"The Secret of Notre Dame": Cardinal Dolan's Inspired Commencement Address

The following was delivered on May 19, 2013, at the University of Notre Dame Commencement Ceremony in Notre Dame Stadium by His Eminence Timothy Cardinal Dolan. It is perhaps the best commencement speech I have ever heard.

Thank you, Notre Dame, for the joy of your company, the gracious invitation, the warm welcome, and the high honor of this degree. 

It was so obvious I almost missed it . . . 

See, ever since, almost a year ago, Father Jenkins, with characteristic thoughtfulness, invited me to deliver this commencement address, I’ve been mulling over just what to say to you, class of 2013. 

Only Friday a week ago I still had not yet completed this talk, and I got on the train in New York City to travel to D.C. In Philadelphia, a distinguished looking man boarded the train and sat next to me. 

He turned out to be a fanatical, in-your-face, obnoxious Notre Dame alumnus! You ever met one? Nice to meet you! Now I guess I am proudly one, after the privilege of this honorary degree which I so appreciate and cherish! He begins to speak with obviously radiant pride and gratitude about Notre Dame, telling me his faithful Jewish parents wanted him to attend a Catholic college - - because, in their words. “The Church founded the universities, and educate better than anybody else” - - and reporting to me that, even as a faithful Jew, he considers his four years here at this Catholic university a gift beyond measure. When I told him I’d be here for graduation, he beamed. 

“Father,” he went on, holding my arm and looking me in the eye, “let me tell you the secret of Notre Dame. It’s not the library, as first-rate as it is; it’s not the professors and courses, as stellar as they are; it’s not the campus, as enchanting as it is, or even the football team, as legendary as it is. No, the secret of Notre Dame is really a person, whom we Jews call ‘Miriam,’ and you Christians call ‘Mary.’ She’s there ... she looks down from the ‘golden dome’; and, if you really want to discover the secret of Notre Dame, visit that grotto you Catholics call “Lourdes.” There’s something there ... no, there’s someone there ... we call her Notre Dame, and she’s the secret of her university.” 

Thank you, Howard. Hope you’re listening to me now, as you promised me on that train you would. Because with those words you solved the riddle about what I should say in these few moments. That was Mother’s Day weekend; it was May, the month dedicated to her; and I had just returned, with fifty sick and disabled people, from a pilgrimage to the “real” Lourdes in France. So obvious I had almost missed it ... I’m going to speak of Notre Dame ... Notre Dame ... our Lady .... Mary, the mother of Jesus. 

One can make the point that she’s perhaps the most important human person ever. Even history itself is divided “before” and “after” the birth she gave to her firstborn. She was there at Christmas at His birth; at Cana, His first miracle; at the foot of the cross; at Pentecost, the feast we celebrate today. 

“But when the appointed time came, God sent His own Son, born of a woman ...” St. Paul writes to the Galatians; 

“And while there in Bethlehem, Mary gave birth to her firstborn ...” records St. Luke; 

“Mary said to the servants at Cana. ‘Do whatever He tells you ...'’’ reports St. John; 

“Near the cross of Jesus stood His mother ...” recalls the Beloved Disciple; 

“The apostles were in continuous prayer, together with Mary, the mother of Jesus ...” writes St. Luke in the Acts of the Apostles, in the account of Pentecost. 

Notre Dame ... Our Lady ...

John Ruskin held that “every brightest and loftiest achievement of the arts, dreams, advancement, and progress of humanity has been but the fulfillment of that poor Israelite woman’s prayer, ‘He who is mighty has magnified me!’ ...” 

While Wordsworth extolled her as “our tainted nature’s solitary boast.” 

“All things rising, all things sizing, Mary sees sympathizing ...” ... claims Gerard Manley Hopkins, as you, the class of 2013, have sensed her maternal presence “rising, sizing, and sympathizing” these blessed years on a campus wrapped in her mantle, and praise God that Father Sorin and that pioneer band of priests and brothers of the Congregation of the Holy Cross placed this most noble endeavor under her patronage from day one 171 years ago. 

Might I propose to you, my new classmates, class of 2013, that she’s not just our patroness, but our model. It all comes down to this: she -- Miriam, Mary, Notre Dame, our Lady -- humbly, selflessly, generously, with trust, placed her life in God’s hands, allowing her life to unfold according to His plan. She gave God’s son a human nature; she gave the Eternal Word -- God the Son, the second Person of the Blessed Trinity - - flesh. That’s called the Incarnation. God became one of us. 

“And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us.” The Incarnation ...

Now, as you complete years at this acclaimed university dedicated to her, you are asked the same pivotal question the Archangel Gabriel once posed to her: will you let God take flesh in you? Will you give God a human nature? Will He be reborn in you? Will the Incarnation continue in and through you? 

I dare say you gratefully claim that God’s Word has certainly taken flesh on this campus in your years here: in your classes and professors, in your friends and service projects, in the prayer and sacraments, in the “all-nighters” and exams, in the memories and promises.

And now it’s your turn to let God take flesh in your lives. 

You can answer the way Mary did, “Let it be done to me according Thy will” -- Fiat ... or, you can reply with a term New Yorkers use, “forgetaboutit!” 

Notre Dame challenges us to reply, Fiat! Yes! For, at her best, this university has the heart of Mary, meaning this university gives us Jesus and His Church, and clings to them both with love, loyalty, and service. 

Here at Notre Dame we do not strive to be like Harvard or Oxford, but like Bethlehem, Nazareth, Cana, Calvary, and the Upper Room at Pentecost ... with Mary, as the “Word becomes flesh” in the one who called Himself “the Way, the Truth and the Life.” 

Here our goal is not just a career, but a call; not just a degree, but discipleship; not just what we’ve gotten but what we’re giving; not just the now but eternity; not just the “I” but the “we”; not just the grades but the gospel. 

My friend on that train ride ten days ago, now my fellow alumnus of this university, will be glad to know that I took him up on it. Last night I snuck down to discover the secret of Notre Dame. Kind of a cool breeze off the lake; the voices of visiting families and friends, the songs, and laughter subsided as I got close; there were the candles, hundreds of them, with wax droppings to remind us of prayers of past generations; there many of you were, kneeling, standing, sitting on the ground; there was quiet, there was a welcome; there was light; there was peace; there was warmth; there was Notre Dame, Mary, our Lady. 

There was Bethlehem, as I saw moms, dads and grandparents beaming over their babies of twenty-two years ago, now graduates; 

There was Nazareth, as families were united in prayers of thanksgiving; 

There was Cana, as students remembered miracles;

There was Calvary, as one or two of you had tears in your eyes, perhaps recalling a past or present cross or crown of Thorns, made a bit more bearable by the one also called the Pieta. 

There was Pentecost, as this class whispered that favorite prayer of Father Hesburgh, united with Our Lady and the apostles in that Upper Room, Come, Holy Spirit! 

There, I joined my prayers with yours, with hers, and entrusted her university, with her call, her mission, her Catholic identity, her excellence, yoked to the truth of the Gospel; 

There I prayed for this class of 2013, their folks and families; 

There I prayed for Bishop Rhoades, and for our much missed Bishop D’Arcy, for Father Jenkins, the board, the alumni, the benefactors, the faculty, staff, for Father Dick Warner and Congregation of the Holy Cross. 

There I prayed for you, Howard ... because, on that train ride, you were right: at this grotto there’s a touch of the transcendent, a hint of the beyond, a whisper of the sacred, that reminds us that we’re not just minds and bodies, but hearts and immortal souls, called not to a “crap shoot” called life but an adventure in fidelity that beckons us to cast out to the deep, and, yes, even walk on water toward Him, the Son of God, the Son of Mary; she’d remind us that He has a plan for us, that these years of college have been a part of it, and that we’re happiest when our plans are consonant with His. 

There indeed was the secret of Notre Dame, not something but someone: our Lady, who gave the Divine a human nature, and invites us, equipped, please God, with what she’s given us here, to do the same! 

Congratulations Class of 2013. 

May Jesus Christ be praised!

May Notre Dame, our Lady, reign in our hearts! Tell the world our secret! 

When Adults Pick Up Children's Books

I remember a story--though I have forgotten its teller--of a young man who was rather depressed. He went to the doctor to find a cure for his ailments. The doctor, however, rather than offering him an injection or pill or some such nonsense, looked at the young man and asked, "What have you been reading lately?" After hearing the young man's abysmally post-modern list of dark and dreary reads, he recommended a few favorites of his own. Mostly children's books. These, he thought, would cure the young man. And cure him they did. 

We are never too old for children's books. They remind us of our natures, of an innocence lost. They remind us that "unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven." Children's books humanize the sophisticate and the barbarian alike, bringing both closer to the golden mean of reality. That is why we read children's books. 

This evening I picked up Mark Twain's The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, and was delighted by the author's preface, which explained:

Although my book is intended mainly for the entertainment of boys and girls, I hope it will not be shunned by men and women on that account, for part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what they once were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked, and what queer enterprises they sometimes engaged in.

Exactly. This is why we pick up children’s books—so we can set aside the pencil and the notebook for but a moment so we can sit and enjoy the simplest of things. 

This is why, through the council of some dear friends, I have decided that the first book I shall read as a married man (coming soon in 50 days) is The Wind in the Willows. I have never read it before. Yet it seems to be one of those “queer enterprises” of which Twain speaks. I hope it will prepare me well, for marriage, too, may prove to be such an enterprise.

Masters of Humanity

College has taught me many things.

In fact, everyone who goes to college learns something—whether it is the concentration level of certain fermented beverages, the best way to ill-intentionally woo delightful looking young college women, or how to engage in weekend “festivities” at the local who-knows-where.

I didn’t learn those things (alas). College life taught me something rather different, rather refreshing. In fact, my college education, though vast, could be summed up in three things--the highest and earthiest things I learned:

Sacrament

I babysat for a family of four young boys every week in college. Like all good Catholic boys, they enjoy two things above all else: playing Mass and shooting things. Usually the activities don’t remain independent of each other for long. One of the boys inevitably starts “shooting” his brother with a crucifix while another grabs a Swiffer Wet Jet as a processional cross and chants “alleluia” over and over through the hallways. The boy playing the priest inevitably becomes a military chaplain as hot wheels cars and lego “bombs” come crashing down on the altar. The scene usually ends with a living room chapel in disarray, sacramentals put out of reach, and the boys sent to the backyard where the killing may resume.

These boys taught me how to live sacramentally. No, not just how to go to Mass and confession (though it did give me that), but how to live sacramentally. How to see the beauty in little things, the grace in each moment. To live sacramentally is to see things for what they are—no more (the danger of romanticism), and no less (the danger of cynicism). Sacramentality lies directly in the middle of these two extremes—it is the worldview of the pilgrim who continues on his journey, rejoicing in each passing milestone and meal. Sacrament makes us more human. It reminds us that children are the best “life coaches”; that cigars offer priceless opportunities for good conversation and fraternity; that coffee is an avenue to the timeless when enjoyed with friends. Oh, and that coffee must always be taken black. Always.

College taught me to appreciate these little things. To see how they bring us joy but do not satisfy, life but not life eternal. It taught me to look at them, and to wonder.

Wonder

Wonder is what makes us human. Wonder the window to the eternal. Wonder is the antithesis of amusement and yet the heart of the Muses. Wonder is not only to see the world as sacrament, but to be fascinated by it, to let it astonish you. Wonder is to step outside oneself for but a moment, and to recognize how blessed one is. Wonder takes not for granted. Everything is grace for he who wonders.

G.K. Chesterton (one of the patrons of my college experience) wrote in his must-read Orthodoxy:

A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.

He who wonders is never bored. Those who constantly flee reality, who go from one thrill to another—whether it be weekend parties or alcohol or drugs or amusement park rides—have not wonder. Wonder can sit at leisure. Wonder can be still.

Silence

At an admissions weekend, one delightful prospective student asked me how, if at all, I could sum up my college experience. I thought for a moment, then answered, “I think as students go through college, they become quieter. College has silenced me.”

Sacrament and wonder humbles man to silence. He finally sees how very little he knows, and how very much there is to know. In my four years, I was silenced by the magnanimity of Pericles, hushed by the simplicity of Aristotle, quieted by the purity of St. Thomas. I was “sssh-ed” by Virgil, like the great poets in Dante. And like Dante himself, I was struck silent many times before the power of beauty.

This silence taught me vocation. After all, the Lord did not speak in the earthquake, but in the still small voice. Silence has taught me receptivity, it has taught me fiat. Silence has made me more human.

And in this, perhaps, these three things could be summed up in one: college has made me more human.  As I left the school one last time, one of my dearest professors approached me, shook my hand, bid me be well, and told me, “Be a good husband. Be a good father. The world is in need of people who live authentic human lives. Be, as Pope John Paul II always said, a Master of Humanity.”

After all, in the end, that is the only degree that matters.