Morning Mass at Blessed John XXIII National Seminary sounds different from Mass at the corner parish. The seminary, of course, is a school of men, and at this seminary, the men pray together in voices overwhelmingly deep and mature, with gravity that must be earned over time. Sunlight slanting through the stained glass glints off freckled scalps. Whiskers are growing gray, some waistlines are settling, hairlines receding. The oldest man enrolled at Blessed John is 67. Most are in their 40s and early 50s.
Men "called late" to the priesthood, and those who have delayed answering the call, learn to become priests at this school for men who choose the church as a second career. They live on campus, at the end of a long driveway in a quiet clearing inside 35 acres of woodlands in the Boston suburb of Weston.
Fifty-year-old Andrew Messina, of St. Peter Parish in Warwick, was a first-year man at Blessed John. He's trim, blessed with textbook posture and a swift gait. He marches the school's tiled halls like a man who needed to be somewhere and had a late start. He has a calm demeanor, is polite and precise, and gives an impression of earnestness. On a big day at the seminary, he searched inside himself for a few moments and reported, "I'm very peaceful inside now."
On a frosty morning in December, Messina conferred with the man who advised him when he first considered the priesthood, the Rev. Michael Najim, on the proper way to wear the alb, a long-sleeve linen robe that reaches the ankles. Seminarians at Blessed John attend class, and even daily Mass, in civilian slacks and sweaters. Father Najim shared the secret of the alb: a hidden patch of Velcro on the shoulder.
"You can see how often I do this," Messina said. He had planned better with the cincture, a white cord that is tied around the waist with a special knot. "I cheated," he confessed. "I had someone tie it for me."
"Couple more years and you'll be putting the stole on," said Father Najim, referring to the cloth strip a priest or deacon wears over his neck to signify his office. Messina smiled. "That will be the day," he said. He was being literal. He is not sarcastic.
In all, 18 first-year men stepped into their albs for a special Mass in the school chapel for their installation to the rank of acolyte, the first milestone in a journey to priesthood that should take about four years. Sweet smoky incense, produced by a tree resin that smolders on charcoal, was heavy in the air. The church burns incense at the holiest times, and in lifelong Catholics the smell triggers a sense that something big is going on.
The event had the feel of a graduation. Father Najim, assistant vocation director for the Diocese of Providence, had driven up to celebrate with Messina, bringing padre humor from Rhode Island.
Did you hear the one about Pope Benedict firing a chef? The chef came in the day after the election and asked: 'How do you like your eggs, Benedict?' "
The seminarians dressed in a small conference room. One man who had figured out how to tie the cincture knot gave lessons: "Start with the rope in your left hand. . . ." The men could not immediately recall what the cincture is supposed to symbolize. "Chastity," one seminarian offered, and everyone agreed.
"You guys look official," joked a second-year man. "You look almost holy. Don't let it go to your heads."
Vested and looking official, the seminarians waited in a hall, gabbing and joking, and pretending to whack each other with their cinctures.
For each of these men, the trip to acolyte was along the scenic route.
Jim Neeck was a New York cop. Rendell Torres, Diocese of Albany, was a professor of acoustics. There's a former Marine colonel at Blessed John. The retired doctor, who gave flu shots on campus, will someday be qualified to give absolution.
Messina's journey went through New York City, where he worked as an electrical and software engineer for CBS Television. He was a faithful churchgoer but had not considered becoming a priest until one Saturday afternoon in 1998, while working on the technical aspects of the first NFL football game to be aired in high-definition. He had dashed to evening Mass at St. Paul the Apostle in Manhattan, one of those huge stone churches that awes you with its architecture and its art. The Mass was like any other, but as the priest spoke, Messina was suddenly awestruck. What a wonderful thing to do, he thought, to be a priest.
While it might not be explained by human logic, Messina heard the call during that Mass. "I left that evening as if on a cloud."
That night in New York, he began seven years of what's called "discernment," the period of time, unique for everybody, when a man thinks seriously about becoming a priest. Messina was 43, still single, when he began thinking. He says he was called by God, though not with thunderbolts -- just with a persistent feeling. "It didn't happen every day," he said, "but the thought stuck in there."
He cannot say why some, like he, are called late. "It's a question I think all of us wonder about. All I can think of is God has a different sense of time."
The celebrant for the installation of the acolytes was Cardinal Theodore McCarrick, the archbishop of Washington, D.C. Getting the cardinal to Blessed John was a coup; the school had been after him for years.
Vested in his alb, Albert Ranallo, from St. Ann Parish in Providence, waited for the procession to begin. Ranallo was a third-year seminarian. He was 48, a former investment services worker who got money, but not happiness, from a first career in banking. (The third man from the Diocese of Providence at Blessed John was Jaime Garcia, of Providence. He was 45 and in his second year of study.)
Ranallo's duty was to carry Cardinal McCarrick's mitre: the tall hat shaped like a shield. A suggestion that Ranallo might try it on drew a nervous chuckle. "That would be quite a sight," he said.
Cardinal McCarrick stepped into the hallway and the happy chatter fell silent, instantly, as if someone had hit the mute button. The cardinal was 75 and spoke like a gentle grandfather, though he seemed youthful in his bright eyes and tilted smile. Standing between portraits of Pope John XXIII and the late Cardinal Richard Cushing, and leaning on a crosier that resembled a shepherd's crook, he blessed the men. Next they advanced into a chapel already crowded with family and guests.
The chapel is the center of seminary life. It's an almond-shaped room of cool aqua and tans, bright with candlelight, stained-glass windows that glow art-deco blue, and white light on the crucifix over the altar. The low notes rumbling through the pipe organ felt like they were vibrating up through the people in the pews. The service was solemn, the music grand. The cardinal called the candidates to the altar, two-by-two; men from Portland and Peoria, Paterson and Kalamazoo, and urged each of them briefly, " . . . Make your life worthy of your service at the table of the Lord and of His church."
At the end, cameras flashed and everyone posed for keepsake photos. Wine glasses clinked throughout the banquet lunch that followed.
On his way out, the cardinal, ordained at age 27 almost half a century ago, reflected on the lateness of the call heard by the "second-career" seminarians. "Part of the mystery of God's choice," he said. "They won't have the years to give but will bring a different perspective to the priesthood."
Messina slipped back into the chapel. The lights were off and the room gray. For the first time as an acolyte of his church, he prayed alone, on his knees in the fading light of a winter afternoon.
Your turn: Did you make a midlife career change?
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