One by one, the kneeling seminarians got up and walked out into the evening twilight. They went in pairs into the neighborhood, striking up conversations and asking those they met for prayer intentions. As they left the church, the previous shift of seminarians returned, kneeling to pray before the Blessed Sacrament, luminous in its monstrance among a blaze of candles on the altar.
Every few months at St. John Paul II Seminary, we engage in “street evangelization” in one of the neighborhoods in or around Washington, DC. That particular time was a cool, autumn evening in Bethesda, Maryland. In the hushed silence of the church, I watched this “changing of the guard” with a feeling of deep pride in those gifted and courageous young men, full of youth and ability, sent out on a campaign for souls, inviting people into the Church and the peace of God’s True Presence. That evening has become an iconic image in my mind of the quality of our future priests and the gift that it is, for me personally, to work in seminary formation.
If you had asked me on my ordination day how I would spend the first 20 years of my priesthood, I would never have guessed that I’d spend 15 of them teaching at a seminary. For one thing, I am a convert to the faith and before I was in formation seminaries were as opaque to me as they might be to you right now. What little I had heard about seminaries, moreover, was not very flattering.
When I started my formation in 1998, most of the priests on faculty had attended the seminaries of the 1960s, 70s, and 80s. I heard story after story about their seminary experiences, some of them good, many of them dreadful. Now in 2025, having exercised most of my priesthood in formation work, and having visited and spoken at many seminaries over the years, my first- and second-hand knowledge of seminary life spans the country and five or six decades.
At its best, priestly fatherhood powerfully reveals the love of God the Father. That is a constant point of examination for me: am I, in fact, revealing the Father’s love to these generous young men who are discerning a priestly calling?
Without a doubt, from where I sit it is evident that American diocesan seminaries are stronger and healthier than at any point since the Second Vatican Council, and perhaps even the decades prior. They are certainly not perfect, and seminary reform is a never-ending effort, but they are a far cry from the decadence that plagued many seminaries in the past—a decadence responsible, I believe, for much of the horrific clergy sexual abuse over the years.
Before the seminary, I was a naval officer. One aspect of shipboard life that I appreciated most was a strong sense of being united with others in a common mission. Everyone on that vessel was moving in the same direction, both literally and figuratively. We had the same goals, confronted the same challenges, and enjoyed the same achievements.
That feeling of solidarity is surpassed, in my experience, only in the seminary. It is honestly more a family than an institution, a community where each member desires to grow in virtue, holiness, and in the discernment of God’s will, wherever it leads. The depth of these common aspirations is especially manifest when the rare seminarian comes along who does not share them. Thankfully, he is usually gone within a few months.
The outlook and goals that we share as a community foster an environment that is joyful, wholesome, and affectionate. Seminarians pray together, eat together, study together, and enjoy sports and excursions and movies and hikes together. They celebrate each other’s birthdays, meet each other’s families, and care for those who are ill. One seminarian who came down with an illness a few years ago, reflecting on the attentiveness of his brothers, told me that the seminary is “a great place to get sick.”
Once I was at lunch in the seminary and a young man accidentally dropped his plate of food. He was mortified, as you can imagine. At virtually any other gathering of young, competitive men, there would be cheering, guffaws, and perhaps some snide remarks. What happened at the seminary was this: one guy jumped up and helped him pick up the food and the broken pieces of plate, another went into the kitchen to fetch a broom to sweep up the debris, another made a place for him at their table, and when he sat down (with a new plate of food) they made light of it and welcomed him into their conversation. The seminary is not only a great place to get sick; it’s a great place to drop your plate of food.
Now I do not want to overstate things. The seminarians (and their formators) are in the same vale of tears as everyone else and subject to the same weaknesses, faults, and sinful inclinations. Squabbles happen, friendships wax and wane, tensions run high on the sports field, guys leave dishes for others to clean, and practical jokes go amiss.
Moreover, men entering seminary life breathe the same cultural miasma as the rest of their generation. Like other young people they are often addicted to their screens and struggle with the same anxieties and self-absorption as their contemporaries. They often need help working through wounds inflicted on them at home or at school. They sometimes have patterns of sin that must be addressed. But despite it all, the earnestness, honesty, and openness to formation of these young men is beyond question.
It is not just the quality of the men coming into formation, however, that makes this such an auspicious moment for seminary formation. In 1992 St. John Paul II published a document entitled Pastores Dabo Vobis—“I Will Give You Shepherds”—that set Catholic seminaries on a new course, the fruits of which (at least in our country) are now in full blossom. In that document Pope John Paul II focused especially on the importance of a seminarian’s human integration as the cornerstone for his spiritual, intellectual, and pastoral formation.
One upshot of that document, published over 30 years ago, is that virtually all priests teaching at seminaries today were themselves formed according to the late Pope’s approach to priestly formation. In addition, priests and seminarians alike share a common love for the Church and the Catholic faith to which they are staunchly committed. As a result, the generational divides that plagued seminaries in the past are today almost nonexistent.
That sense of common outlook and mission among priests, faculty, and seminarians, coupled with the fact that young people today tend to be more radically open and transparent, contributes to an environment in which men can truly be formed well. That is the environment in which I am privileged to work.
It is a different kind of priesthood than I had envisioned when I was ordained, but what it lacks in breadth—my “parishioners” this year number around 60—it makes up for in intensity and depth. I do not serve 2,000 families in a suburban parish, but I do live next door to my parishioners 24/7 and accompany them on all the ups and downs of their life and their vocational journey. It is a profoundly paternal experience of priesthood to both guide them as a spiritual father and foster in them a fatherly heart that they will carry into their own priestly ministry.
At its best, priestly fatherhood powerfully reveals the love of God the Father. That is a constant point of examination for me: am I, in fact, revealing the Father’s love to these generous young men who are discerning a priestly calling? Am I promoting their joy and virtue? Am I attentive and patient? Do I care for them well, listen to them carefully, correct them lovingly, encourage them regularly, and protect them courageously?
Part of a father’s job is to prepare his children for a world that can be challenging, even dangerous. I am keenly aware that the seminary is not the priesthood, and that the warm family environment fostered within these walls will not always be their experience in the field. Many parish priests are overwhelmed with work, struggle with anxiety and burnout, are distant from priest friends, and live under a pall of suspicion and the threat of false accusations. Many feel little support from their bishop, their brother priests, or even their parishioners.
There are, to be sure, wholesome and effective responses to each of those challenges that are being lived right now by innumerable men—the vast majority of priests, in fact—who enjoy thriving and joyful lives. But however deliberately we strive to instill those lessons in the seminary, they do not sidestep the need of a priest to correspond to grace and make good choices. The fact is, we are sending these young men into a long, hard battle, and the risk of casualties is high. As I look upon the bright and eager faces of our young seminarians, I know that they are volunteering for a war that will take its toll and leave its scars.
A father can only ask his child to embrace danger if he truly believes it is worth doing. I do. I can honestly say that, purely by God’s grace and mercy, my love for the priesthood surpasses even the love I felt on the day of my ordination. I am more convinced than ever that living instruments of Jesus’ priestly heart are desperately needed today.
In the radical availability of their celibacy, ordered to a fruitful spiritual paternity, these men will make a difference in the lives of many thousands of people. In their preaching, in extending God’s mercy in the sacrament of confession, in teaching the young, in assisting the dying on their way to heaven, and above all in making Jesus present to his people in the Eucharist, they will change the world. And if they remain faithful, with all the challenges and risks they will face, they will experience an unquenchable joy that nothing in the world can take from them.
If preparing seminarians for priestly ministry and fatherhood is the greatest privilege of being in seminary formation, the most difficult part is serving as a “gatekeeper” to the priesthood. For the most part, we can effectively vet incoming men with extensive interviews, references, background checks, and psychological examinations.
Nevertheless, even after they are accepted it sometimes becomes clear that an individual’s temperament is not suited for priestly ministry, or that he has interior wounds that are best addressed outside the seminary, or that his maturity is insufficient to continue in formation. In most of these cases we can help a man realize the wisdom of leaving seminary formation and he usually does so willingly, even joyfully and gratefully.
Occasionally we learn that a man was not honest in his application or that he behaves in a way incompatible with being a seminarian or priest. In these rare cases he must be dismissed. To be honest, while it is always difficult to dismiss someone, it is far less difficult in the wake of the devastating sexual abuse crisis—much of which was preventable, to speak frankly, if the “gatekeepers” of previous decades had done their job. It must be done for the sake of the Church and of our people who have suffered enough at the hands of unworthy shepherds.
It must be done if it is uncomfortable or even risky for the formators themselves. For a disgruntled ex-seminarian can say just about anything, however unfounded, knowing that many are ready to believe the worst about a priest, and that the seminary can seldom make public the reasons for a dismissal. This risk is amplified especially today because difficult questions must be asked in formation to ensure that a man can live chaste celibacy well, which includes questions about sinful habits, past behavior, or disordered sexual inclinations such as same-sex attractions. These are delicate matters, but the Church has every right to ask these questions of men who wish to be her future priests.
Sifting out unsuitable candidates is the unpleasant part of this work. But it must be done, even if it means fewer priests. As St. Thomas Aquinas wrote, “God never so abandons His Church that apt ministers are not to be found sufficient for the needs of the people, if the worthy be promoted and the unworthy set aside . . . it were better to have few good ministers than many bad ones.”[1]
Those cases, as I say, are happily very rare. Most of my life and work in raising up spiritual fathers is filled with joy. I had the great blessing of growing up with a good, loving, and strong father. My pastoral work in the seminary is, in many ways, simply a transposing of that experience of natural fatherhood into the key of seminary and priestly life.
It is as much tone as anything. My father could be both very serious and tremendously fun. I knew that he worked hard, was respected at work, and had many responsibilities, but he also had a great sense of humor and loved to laugh. Sometimes after telling a joke or remembering a funny story around the dinner table he laughed until he cried. He coached sports teams for my brothers and me. He set high standards but knew when and how to relax them. He was there when we needed him. He was kind and forgiving but also expected and demanded much. He was the head of the household, but he was never dominating. My Dad loved and honored my mother. I, too, felt respected and loved. He was paternal but never paternalistic.
St. John Paul II had his own experience of paternity from his father that planted the first seeds of a priestly vocation in his heart. “After my mother’s death,” he wrote on the 50th anniversary of his priestly ordination in Gift and Mystery,
[my father’s] life became one of constant prayer. Sometimes I would wake up during the night and find my father on his knees, just as I would always see him kneeling in the parish church. We never spoke about a vocation to the priesthood, but his example was in a way my first seminary, a kind of domestic seminary.
Priests carry their parents, and I would say especially their fathers, into priestly ministry. And while every father, like every priest, is imperfect, we nonetheless try to transmit the strengths of our fathers into our pastoral work.
As in all things, however, the real model, including the model of priestly paternity, is the Lord himself. This is especially true of seminary formation. Jesus spent most of his ministry forming his future priests. Experts say that around 100 days of his life are recorded in the Gospels; that leaves many hundreds of days when he was simply with his apostles, walking from one village to the next and spending days in prayer and quiet conversation together.
My earnest hope is that I am able to reflect that paternal love of Jesus for the seminarians in my care. I know that I have not always gotten it right, but that is the goal. Once an elderly priest, in a talk to us faculty members, said that the Church “has entrusted to you her most cherished treasure: her seminarians.” I have never forgotten that, and I take that charge seriously. I know that for these years of my priesthood, I shall be judged on how worthily I carry out this trust.
I will end with a memory that provokes in me both gratitude and a sensation of the fearful responsibility borne by us priests in seminary formation. A few years ago, at the end of his first Mass as a priest, one of our alumni gave his mother a gift that newly ordained priests have given their mothers for centuries. It is the cloth (called a maniturgium) that newly ordained priests use to wipe the sacred chrism from their hands during the ordination rite. The mother is presented with this beautiful gift and it is traditionally buried with her when she goes to the Lord, to whom she can present the cloth as a “reminder” that she mothered a priest. In more recent times another custom has sprung up. The new priest also presents his father with a gift, namely the stole that he wore when he heard his first confession.
So, after the closing prayer, this newly ordained priest gave the maniturgium to his mother. It was a beautiful moment as the mother and son embraced. There was not, I think, a dry eye in the house. Then, holding up the stole with which he heard his first confession, he said to the congregation, “my father left when I was very young and has not been a part of my life. So I would like to give this stole to someone who has been a father in his place.” And then he gave it to me.
I was speechless, surprised, grateful, and humbled. It is probably the most precious gift I have ever received. It is also a reminder to me that the work done in seminary formation has a deep impact on the lives of our men and the lives of those they will one day serve as priests. It is a reminder that I am called, with all my faults, to reveal the merciful face of the Father to the young men entrusted to my care. It is above all a reminder of the unspeakable privilege we have of raising spiritual fathers who, striding out into the evening twilight to invite souls into the warmth of God’s love, will themselves echo that love in their priestly lives and ministry to countless souls and for many years to come.
[1] Summa Theologiae Supplement, q. 36, art. 4, ad 1, italics added.
