In
the Shadows of an
The
Remnant,
Editor
The
founder of this newspaper, Walter L. Matt, has passed away. He died at
And
now he’s gone, and now there’s that odd absence in our lives where once a great
presence had been. Will I miss my
father? “Miss” is not a big enough
word. I fear going on
without him. I don’t deceive
myself—I could never adequately fill his shoes as a Catholic journalist and
defender of the holy Faith. As I
see it, I’ll go on chasing after him as best I can, but I’ll never truly replace
him. Such a great man could never
be eclipsed by such an ordinary one.
And so the memory of his wisdom, his faith, his courage, his devotion,
his humility, his Catholic sense will for a time have to light the path for the
rest of us, even if he himself is no longer here to walk beside us and show us
the way. Yes, I’ll miss him. For
the rest of my life, I’ll miss my father.
The
notable milestones along the road of my father’s life may not reveal greatness
as the world defines the word, but this does not mean that Walter Matt wasn’t a
great man. His greatness was
derived not so much out of his inventiveness or even creativity, but rather out
of the singular constant of his life—his profound sense of duty. When his country called in 1942, he went
to war for her. When his father and
mother were in need in their later years, he cared for them well beyond the call
of an ordinary dutiful son. When
his Church came under attack, he went up against the whole world to defend
her. When God called him to
marriage late in life (he was 38), my father didn’t flinch. He was so generous and open to life that
soon he was surrounded by nine children.
Did
he retreat from any of these responsibilities? No, indeed he didn’t. He was a decorated soldier and a veteran
of World War II; he was chosen by his father (even over his older brothers) to
carry on the family apostolate as editor of The Wanderer; against all odds, he stood
strong against the New Mass until the old one was returned. When principle went
head-to-head with his birthright, principle won and, without money or even a
mailing list and with seven little children in tow, his Remnant was born. To him, none of this was heroism; it was
only his duty as a Catholic, a patriot, a son and a father. Because he did not aspire to greatness,
he became great; because he was ever humble, he couldn’t recognize his own
greatness and thus never fell victim to pride; and because he loved without
condition, he was unconditionally loved by all who knew
him.
My
father was born on February 8, 1915. He was born to German immigrant parents,
Joseph and Marie Matt. Joseph Matt
would become one of
Then, too, the rise of
Hitlerism in
In
the same issue, Joseph Matt introduced the new editor of The Wanderer:
In June 1899, I became
editor of the Wanderer.... After sixty-six years of uninterrupted service, I
decided last summer that the state of my health warranted at least a partial
retirement. The question of a successor offered no problem. My three sons have been my loyal
co-workers for many years. Walter, my successor as editor, was a part-time
worker even as a student at the
My father served with the U.S. Armed Forces
(in the Middle East, Africa,
In
1964, he was appointed Editor of The
Wanderer by his father. In
1965, the Second Vatican Council ended and, just as it began to spread division
throughout the whole world, it successfully divided the
Matt family very soon thereafter.
Viewing the Council (and especially the collegiality that grew out of it)
and the prospect of a New Mass as disastrous for the Church, my father left The Wanderer and founded The Remnant in 1967. At that time, he had seven
children. His year-old baby at the
time is now the present Editor of The Remnant.
Thus was founded what was to become the
uncontested flagship of the traditional Catholic movement in the
In
1972, my father’s good friend, Father Harry Marchosky,
introduced him to a promising young Welsh writer from
In
1976, Walter Matt received a letter from a certain French archbishop who was
making headlines throughout the world for standing against the Council and the
New Mass. The archbishop asked to publicly meet with The Remnant’s team
here in
Over the years, my father collaborated with
such notables as Hamish Fraser, Michael Davies, Dietrich von Hildebrand, Solange Hertz, Father Vincent Micelli, Father Marchosky, Father
James Dunphy, Father Urban Snyder, Father Lawrence
Brey, Father Vincent Schneider, Dr. William Marra, Arnaud de Lassus, Neil
McCaffrey, Malachi Martin and so many respected writers, journalists and priests
who saw the Council and the introduction of the New Mass for what they were—
calamitous events in the Catholic Church!
My father used to refer to himself as a
“pick and shovel” editor. He didn’t
reinvent the wheel. He just chained
himself to the traditional Catholic Faith and never let go. He was a journalist whose every line
demonstrated that he was a Catholic who lived in the world but not of it. He didn’t care what the world thought of
him; he only cared what God thought.
He was a man who called a spade a spade no matter who was using it to
bury God.
There
is so much more I could say about my father’s long career in the Catholic press
apostolate, much of which he’d delete if he were still here to read proof
copy. He’d say that what I want to
say about him is too personal. He’d
be right again. So, out of respect for him—the accomplished journalist and
editor—I will pay tribute to my father’s life by simply reporting on his
death. I can think of no better
gift to provide my father’s friends and readers than to try to pass along an
accurate account of his inspiring passing.
Longtime
readers of this paper will recall that one of my father’s favorite scriptural
passages was one that came from the divine lips of Our Lord Himself: “I will be with you always, even unto
the consummation of the world.”
Those who encircled the deathbed of Walter Matt saw that promise quietly
carried out for the benefit of a loyal soldier of Jesus
Christ.
I
suppose all of us wonder sometimes if we’re right…if we’ve been right all these
years…to resist the modern orientation of the Church, to leave our parishes, to
criticize our bishops, to object even to the prudential decisions of the recent
popes themselves. I don’t doubt
that my father struggled with those same demons at times. All his life, he based his Catholic
action almost entirely on the encyclicals and social teachings of the great
popes of his day. It’s hard to
describe how terribly difficult it was for Walter Matt to take issue with a
Roman pontiff as he was forced to do in the face of papal novelties and
experimentation after Vatican II. But in his death, we witnessed what I truly
believe was the unmistakable endorsement of the lonely stand in defense of the
Church that my father took so many years ago. At each stage of his passing there was
this sense that close by, just beyond human perception
perhaps, angels were passing along the heavenly message that all good Catholics
hope to hear on their deathbeds: “Well done, good and faithful
servant.”
From
a Catholic point of view, my father’s passing could not have been scripted any
better.
So,
here is my simple report on the last two weeks in the life of Walter Matt.
Two
weeks before he died, he fell over backwards from his wheelchair in his living
room. I got the call from my mother
to come quickly, and I found him lying on the floor with a pillow under his
head. He was patiently looking out
his window as he waited for help to come.
He chuckled as I came in and said something about the fine mess that he’d
gotten himself into this time. I
picked him up and set him back in his chair.
“Are
you all right, Dad?” I asked.
“I
think so. But, how’s about a
cigarette?”
My
father smoked a pipe for the past 35 years. But in the last few months the little
bowl full of burning tobacco proved somewhat problematic, especially as far as
my mother’s furniture and carpet were concerned. So, he’d occasionally “sneak” cigarettes
when he figured he could get away with it.
I
lit up a “nail” for him, and we talked for the next hour. He was happy, and in good
spirits.
“I’ve
got to go, Pop.” I said at last, “but I’ll see you
tomorrow.”
“Okay,
Mike,” he responded, before saying those words which I’d heard from him a
hundred thousand times over the course of my life: “God bless
you.”
Those
were the last words I heard him say.
The
next day, just after enjoying a nice lunch with my mother, he quite suddenly and
without much fuss had a massive stroke.
The
ambulance came and, for whatever reason (still no one knows why), they took him
to
As
I say, we just couldn’t transfer him out of
My
father was declining rapidly. He
could communicate still, but not through speech, and he was paralyzed on the
right side of his body. After a day
or so, he showed no signs of coming out of the stroke-induced paralysis. And so,
ever so tentatively, the deathwatch began, though many of us were still
presuming that the “old timer” would bounce back again as he’d done so many
times in recent years. The
unpleasant debate over feeding tubes, I.V. antibiotics, meds, hospice care,
etc., went on for days. Carefully
following the Church’s teachings on these questions, however, the good doctor,
with the advice of half a dozen priests, did everything he could to save my
father’s life and to give him enough time to recover from the stroke, if it was
God’s will that he should do so. But my father was dying—he knew it long before
the rest of us could face it. He
knew it and my mother knew it, but she still did everything possible—including
approving the insertion of a feeding tube—to give him every
chance.
After
a week, the doctor recommended that my father leave
The traditional priest who was called is an
old and dear friend who my father knew well from the days before he was
ordained, when he used to help run the printing presses at the old Remnant office back in the 1970s. This priest (Father David Belland) was like a loyal son to my father, and he came
often to the deathbed. He
administered Extreme Unction to him and gave him absolution several times before
he died. My father’s soul was being
well prepared for departure.
The
days lagged on, each one bringing more signs that death was drawing nearer. The
shallow breaths and the lack of real responsiveness were stark reminders that we
hadn’t much time. By the end, he
was only able to smile with his eyes and squeeze our hands in response to
questions. Like one of General
MacArthur’s old soldiers, he was just fading away; but
there was no fear, no anxiety; just peaceful waiting between extended periods of
blessed sleep.
His
faithful priest came again and gave him absolution once more. I came into his room that afternoon and
found him awake and looking out his window at the city where he’d been born and
in which he’d worked most of his life.
Directly outside his window, perhaps a hundred feet removed, the twin spires of the Church of the Assumption were
in plain view. It was his favorite church, and it’s where he’d attended daily
Mass for so many years while he worked at The Wanderer. Like a special gift from
God, the beautiful stone church remained constantly in his line of vision as he
prepared to leave the world.
(Inside that church, there remains the high altar, parts of the Communion
rail, the old confessionals, all of the old statutes that had been there years
ago when my father was young. The
church remains unchanged because it is a historical site, protected by the
Historical Society. Vatican II and
the liturgical “experts” had no luck destroying it.)
Like
an old friend’s salutation, the Assumption’s Angelus bells rang out every day at
noon and at six across from my father’s third floor hospital room. It was as if the church was announcing
the passing of a faithful son. He was dying literally in the shadow of the
church he knew so well.
With
nine children coming and going at all hours of the day and night, there were
many, many rosaries prayed during this time. At the foot of his bed, a statue of Our
Lady had been carefully set up. A
rosary hung from his bed apparatus above his head throughout the ordeal. The black crucifix that had for years
stood at his desk in The Remnant’s
old office was now at his bedside.
If appearances mean anything, and in this case they certainly do, the
room was set for a Catholic ritual…the ritual was death. Everything about the
room suggested the same thing: a Catholic was arming himself for the final
conflict.
The
wait continued until time itself became sort of meaningless and blurred. Always the teaching father, he waited
patiently for every little rift and misunderstanding that had existed between
his nine children to be totally obliterated. He held on until everyone who knew and
loved him was at total peace with everyone else because of him. Grace became almost palpable during that
deathwatch. Things were
happening. Forgiveness and hope and
respect and honor and love and grief and prayer and tears and death combined to
create a holy atmosphere that defies description.
The
night before he died, his nine children and their spouses, and even some of his
grandchildren and great-grandchildren, gathered around him. They talked and shared stories with him;
they prayed and read litanies and prayers for the dying. And as the hour grew
late, they sang quiet hymns to their beloved father, who’d taught them the
beauty of every aspect of the holy Faith.
Panis Angelicus, Ecce
Panis Angelorum, Adoramus te Christe…the strains
of the old Catholic hymns filled his room and the hallway beyond with a sweet
Catholic calm that evoked tears even in the eyes of his nurses. Quietly, the old man waited on death,
while his grief-stricken children sang him to sleep.
Ever
so gradually, my father’s condition worsened over the next day. By the following evening, a seasoned
hospice nurse (and a Catholic) told my mother that it was time. The moment had come to say goodbye. And so we did. One by one, as the rest prayed, each of
his children whispered final words in his ear, realizing fully that they spoke
more to his soul then than to his failing body. Then the spouses of his children took
their turns just before his grandchildren kissed him and said goodbye. Time was running
out.
As
death took hold of my father, there was nothing save profound peace written on
his face.
“Go
forth, Christian soul,” we prayed together. Some of my sisters wept, my brother and
I stood beside him and tried to lead the prayers for the dying one more time
before he slipped away, and my mother stoically held my father’s hand and
stroked the brow of her faithful husband of forty-eight years, who, there on the
bed before her, was breathing his last. Her hero and her champion was fighting his greatest battle. It was her job to stay
loyally at his side for as long as she could. And she never
faltered.
Around
12:45 early Sunday morning, my father went to sleep quietly and peacefully. It was my holy privilege to have my hand
resting on his shoulder when he took his last breath. I didn’t cry for him at that point. I was too overwhelmed by the
magnificence of grace that had so clearly been showered on that gentle
soul. There he lay surrounded by
his children, in the arms of his beloved wife, with the faintest trace of a
smile on his lips. In his hands
he’d been clutching a rosary and his crucifix—even in death, his hands refused
to release them. Before his eyes was the statue of Our Lady and her rosary. He had received the last rites and had
been absolved of his sins by a Catholic priest. He closed his eyes forever with
his brown scapular around his neck.
There
just didn’t seem to be any reason to cry.
The
burning sense of loss and sadness at his absence having not yet set in that
night, I felt an unexpected elation there beside the deathbed of my father. He’d died like a saint. His death was what every good Catholic
prays for— a happy one. Why was he
at
I
don’t believe in coincidence anymore, nor do I have the same fear of death I had
a month ago. His was the most Catholic death I have ever imagined. If I wasn’t absolutely positive that his
death gave renewed assurance of the rightness of the cause he championed, there
was certainly no doubt left in my mind after his funeral
His
nine children, all of their spouses, all of his thirty-five grandchildren and
even his great-grandchildren are practicing the traditional Roman Catholic
Faith. Hundreds of his friends and
thousands of his faithful readers credit him with having helped them keep hope
when hope was seemingly lost, keep faith when it was under the worst attack in
history, and keep charity in their hearts when the whole world seemed to be
growing embittered. Quite clearly,
this was a man who took his duty as a Roman Catholic
seriously.
And
in his death, Walter Matt gave us his last good example. He taught us what it really means to be
a Catholic: to live so that you might die at peace with Our Lord and Savior
Jesus Christ. I am humbled by his
extraordinary example and I thank God for my father, the greatest man I’ve ever
known.
On his prayer card were printed words which
I first remember hearing my father utter thirty years ago, when I was a boy
kneeling at his feet during the family rosary. The room was dark, save for the light
cast by a single candle standing before his relic of the True Cross and two
simple statues—one of Our Lady and the other of St. Joseph. After the rosary and night prayers were
completed, my father always made the same invocations. Again, they were simple, but he repeated
them every night for as long as I can remember: “St. Pius V, Pray for us. St. Pius X, Pray for us.
O Blessed