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CHAPTER 3

My Seminary Days

Having no idea of St. Charles’ regimen, I had no expectations and, thus, no disappointments. Indeed, I experienced only a keen sense of exultation that I was coming to grips with my choice in life, resolving that most difficult of possibilities: the priesthood. Furthermore, I was proving my independence from the family, my brothers all having attended either Georgetown or Catholic University. Justifiably, the Hannans felt that Washington had everything one needed in life — and I had stepped out of that circle. St. Charles College offered both a high school and two years of college. While the high school was called the “kids’ side,” the college was divided into the “Poets” and the “Rhets” (Rhetoric) emphasizing English, poetry, and writing. The real Mason-Dixon line, however, was your knowledge of Greek and Latin, still the language of the Church in the liturgy as well as philosophical and theological studies. Since my Latin courses at St. John’s hadn’t prepared me for such an onslaught of the language, it took a year of struggle to catch up with my classmates. (Not only were the academics demanding, the professors were tough, if helpful. Father “Tug” Dyer, for instance, in charge of seminary finances, taught bookkeeping by beganning each class reciting, mantra-like: “When you’re priests, your people will want to know what you’re doing with the money they give you. So learn how to give an accounting.”)

The architecture at St. Charles, meanwhile, was impressive, especially the beautiful chapel, a large, separate building with magnificent mosaics and marble work. The first time I saw it, I couldn’t believe that the Jenkins family had given this gorgeous edifiice — a source of inspiration and meditation where we began each day in reflection before Mass — to such a minor seminary. The campus also had excellent athletic facilities — baseball diamonds, tennis courts, a swimming pool, and an indoor gym where I boxed, conscious that my large knuckles could protect me. Though there were lots of good athletes on campus, sheer athleticism was held in check by the study-conscious Sulpician Fathers who believed in testing character as a means of developing spiritual lives. Most surprising to me, however, was how readily the seminarians accepted the stiff regimen: religious reading during dinner; grand silence extending from night prayers to the end of Mass the following morning; and expulsion for smoking cigarettes. While Christmas vacation lasted a week, and summer three months, parents were only allowed to visit one Sunday afternoon a month, when my folks would regularly show up with cakes to share with my friends.

Represented in the student population was every country in Europe as well as Latin America. As such we were all “equals” — basic training for my later Army life. My main job, however, was determining if I truly had a vocation. As the months wore on, though I grew increasingly comfortable with my decision, I saw no reason to “rush the cadence.” By the end of my second year, realizing I probably did have a religious vocation, I had to make a decision: continue in the seminary, and, if so, enter the Basselin curriculum at Catholic University; or take my courses at St. Mary’s Seminary in Baltimore. While the Basselin required three years of philosophy studies, ending with an MA in philosophy, the courses at St. Mary’s Seminary, requiring only two years, delivered an AB in philosophy. Not surprisingly, my sister Mary, a devotee of higher education, urged the Basselin, where I could take advantage of Catholic University’s superior library and wider academic choices. Her wisdom naturally won out. I chose the Basselin, named in honor of a Canadian lumberman who, on the advice of St. Augustine Bishop Michael J. Curley, established a foundation providing seminary courses to develop “better preaching” by priests.

Happily, I was again back in Washington. Basselin students lived on the fifth floor — with no elevator — at the Theological College, called the Sulpician Seminary, at the corner of Michigan Avenue and Fourth Street. All total, I would be living in the Theological College for seven years — three for the Basselin courses, four for theology — a daunting prospect indeed. The difference between seminary life at St. Charles College and Catholic University was the difference between ROTC and military combat. The heart of the Sulpician seminary was Father “Jus” Vieban, a pious, saintly, unassuming, and learned priest trained in his native France who loved nothing more than mingling with his students. Following dinner, when the students walked around the “boardwalk” behind the seminary building, Jus invariably joined them — and their conversations. In more spiritual matters, Jus wisely exhorted us to persevere with caution. “Now don’t be too worried,” he admonished, “about whether you are worthy of becoming a priest.” We understood what that caution meant. Our prayers meanwhile were vintage French Sulpician. “Look down upon me, a less than nothing …” (to which my roommate invariably remarked: “God must really have good eyesight”).

The faculty, mostly Sulpicians, alternated with Jus in delivering the spiritual talks. Almost all were inspired speakers, except for Father Hemelt, the treasurer, who gave only one speech a year before we left on summer vacation. “Don’t play mixed doubles in tennis,” as he cautioned us one summer, “with the opposite sex.” We got the point.

I suppose students of every era like to play little tricks on their teachers, and Father Hemelt was an easy target. We gathered one night for common prayer, and the prayer service included a time for Father Hemelt to read the prayer intentions for sick relatives that seminarians would write down on small pieces of paper and submit to him. Father Hemelt unwittingly led a prayer for Gypsie Rose Lee, the famous burlesque star of the 1930s: “Please pray for Rose, who is suffering from pneumonia.” Everyone burst out laughing, and he didn’t know what in the devil was going on. That’s called seminary humor.

The main seminary courses were in philosophy taught by Father Jules Baisnee, who had lost his left arm while serving in the French Army in World War I. He used his physical loss to prove that the brain was the center of feeling as well as of thought. “Today I can feel the nerves in my left hand (which was missing) as if I still had it,” he would say.

One of the most practical courses taught us how to properly project our voices so the congregation could hear us. I’m convinced this could help today’s seminarians, who often rely too much on sophisticated sound systems. What happens if the sound system goes haywire, which is not an isolated occurrence? Our professor, Mr. Wisniewski, first sized us up with a rough physical exam — as though he were measuring us for a suit. We always called him “The Tailor.” The exam was to see if we had strong enough lungs and diaphragms. Then we received individual attention in how to enunciate clearly and project our sound. After class we were encouraged to walk into the woods behind the seminary and yell loudly to develop our vocal strength. He didn’t want us staying inside because you get used to the sound of your own voice. The key was to breathe from your abdomen to provide the proper support. I’m glad there were no neighbors around. I’m convinced after hearing a lot of television announcers these days that they could have profited from having Mr. Wisniewski as their teacher.

We had advanced courses in Latin and the usual studies for a bachelor of arts degree, but the course in English, taught by Father Speer Strahan, dwarfed all the other offerings. Father Strahan was a recognized poet and a graduate of Yale who really believed in the goals of a classical education set by Mr. Basselin. His special quarters in Caldwell Hall included space for a grand piano, which he could play without unduly affecting the other residents.

We had to submit a theme for each of the three classes a week during the first semester. His minute criticisms savaged the products of our minds. The next semester we engaged in writing a novel. First, we composed an outline of the novel. In successive weeks we wrote the first chapter, the climactic chapter, and the final chapter. Before the year was over, we had performed other substantial assignments. In later years Father Strahan admitted he had “overdone” our assignments. He didn’t have to let me know that. My classmates and I had come to that same conclusion years before.

Catholic Evidence Guild

Seminary training didn’t come only inside the seminary walls. Seminarians could join the Catholic Evidence Guild, a group that started in London’s Hyde Park in 1918 and specialized in defending the Catholic faith in the public square. We would prepare talks on different aspects of Catholicism and then go to a public park, set up a light pulpit, and begin speaking. Before long, a crowd would gather. My area of expertise was the development of the Bible and how the Church determined what books would be included in it. After my talk I had to answer any questions and objections the crowd would have. That was great practice defending the faith, and I still can’t understand why we didn’t continue it.

We attended the special lectures presented by the university on current topics, generally held in the auditorium of McMahon Hall. We were in the Roosevelt days of the NRA (National Reconstruction Act), and one evening Monsignor John A. Ryan, a renowned champion of social rights, gave a witty and effective talk justifying FDR’s Agricultural Administration Act that resulted in the slaughter of six million young pigs in order to drive up pork prices and get more money into the hands of farmers.

Shortly thereafter, Father Fulton J. Sheen, then an assistant professor in philosophy at Catholic University, criticized FDR’s program, citing the killing of the pigs as a sign of a skewed program in view of the widespread hunger in the country. Sheen was becoming the orator of the nation, and his words went far beyond the classroom.

Of course, Father Sheen was better known for his sermons than his academic courses, but one of his lectures always produced an immense audience. It was his annual lecture on “The Hound of Heaven,” the famous poem by Francis Thompson and arguably the best religious poem in the English language.

The nuns and the lay students came in droves. As the classroom overflowed with people, Father Sheen would announce, “The word has gotten out that we are giving away samples. The class will be held in the auditorium.” Then ensued a mad scramble to get good seats in the auditorium. Father Sheen spoke about the poem so often he could quote passages of it without having to refer to any paper, and he would read the phrases in his dramatic fashion and explain the philosophical content. The audience feverishly recorded every word he spoke, even the most banal. I always attended accompanied by a seminarian from Milwaukee named McGrath. We marveled at the spectacle, making remarks about the audience but always astounded by the power of Father Sheen’s drama.

Many of my classmates at St. Charles were also Basselin students, which made the transition very easy. One was Marty Killeen from Atlantic City, a very intelligent and personable fellow, with whom I was a fellow student all through our seminary days, including the North American College in Rome.

I had very congenial, if different, roommates each year. Vince Sullivan, a real “brain” and later a Sulpician, was my first-year roommate. Next year was “Bonny” Herbeck, named for his blond hair, who was a consistent sleepwalker. Every night of the full moon he would walk around the room but could be coaxed back rather easily: “Bonny, get back to bed. No, don’t just sit on the bed. Get into the bed.”

The third year Dick Ginder, from Pittsburgh, was my roommate. He was an extraordinary musician and a fellow of the guild of organists, and he really rattled the establishment the first time he was allowed to play the organ for our Sunday High Mass in the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. He played for the recessional a rousing, hopping Bach piece. Father Baisnee didn’t approve at all, but Father Vieban was understanding. The music lovers were rapturous.

Our recreation consisted of taking walks on Wednesday afternoon and playing baseball, for the sports-minded, after dinner. The walks took us all over Washington. I remember a walk with Wilbur Wheeler, a converted Episcopal minister, who was really intrigued with the library in the Masonic Temple on 16th Street. We made our entrance, dressed in Roman collars, and that caused a sensation among the library attendants. Worse yet, Wilbur wanted to see the anti-Jesuit section of the library. It was impressive. The attendant showed it to us and then made a suggestion about seeing another part of the library, but that didn’t budge Wilbur. The attendants seemed very relieved when we left.

Seminarians at the Sulpician Seminary in Washington, D.C., taken in May 1934. I am in the third row, fourth from the left

Baseball was the center of the recreational program. I played center field for the team, and our chief rivals were the team from the famed Dominican House of Studies, next door to the seminary. Once a year we played St. Mary’s Seminary from Baltimore. They had a couple of famous hitters, but we had an ace pitcher from Hartford. Before the game he would caution me, “I’ll use my fastball on them. Play way back. In fact, play in the center of the tennis court (which was behind me in the outfield).” At the appointed time, I’d go back to the center of the tennis court. To my relief, he struck out most of the opposing batters.

The development of the spiritual life of the students was strongly nurtured and closely watched. My spiritual director was Father Collins, who believed in student initiative, and I cannot remember his ever pressuring me to continue studies for the priesthood. Of course, attendance at all the spiritual exercises — morning prayers and meditation, Mass, spiritual reading, and night prayers — was mandatory, and the cassock was the required “uniform” of the seminary.

We had a wonderful opportunity to hear outstanding Catholic scholars speak at the university. There was plenty of controversy, heightened by the crisis of the Depression and the terrible drought in the early 1930s. We students certainly learned that the basic social principles of the Church could be debated strongly without any acrimony.

Naturally there were many prominent politicians who seized the opportunity to advertise their views through university lectures. President Roosevelt, who felt a great kinship with the ideas of Monsignor Ryan, was the principal speaker at one of the graduations. He was trundled onto the stage in his wheelchair. It was the time when Communism was being debated on many American university campuses, and Roosevelt wished to demonstrate his anti-Communist stand through his presence at the university.

I did have some free time during the summers, and that was when my mother would take me and several of my siblings on pilgrimages to some of the great shrines in Canada. We went to Montreal one summer, and I actually got to meet Blessed Brother Andrè, who is responsible for building the incredible Oratory of St. Joseph on the slope of Mount Royal. Blessed Brother Andrè was a simple porter for forty years at the College of Notre Dame-du-Sacrè-Couer in Cotes-des-Nieges. He did not know how to read or write until he was twenty-five years old, but he had a renowned spiritual gift for healing. He shook hands and talked with everyone at the doors of the oratory, and he always concluded his remarks with, “Pray to St. Joseph.” He was a very holy, very simple man.

In 1935, I received my AB degree in philosophy after completing a dissertation on “The Concept of Immortality in the Writings of Samuel Taylor Coleridge.” The following year, I received my master’s degree in philosophy. That commencement marked a new era in my life. Each year the Archdiocese of Baltimore — including at the time Washington, D.C. — would send two seminarians (with stellar academic records) to the North American College in Rome to complete their studies for the priesthood. At the end of my final year at the Basselin, I knew, thanks to my good marks, that there was a possibility that I could be sent to Rome. Following normal procedure, Archbishop Curley decided that Johnny Linn, a student from Baltimore, and I would make the cut. I was completely thrilled. My sister Mary, knowing the value in seeing the heart of the Church and expanding my world view, had encouraged me to focus and do my best. And, as usual, Mary was right.