The Archbishop Wore Combat Boots. Nancy A. Collins

at Arlington National Cemetery following President John F. Kennedy’s funeral Mass.

      “Where’s the list of guests for the salutation?” I asked. “Besides the Kennedy family, I don’t know who’s coming.”

      The man just looked at me. “There is no list,” he said, weary and exasperated. “We’ve been overwhelmed by calls, telegrams, and questions but, frankly, we just don’t have the personnel to handle something this huge.”

      “Well, do you at least know which kings and heads of state are coming?”

      “No, but you’ll be standing at the cathedral door, waiting for the casket,” he replied. “The principal guests will be walking behind Jackie, so just watch and see who they are. That’s all I can say.” It was almost as shocking as hearing that I’d be delivering the eulogy! How could I ever be expected to identify kings and heads of state whom I had never met or seen? Suddenly, a trick, picked up during decades of speechmaking on the D.C. banquet circuit — that is, memorizing the State Department’s entire protocol list, delineating the rank of every member of the administration, judiciary, and Congress — popped to mind. Would that help? Probably not when it came to ascertaining the rank of kings, ambassadors, and heads of state.

      Nevertheless, that was now my job. The Secret Service and FBI couldn’t help; they were too busy restricting entry into the sanctuary. The only people authorized to be admitted were Boston Cardinal Richard Cushing, principal celebrant of the Mass by virtue of his longtime association with the Kennedys; Archbishop O’Boyle; Archbishop Egidio Vagnozzi, the Apostolic Delegate of Pope John XXIII; an auxiliary bishop from New York; the master of ceremonies, Father Walter Schmitz, S.S.; the altar servers; and myself. But that wasn’t the case. Several adventurous “chaplains” attached to American Legion delegations had boldly talked their way into the sacristy — and the Secret Service wanted me to get rid of them. Extending our apologies, “so very sorry, these seats are taken,” most cooperated, especially when I herded them into pews offering a good view of the altar. However, one recalcitrant Legionnaire chaplain refused to budge. “My group paid my way from Iowa to attend this Mass,” he railed. “And they expect me to be seated in the sanctuary.” This called for the “Big Guns.” Motioning to the gray-suited Secret Service agents, I turned to our intruder. “Sorry, they’re in charge. I have no authority over them.” Faced with a god momentarily even more menacing than his own, the chaplain reluctantly capitulated.

      The Secret Service had reason to be touchy. Not only had a president of the United States just been killed; but the previous day, there had been another scare during a Cathedral walk-through by FBI agents. Meticulously scouring the church’s expansive dome, they happened upon a tangle of suspicious wires with no beginning nor end. Several hours of heightened anxiety later, agents nailed the “culprits”: two mischievous Cathedral schoolboys. Happening upon the dome’s entrance and stray wire, simultaneously, the pair simply dragged it with them and left it there. (Much of the Cathedral was a security nightmare. The cavernous basement with its convoluted heating system — boilers generating hot air, delivered via pipes and floor openings — was rife with hiding places for bombs.)

      With the “undocumented” visitors finally settled, we faced another dilemma: Archbishop Egidio Vagnozzi, the Apostolic Delegate of the Holy Father, had vanished. Futilely, we cased the Cathedral until the master of ceremonies signaled the approach of the official mourners. Sprinting to the front of St. Matthew’s, we slid into position to receive the body of the president of the United States. Minutes later, I caught my first heart-wrenching glimpse of the iconic panorama, forever after burned into our consciousness: the riderless black stallion … the boots slung backward … the regal, horse-drawn caisson which, having once borne the body of Abraham Lincoln, now carried the flagdraped casket of yet another slain president, John Kennedy.

      Entrance card to the funeral of President Kennedy

      Following closely behind, escorting their husband and brother, Jacqueline, Bobby, and Ted Kennedy led the procession of luminaries walking down Connecticut Avenue toward the Cathedral, including President Lyndon Johnson and Lady Bird, and … was it possible? … our lost Apostolic Delegate to the United States, Archbishop Vagnozzi, dressed in civilian clothes, per his contention that, as the Pope’s representative, he was ambassador as well as priest. Crowding both sides of the concourse, taking in this grave spectacle, the splendor of the fall season radiating on them, thousands of forlorn spectators, united in respectful silence, stood watching.

      As this extraordinary assemblage descended on St. Matthew’s, this church where I grew up — partially funded by my Irish immigrant father, site of my own First Communion — I was suddenly awash in nostalgia, recalling my days as an altar boy for its creator, Monsignor Thomas Sim Lee, a descendant of Robert E. Lee. Determined to build, mere blocks from the White House, a Cathedral worthy of celebrating Mass for the someday first Catholic president, Monsignor Lee had done just that. And, now, that first Catholic president was being brought to his final Mass, albeit Requiem, at the Monsignor’s Cathedral. “May the good God grant,” I prayed, “that there never will be such a funeral again.”

      Watching it all, I was filled with an unexpected rush of pride — and apology. As much as I’d admired and believed in my friend, I had greatly underestimated Jack’s power and influence, so evident now in the admiration and love so freely being exhibited toward this man, this President, who had touched the minds and hearts of rulers and citizens alike. But sentiment would have to step behind the task at hand; that is, memorizing the names and countries of those approaching.

      In front of us, the casket, precision-lifted by representatives from each of the military services, was being carried, step by step, up to the Cathedral door and down the center aisle, the measured, military gait of the pallbearers announcing the dramatic finality of this journey. Once the coffin was securely resting near the sanctuary, Cardinal Cushing stepped forward, pronouncing the prayer for the reception of the body. As world leaders and Irish maids alike settled into their seats, Cardinal Cushing began the celebration of the Mass in ancient Latin, its sublime and sacred character so very apropos for this stellar, international congregation.

      All too soon, however, it was time for the eulogy. Passing by Archbishop O’Boyle, I may have looked composed but I was not. Though humbled to be fulfilling Mrs. Kennedy’s request, I was plagued with the feeling that Archbishop O’Boyle should be ascending the pulpit stairs. Instead, it was I, by far the youngest bishop in the sanctuary, poised to address the most august audience in the history of the Cathedral at a service of unequalled drama and significance.

      Prayer card from the funeral of President John F. Kennedy

      The Eulogy

      Once behind the pulpit, I relaxed a little. At its best, speaking from a pulpit creates unity and friendliness with those to whom you are talking. Taking a breath, I recited the salutation (per my afore-learned State Department protocol) without a hitch. Having decided to open with the President’s favorite scriptural passages, I began reading from Proverbs and the Prophet Joel which had been included in Kennedy’s dinner speech in Houston, the night before he was killed. “Your old men shall dream dreams, and your young men shall see visions…. And where there is no vision the people perish” (Joel 2:28, Prov 29:18). Moving on, I referred to the President’s speech to the United Nations on September 20, 1963: “Let us complete what we have started,” I quoted, “for as the Scriptures tell us, no man who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” It was the evocative third chapter of Ecclesiastes, however, that provoked audible sobs. “There is an appointed time for everything, and a time for every affair under the heavens,” I slowly recited, “A time to be born, and a time to die. A time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant. A time to kill, and a time to heal. A time to tear down, and a time to build. A time to weep, and a time to laugh …” But today there could be no laughter. “Oh, how our country,” I thought, “in this bleakest moment of its history, needed the spiritual solace and firm promise of that timeless wisdom.”