieta? We passed that. The Church, you couldn’t hear all
those people on an early Spring morning. You didn’t hear, really, for
three hours, a single cough. I’m kind of a hambone who had charge of
dramatics and all that, and you notice when there is coughing. There
wasn’t a cough. And we all came out this way, then came up these
stairs. Now, in the Cathedral of St. Patrick’s the stairs are many,
many stairs. And we came up and then the ubiquitous clicker CLICK!
Down on your knees! (That’s what it meant. He wasn’t booming.) CLICK!
On your stomach! Twenty-eight of us stretched out like that. It was
very cold. The marble of the sanctuary, very cold, and we blew out
the candle, and then the choir is back there at the end of the
cathedral. Huge choir, singing in Latin, gorgeous Latin, the Litany
of the Saints, all the great women and men in the history of the
Catholic Church, the great saints, rolling over us like a tidal wave,
all these great heroines and heros. I’ll never forget it. It was
inhibiting, but beautiful.

CLICK! There he comes again. On your knees! .... CLICK! Stand up
and go to your seats. Now, the seats in the Cathedral at ordination,
half of us are sitting sideways like this and the other fourteen are
over there. We’re kind of looking at each other and over there was
the Cardinal. His name was Cardinal Spellman. My father used to call
him the “Foxy Grandpa!” He was very smart but very small and
innocuous-looking, like a not-too-bright grandfather. Steely! And one
by one, he’d call out our names in Latin and we’d answer “ad sum.” Ad
sum, meaning “I’m here!” God help the Church!! I’m here! Now,
according to Canon Law, and I think it’s still true, even in English
now, the Cardinal who ordains or the Bishop asks to the head of the
seminary, the Rector, the head chief of the seminary, “Are these men
worthy?” And the Church tells the Bishop, the other Bishop over
there, the head honcho, that he is to answer “as far as human
fallibility can judge.” Isn’t that smart? Covering all the bases....
And in Latin it sounds even more ponderous.

Then, one by one, you go up, alphabetically, and you kneel down. It
happens very quickly. The actual ordination of a person as a priest
happens without a single word. It only has to be a Bishop. It doesn’t
have to be some posh Cardinal. But the bishop, having heard “as far
as human....” meaning years and years of study and training, and the
Bishop takes his hands and he puts them on your skull. In those days,
in my case, hirsute (hairy). I’d never met Cardinal Spellman. He was
one of those super-duper American big shot cardinals who was always
flying off here and there, conventions and things. But first time I
ever met him (I studied for twelve years. Now I am finally seeing
him.) He was considered a big politico, powerful man in the Church,
you know. But his eyes, his eyes were great! They looked right past
you, right into the deepest recesses of your heart, really.
Wonderfully kind face, and he presses down. It’s called the
“imposition of hands.” And you’re a priest. .... And you’re a priest!

You go back to your place. And, as the ceremony goes on, they put on
all the other vestments, which were many more in those days. And
you’re a priest and you look at all the other guys, and then all the
older priests (If they are one year older, they are twenty-seven. Or
if they are in the geriatrics rockettes, they are coming up on a
cane.) But all the priests come up and they put their hands on your
head. They don’t say anything. It’s a kind of silent, eloquent
welcome. And then you say your first Mass. It is your first Mass. You
say it with the Bishop who made you a priest. You say it in unison. I
don’t recall a minute of that. I don’t. The next day, when you say
Mass in your parish with your family and friends, that I remember.
But that, i was too bedazzled I guess. You’ve said your first Mass.
Then it’s all over, three hours because there were twenty-eight of
us. And then, here comes the clicker again from stage wide. CLICK!
And we all turn, two by two, and we come out of the side and we go
down the main aisle. Finally, they allow us to be seen by the naked
human eye. We go down the main aisle, two by two, and I remember I
couldn’t look from left to right to see anybody I knew. I just
didn’t. But others kind of checked out, “There’s Aunt Minnie!” When
we went out the main doors of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in May 28,
1960, a gorgeous Spring day in New York, cool and translucent. And
right opposite St. Patrick’s is a statue of Atlas with a body I would
have killed for, Bruce Biceps, ripple-ripple, perfect abs and pecs
and all this stuff, and he is holding the Globe. If you have ever
been to Rockefeller Center, you can’t miss that statue of Atlas. I
remember looking at Atlas, which I had seen all my life in New York.
But suddenly I thought, “He’s carrying a lighter load.... He’s
carrying a lighter load. What do I do now?”

It’s over, and the clicker clicked and we are supposed to (Latin
translation is ) “Proceed decorously,” around the corner, back to
that dungeon, and relieve yourself of the vestments and go off and
meet your parents. Proceed decorously! Nobody did. We tore down
Madison Avenue and there are sophisticated Rockefeller Center
shoppers, gazing at us with horror. Look what is happening to the
Catholic Church! We clattered down the steps, whipped off the
vestments that we put on with such care, threw them on the table, and
ran down Madison to Lexington Avenue. There’s a big Catholic High
School on Lexington Avenue. And when you ran in the door, the twenty-
eight of us, there was on the bulletin board, a sign with all the
numbers of the classrooms you could go to to meet your family. So I
checked out mine. And the other guys did, and when they got to the
classroom, you walk in and your family’s sitting there waiting. When
we went back that afternoon, (You have to go back to the seminary for
a final meal together.) on the bus, they were all exchanging the
feelings that you know it’s a moment of bliss. People holier,
smarter, better in every way standing up as this new priest walks in
and saying, “Could we have your first blessing, Father?” It was a
lovely moment.

Then we went back and we all had lunch and we had a week off, and at
the end of the week, you go to the Cardinal’s office in the Chancery.
(You even say the word in hushed tones, “the Chancery.”) And you get
your assignment, your first job as a priest. I was so nervous. The
Cardinal was standing at the end of one of these long glass-top
tables, and I was hovering in the back in my usual style. You go up
and he hands you an envelope, and you are not supposed to open the
envelope, where you are going to go, until everyone has gotten his
envelope. Not Dibble! I sliced it open. I was being sent to a very
pretty, like a Walt Disney town in Upstate New York, quiet with cows
and horses and things. But I was so nervous when I went up to see the
Cardinal, to get the envelope, that I was holding onto the glass
table. Now, I left a stream of perspiration all along.... So there
we were, twenty-eight guys, and I did some research. I was sent to
this very pretty country town because frankly the faculty thought I
was such a nervous wreck that if I were surrounded by cows and sheep,
I would calm down. It’s true. Half of the guys were sent to work
among the Hispanics, very poor people in those days in Manhatten. And
the guys in our class who came from money (There were many who had
lots of money.) all volunteered for the poor parishes. Others, like
me, went into education, which I loved. And some of the guys who were
the most unhappy ones in the class for a long time went into big
administrative jobs. And some of them would say, when they had a few
drinks in them at the class dinner, “I didn’t go into this to be an
administrator.” Luckily, they only had to do it for awhile.

By 1970, ten years later, fourteen guys had left the priesthood,
fourteen. I figured it out. That’s half. (Laughter!) Thirteen to get
married, one guy gay who didn’t find a partner. He’s still living. He
knew he was gay about a year into ordination. He just knew it
finally. I know it sounds retarded nowadays. But in those days, we
were so sheltered. He realized he was gay and he has chosen ever
since, he has left the active priesthood but he runs retreats for
other people. He’s chaste. He’s celebate all his life. But he said,
“I did make a promise. I should keep it. (when he was ordained) And
he has. The other thirteen guys married ladies, had kids, have
grandchildren now. Six died. Among those who stayed and those who
left a total of six died. One of them was a saint. He was. I don’t
mean he was levitating between Masses or anything. He was the kind of
priest that was the ideal, knocks himself out for people, especially
poor people. Doesn’t care about money. Just the priest of old movies,
like Bing Crosby and Spencer Tracy. And he died. All of us cynical
guys, no one more cynical than priests at a funeral of a fellow
priest, we all said, “Bill was a saint.” Nobody disagreed, and he
was.... He was a saint.

OK. One is a recovering alcoholic. And the ones who are still priests
are very, very happy guys. They are. And they keep in touch with the
guys who got married. Of course we do. You know the guys who left got
dispensations. They did all right. But gosh! Before ten years are
over, half the class had gone to get married.... to women. I’ve read
about that in Shakespeare! And the ones who remain are really happy.
They are happy. They are a little tired, but they are very happy
guys. But we never must forget, you and I together, we mustn’t forget.

Quick footnote: I can go a little longer at five o’clock. (WE KNOW!
We’ve been trapped at the five with you!) I really (It’s one elderly
priest’s opinion.) think that the future of the Church, the Holy
Spirit in whom I fervently believe, is the lay priesthood, laity, non-
ordained, laity, people like you, single people, married people,
widowed people, divorced people. I really do. I think there’s the
future of the Church. I think the Mass is going to be such a rare
event, cause we don’t have any priests left and the ones who are
here, take an average age when we are all hearing confessions. No one
has hair. Well, one does. It’s the laity, you. It’s a long time. The
Church takes so much time to change. But, it might not be you saying
a Mass but all the other, helping with the sacraments, running the
Church and being paid for it. There will be a few ordained priests,
but most of it will be the lay ordinande, you! Which is great. That’s
the Holy Spirit. But, while the rest of us are still here, the pastor
and I and Father Aidan, who has hair, and the new priest who you are
going to meet later on at the end of Mass, just remember that we are
vessels, yeah, but of clay. Amen.