A few years ago, while at Thanksgiving dinner at my sister-in-law’s home, my wife and I were introduced to a guest who was joining us by the name of Peter Houle.
“That’s funny,” I told him, “There’s a man from Michigan that we prayed to, to ask for his intercession when our son was injured in a fall. His name was Irving Houle.”
“Yes, that was my father,” he responded.
Peter was very gracious that evening in speaking to me about his father, Servant of God Irving Houle. As we passed the turkey and mashed potatoes, he recounted some difficulties experienced by his mother, as well as him and his four siblings, with a father who was a reported stigmatist and healer. He mentioned that some days they would come home and there would be busloads of people parked at the house, having come from all over the region seeking out his father. And the time when Irving was sick and laid out in the bathroom “because he had taken on the effects of the chemotherapy of a cancer patient he prayed over.”
That cancer patient was Terry Saunders, a retired state police officer who is now a deacon. He was diagnosed with epitheliod sarcoma, at the age of 37, in 1992.
“I was expected to die by the following May,” Terry told me when I spoke with him by phone recently. He had experienced a reversion to the Catholic Faith in the late 1980s after a falling away, and some ladies from his parish were bringing him Holy Communion during his illness. “We want you to meet this holy man,” they said. Terry responded jokingly when they brought Irving in: “I know that old guy.” He also knew the Houle boys, the kids, and the grandkids. Escanaba, in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, was a small town of 15,000 at the time, and 70% Catholic according to Peter.
“He obviously had compassion for me and my wife,” Terry relayed. “He actually cried, and felt so sad for my wife who was going to be left alone [should the cancer progress]. After that, he started bringing me Holy Communion each week. He had fought in World War II, in Belgium and France. He was thirty years older than me, a kind of father figure I never had, telling me that Jesus loved me. No one had ever told me that until Irving did.”
“Irving didn’t tell me about the locutions that he was having. But I did see him just before Easter in ’93 when he brought me Holy Communion, put his hands on my head and my chest, and prayed over me. When he came back the next week, Easter Monday, he looked like he had taken a beating. ‘I don’t know what has happened to me,’ Irving said, and when he held up his hands there were two small purple marks in his palms. I fell over—I guess what you would call ‘resting in the Spirit’—and all I could think was “Jesus died on the cross for me” because I recognized those wounds [of the stigmata] right away.”
Fr. Robert J. Fox, in his book A Man Called Francis (Fatima Family Apostolate, 2005), which recounts the life of Irving Houle (of whom Fr. Fox uses the pseudonym “Francis” to protect Irving’s identity at the time the book was published), notes the Church, in investigating miracles relative to supposedly holy persons who have left this world and whose cause for beatification or canonization is being studied, rejects a case as a certain miracle, even when reported as an amazing healing, if there were any professional medical treatments. It cannot be considered a supernatural miracle if there had been even one treatment by modern medicine or medical technology of today’s sciences.”
Deacon Terry, who serves as vice-postulator for Irving Houle’s cause of canonization, has collected hundreds of stories of miraculous healings and conversions through Irving’s prayers and intercession; however, not all would meet the Church’s qualification of a miracle because of the above stipulation.
Father Fox had also become a spiritual mentor for Irving. He instructed Irving that, as a married man and father, he had to be mindful of the privacy of his home life and his primary vocation. After Father Fox stepped in, he helped the family—including Irving’s wife Gayle—navigate Irving’s mission and balance it with the need for normalcy for his family as much as possible.
For those who encountered him, Irving was a humble and unassuming man. He came from a large and simple Catholic family, was devoted to the rosary and the Stations of the Cross, and had no formal theological training. And yet, our Lord chose Irving in our modern age to bear His wounds of crucifixion as a married father and grandfather. Irving was in his late sixties when the stigmata first appeared (he died on January 3, 2009 at the age of 83).
While many have experienced physical healings as a result of being touched or prayed over by Irving, his primary mission was for repentance and the healing of souls. He had set a goal for himself to bring back to the Church at least one non-practicing Catholic per month and encouraged others to do the same. In this way, he is a model for the “New Evangelization” proposed by Pope John Paul II and outlined in Catechesi Tradendae. Many people who had been away from the Church for decades recount returning to Confession and the sacraments after encountering Irving.
In a locution from the Blessed Mother to Irving on July 5, 1995, she encourages him: “You have touched so many of my children. Continue to use His hands. This is all in the Father’s plan”. Irving wrote these messages down word for word after he received them. On many occasions, after praying and touching the people for whom he was praying, a rose perfume scent would permeate the air. The use of Irving’s hands—the hands that bore the wounds of Christ—in his ministry is notable.
Irving was ministering at a time in which the dark clouds of abuse of minors at the hands of priests was beginning to make national headlines. It was as if Irving’s touch—the physical touch of a married father and grandfather called by God—was being used to heal the wounds inflicted by those in the Church who had betrayed trust and abused the vulnerable. Irving himself said that if he was told by his bishop not to touch people, he would obey.
“Irving was a normal guy,” Deacon Terry relayed in our phone conversation. “He never used bad language around his wife and family. But, you know, he worked in a factory and would use that “everyday man” language you might expect to hear in a factory, especially when he was trying to get these guys to work. But after he got the stigmata, he never used that coarse language again. And he made me promise, ‘Terry,’ he said, ‘promise me you’ll never say anything bad about a priest.’” One thing Deacon Terry mentioned in our conversation was that he had been complaining to Irving at one point about issues in the Church, including homosexuality in the seminaries. “After listening to me ranting for a few minutes, Irving simply replied, ‘Terry, we have to love everyone.’”
I’ve often wondered why I have been so drawn to him as a model of sanctity and evangelization. For married men with families like me, it can be hard to find models of sainthood to whom we can relate—especially those from the modern era. And as someone who never knew my grandparents, I find in Irving a gentle stand-in I can call upon when I need a “spiritual grandpa,” even though I never knew him personally.
When my son was young and fell and suffered a concussion, Irving was my go-to in my Rolodex of not-yet-canonized saints. When a friend’s son fell forty feet off an inflatable slide at a birthday party onto the concrete and had to be airlifted to a children’s hospital, I sent a text thread to all our friends to ask for Irving’s intercession; miraculously, his son healed from his injuries in record time and was back playing in no time.
While these two instances may not be verifiable miracles according to the strict requirements of the Church’s process for canonization, they have become important pillars in our family’s repository of graces.
Reminiscent of Mother Teresa’s admission that she is merely “a little pencil in His hand,” Irving once made a similar statement, albeit being true to his blue-collar vocation: “I am only a wrench,” he said. My hope is that in making known the life and ministry of this humble father and grandfather, other Catholics like me have a relatable friend to call upon in times of need, and an inspiration to do the work God calls us to for the Kingdom—to be the saints we are called to be.
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I appreciated this text. However, I feel disturbed after reading the flowing episode:
“And he made me promise, ‘Terry,’ he said, ‘promise me you’ll never say anything bad about a priest.’” One thing Deacon Terry mentioned in our conversation was that he had been complaining to Irving at one point about issues in the Church, including homosexuality in the seminaries. “After listening to me ranting for a few minutes, Irving simply replied, ‘Terry, we have to love everyone.’”
I do not know the context of the conversation and what else was said. I am simply sharing my thoughts caused by that episode as it is related. Should one “say nothing bad about a priest” even if a priest is abusing someone? Unfortunately, this principal was among the factors which have enabled (and continues to do so) the abuse in the Church. Yes, we have to try to love everyone but it does not mean to be blind to something evil and do nothing about that. To pretend that there is no evil is not love.
I cannot help it but to refer to my experience: many adult children of abusive parents (who did awful things) are told “you must forgive, they are your parents” so they often say “I forgive my parents”. However, it is not true forgiveness. They are simply numb/derealized. Only when they begin recovering their pain and righteous anger, then, after much work, can they begin the process of letting go (biblical forgiveness). Then it is a true, not cheap, forgiveness with a full knowledge of the evil done to them. To love a person who did evil to you is a kind of martyrdom.
This is why I felt bad while reading “Francis” response to the evil, “do not talk badly about a priest” and “we should love everyone”. Yes, we should but the evil must be acknowledged as well. The future deacon was not slandering someone but sharing his distress about the reality of the abuse in the Church. It is a righteous emotion that must be acknowledged as such. A response of “Francis” was in effect “I do not want to hear this”. It is disturbing to me, probably because of the abuse in the Church I witnessed.
Anna, I’m most definitely with you on this. Let’s remember that even the most saintly person isn’t right about everything all the time. Saintliness is great but saintliness with wisdom is even greater (but rarer).
Thank you, Anna. Yours is an important observation, and this article is better when the reader considers your observation.
At the risk of seeming to parse finely the meanings of the words used, I nevertheless think it’s also important to do so. The admonition was “Never say anything bad about a priest.” Certainly, accusing a priest of sexual abuse can be considered “saying something bad” about him.
But consider: If a priest is committing sexual abuse – let’s posit a case where that’s actually true – it’s a clear good that the truth of the matter be made known to the appropriate authorities. It is also good in the sense that, we can assume, any ongoing abuse would cease, and future abuse would be avoided. So the good of the victims – current and possibly future – would certainly be served by a person with knowledge speaking truthfully to the appropriate people about what was happening.
It is also good in the sense that it would represent an opportunity for the priest to confront his wrongdoing, to repent and to make amends in whatever way possible for his offenses.
In these senses, then, someone alerting the proper individuals that a priest is engaging in sexual abuse is not saying anything “bad” about the priest. Rather, the person is speaking an ugly truth that needs to be spoken so that good, somehow, may come from it.
When I consider what saying something “bad” about a person really means, I think in terms of making judgments about a person’s actions, beliefs, words, appearance, choices, etc., when a situation does not demand that a person do so. I would distinguish that from, as I discuss above, speaking factually about a person’s actions, inactions, words, etc. in situations that demand it.
There is a prayer book, a small blue pamphlet called The Pieta Prayer Book, that has done a lot of damage in this respect. There is a page declaring that it’s a mortal sin to say anything bad about a priest! I see this dog-eared book in conservative parishes around my part of the world and I’ve had it waved in my face when I’ve said I was abused by a priest. I threw mine away. Some people seem to have their brains unplugged.
Anne of Ohio, you, and others misunderstand the meaning of “never say anything bad about a priest.” This doesn’t mean you keep silent in the face of abuse as some very misguided Catholics have told you. They too don’t understand what this means. One must never be silent in the face of such evil for that too is gravely sinful matter. To never say anything bad about a priest means don’t gossip about him, don’t talk behind his back, don’t criticize or judge him without due care and cause. It also demands prudently discerning to whom you speak. Basically it means you treat a priest the same way you would want and expect to be treated.
This admonition also has a context: the anticlerical environment that blossomed with the Protestant revolt and flowered in the Enlightenment and the age of Revolution, and continues today, where priests are maligned, talked about, and hated just for being priests. To participate in this behavior is gravely sinful matter. To do so knowingly is a mortal sin. Telling someone you were abused by a priest, however, is not in any way sinful unless your intent is to seek revenge. It is not saying something bad about a priest as we commonly understand it. Though morality is black and white, if you will, when applied to human acts it is nuanced and must be properly understood.
I’m sorry you were abused by one of my brother priests. And I’m sorry you were further abused by sanctimonious laymen. I too have been a victim of both. Let us pray for one another. Let us pray too for the priests and laymen who abused us.
And finally, just as with the Bible, it is not the Pieta Prayer Book that is the problem: it’s the ignorant people who use it as a weapon and a means to manipulate and control others.
I allow the possibility that everyone who says “never say anything bad about a priest.” somehow misunderstand those words = do not know about their historical origin and context. They use those words as they are i.e. “never say anything bad about a priest.” and this naturally includes “never say anything bad about an abusive priest = his abuse”. The word “never” reinforced the prohibition, “never” being “no matter what”. If you insist on the historical context for a proper understanding of those words, they must no longer be used because the historical context has gone ages ago. And this is what I would like to see, the words “never say anything bad about a priest” have gone – including from prayer books. The moral rule “do not gossip” (about clergy and laity both) will suffice.
It is quite simple to distinguish a gossiper from a victim of an abuse. A gossiper is eager to share the vile news, he is not in pain or shock – on the contrary he is enjoying himself. An abused person is in pain and shock; his world was shattered and he is trying to reach out through shame for the purpose of not drowning.
PS Speaking from my experience, both of being abused and (hopefully) helping others to heal, I would be more careful about proposing to a victim of an abuse to pray for her/his abuser. You do not know her, the magnitude of her pain, the stage of her healing and so on. To decide to pray for an abuser is a highly personal matter/between a person and her confessor and a good Christian therapist. To clarify: if a person did not regain a righteous anger first a suggestion to pray for an abuser can muffle her feelings (and she is typically numb) and slow down the healing.
“I would be more careful about proposing to a victim of an abuse to pray for her/his abuser.”
The Gospel of Luke 6:27-28 – But I say to you who hear, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.
You (probably deliberately) cut my phrase out of the rest i.e. a context which does not deny the work on forgiveness but acknowledged the person who is labouring over a life-shattering event, first.
As a consequence, your own comment is entirely devoid of empathy (feeling suffering of the other), and also of a proper understanding of Our Lord’s words (and of His Person because He always sees the other and has empathy). I cannot picture Jesus Christ lecturing a raped child or a raped adult “you must bless your rapist”. You apparently can. Our Lord knows that He had to comfort and restore a victim of abuse before making any suggestions. You appear not to. This is what selective empathy does – it twists understanding of human relationships, even in the Scriptures.
I did not intend to rile or harm. Seeing a contradiction between sentiment and scripture, I quoted both. I had hoped for some reasoning or understanding to explain the contradiction.
The abused are not alone. We are all wounded, Christ most of all, and those most like Him are the most gifted, although it may take a lot of Christ for that realization to strike home.
I note accusations against me as probably deliberate, apparently, and I appear to be unkind, unfeeling, holding twisted understandings of scripture and human relationships. Such psycho-spit-bombs lack any real or lasting meaning. They have surely been lobbed but are nothing more than empty balls of puff fluff, nonsense, wet with spit. I pray for the accuser for having such a waste of breath.
It is highly unlikely that my penchant to quote scripture will cease. Paul measured the effect of scripture at Hebrews 12:4. Scripture is alive, active, sharper than any double-edged sword, penetrating to the point of dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow, judging thoughts and attitudes of the heart. Jesus was put to death because of words.
Pope Benedict XVI explains why some see St. John Chrysostom as a Doctor of the Universe. Chrysostom’s commentary on Genesis instructs that God shows man the beauty of creation; creation becomes a “ladder” to ascend to God in order to know him. To this ladder step is added a second: Creator God is also the God of indulgence (synkatabasis) who sends to fallen man a letter–Sacred Scripture–where God reveals Himself as a “tender father”, a healer of souls, a mother, and an affectionate friend. The third step is God’s coming down to us, taking flesh, “God-with-us”, our brother until his death on a Cross. To the third step, Chrysostom adds a fourth—God gives to the Christian the vital and dynamic principle of the Holy Spirit who “transforms the realities of the world. God enters our very existence through the Holy Spirit and transforms us from within our hearts.” (From “Church Fathers: From Clement of Rome to Augustine,” pp. 104-5, Ignatius Press).
I pray you the help of the Holy Spirit so that you may grow in His indulgent Love, and I pray the same for me.
If you trust in God and pray for a bad priest, all darkness is brought into the light. So if his words were “never say anything bad about a priest” I think he was asking that one trust in God because one way or another God will do what needs to be done if we trust in Him. Then, you will bring a blessing on yourself for praying for those who do evil instead of liability on yourself.
I am grateful for this bio of an extraordinary/ordinary man. Miracles do happen, just not around me. So I appreciate hearing about other people’s miracles.
The headline of this article refers to Houle as a “stigmatist”. I see nothing in the article to substantiate that the competent ecclesiastical and medical authorities have officially investigated and determined this is true.
The website ‘Mystics of the Church’
https://www.mysticsofthechurch.com/2014/07/irving-francis-houle-family-man-who.html
says “While during his lifetime no formal investigation was been carried out by Irving’s home diocese of Marquette, throughout the years the two bishops who presided in turn over the diocese kept a careful watch over the events surrounding him.”
My son sent me this article because he has friends from Michigan’s Upper Peninsula who knew Irving. What a beautiful and touching article, Rob– thank you. It brought to mind a comment one of my kids made recently about the quiet examples of piety and devotion that we see at our parish’s unremarkable Novus Ordo daily Mass.
Note that Deacon Terry said he was “ranting.” There’s a difference between saying what needs to be said, acknowledging the gravity of the situation, and ranting, therapeutic as it may be.