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| "Take and read, take and
read." ("Prends et lis," to be precise.)
I recognized this sentence. Saint Augustine had heard these words, and had taken up his Bible to find the passage which brought him to an act of faith in Christ after a meaningless life. Thus, the injunction was silly, I thought. I would not even open an eye. But the voice insisted, "Take up and read." Again I told myself this request was silly, that I knew the sentence, and that it had come to mind through a quirk of memory. Yet the voice insisted for a third time, "Take up and read." Annoyed, I turned in defiance. Just to prove how silly the request was, I would get up and read in the Bible. Switching on the light, I took a small New Testament from the desk and opened it at random. And then I read, "Do ye not know that all those who run, run to earn a prize?" The passage did not make any sense, as I had expected. What did I have to do with a runner? There was no message in the text. I put a small piece of paper in the place, returned to bed, and slept soundly the rest of the night. Still, the mysterious voice had posed a question. A number of days after the incident, I began to ask myself why the voice had been so insistent when there was no message. Perhaps a more thorough examination of the text might reveal what the voice had in mind for me. I opened the New Testament where I had marked it three nights before, and began reading. But this time I began at the top of the page, rather than at the end. And there it was: "Woe unto me if I do not preach the Gospel. For the necessity to do this is upon me." The message was clear. I would have to begin studies for the Ministry. Yet, still not convinced, I attempted to find out if by any chance the little New Testament would always open precisely on this passage. I let it fall open at random, again and again. Never did the little book open on that page. But I did not have the slightest idea what this calling to "preach the Gospel" would entail, or where I would have to study. I imagined theological students as emaciated ascetics, solemn and serious, divorced from the world. I dreaded entering a closed society with dogmatic rules, completely at odds with the pursuits I had enjoyed. Pastor Westphal, to whom I came for information, was not encouraging. The Paris Seminary, which was in the Occupied Zone, was the only one he could recommend. Montpellier, he told me, would be less intellectual, more old-fashioned and provincial. When I asked him where he had studied, his answer was, naturally, Paris. Being from the provinces myself, I saw in his recommendation another sign of the prejudices of the Parisians, whom we had always loathed. Montpellier would have to do anyway, since life in the Occupied Zone was hazardous at best. In three years, I thought, the war would be over and things would return to normal. Perhaps a final year of study in Paris would suffice then to give me an insight into what was different there. So, with a small suitcase and large misgivings I arrived at Montpellier Seminary. It was my twenty-first birthday, November 5, 1942. The school was housed in
a large mansion willed to the church by the uncle |
