Go Where You Can Make a Difference

I was thinking the other day while out on a run about the novel by Willa Cather, Death Comes for the Archbishop.

I know, I know—how abstract. But, not really. It had to do with friendship, between unlikely characters, and their steadfastness—even that word seems antiquated—and how our lives are impacted by the love and support of one or two faithful companions.

I reread Death Comes for the Archbishop every couple of years. I miss it, the story, like an old friend. We have been together since high school when I went out to New Mexico to visit my sister who was working at Ghost Ranch in Abiquiu. Many scenes from the book are inspired by the landscape of this area. In fact, one of the driving themes of the novel is the Archbishop’s desire to build a cathedral in Santa Fe.

The plot is sort of a string of scenes out of Father Letour’s long life. Some don’t even involve him and are merely retold stories of parishioners or myths that support the theology, local folklore. It is not a novel in the modern sense of the word. If looking through a long lens, I would call it a gathering of glimpses, remembrances of a lost world.

Toward the end of Archbishop Latour’s life, as he is actively dying, the crux of the book, Latour recalls an episode when he and Joseph Vaillant, two young seminarians from the French countryside, must decide—whether to follow their calling to the new world of North America or remain close to home and family. Vaillant in particular is in distress, his old father would miss him, it would break his heart, his leaving. The two are in a field, heavy with dew and morning mist. Soon the diligence or stage coach would come and they must get in if they are to meet up with the clergyman in Paris to whom they have vowed to accompany to Sandusky to work among the Indians. Vaillant is faltering in his commitment. He feels strongly he is called, but needs moral support. He isn’t afraid to serve, only in leaving the ones he loves—for he might not see them again. Jean sought to solace him:

He had not known how to comfort his friend; it seemed to him that Joseph was suffering more than flesh could bear, that he was actually being torn in two by conflicting desires. While they were pacing up and down, arm-in-arm, they heard a hollow sound; the diligence rumbling down the mountain gorge. Joseph stood still and buried his face in his hands. The postilion’s horn sounded.

“Allons!” said Jean lightly. “L’invitation du voyage! You will accompany me to Paris. Once we are there, if your father is not reconciled, we will get Bishop F——— to absolve you from your promise, and you can return to Riom. It is very simple.”

He ran to the road-side and waved to the driver; the coach stopped. In a moment they were off, and before long Joseph had fallen asleep in his seat from sheer exhaustion. But he always said that if Jean Latour had not supported him in that hour of torment, he would have been a parish priest in the Puy de Dom for the rest of his life.

I cannot tell you how many Jean Latour’s have helped me in my life to stay strong to my faith and not shrink in the face of adversity, Times have been tough; we all want to give up at one time or another. It’s hard to live the life of a missionary or priest when you’re always on call, when you are seldom in control of your own destiny.

Eventually both priests made it to the new territory ceded from Mexico and sought to establish an American Catholic Church. In Santa Fe, a seeming backwater, the men built schools, convents, and relationships. Not always were they able to convert the residents, but they built trust and a reputation for fairness. Vaillant proved a fervent fundraiser, able to arm-twist the wealthy ranchers to promote the cause. He would stop at nothing—a far cry from the young man in the fields that morning long ago. He resolved to go to Colorado after helping Jean build up the church in Santa Fe. He didn’t have to. He could have rested on his laurels—but his commitment drove him to do hard things. No longer a young man he left Father Latour and went to the rowdy Gold Rush mining camps to bring the Good News.

Father Vaillant had been plunged into the midst of a great industrial expansion, where guile and trickery and honourable ambition all struggled together; a territory that developed by leaps and bounds and then experienced ruinous reverses. Every year, even after he was crippled, he travelled thousands of miles by stage and in his carriage, among the mountain towns that were now rich, now poor and deserted; Boulder, Gold Hill, Caribou, Cache-à-la-Poudre, Spanish Bar, South Park, up the Arkansas to Cache Creek and California Gulch.

His last years were a struggle, always rising up to the challenge. I was thinking about this while running—Why? He didn’t have to. He deserved a break, time to sit back. When deciding to leave my religious community, I wasn’t sure which way to go. Things were easy; I knew pretty much what each day would be like. I could have kept going, but I chose to leave after the pandemic and find new places and people to live among. To serve elsewhere. I was up for a new mission. Both priests continued in their separate ways to do what they set out to do that cold morning long ago—to let their life make a difference.