I talked to (then) Judge Scalia for the first time in the fall of 1983, when I interviewed for a clerkship with him. We talked about our shared Catholic faith—and, in particular, about the impact of his faith on his work as a federal judge. I talked to Justice Scalia for the last time in the fall of 2015, when he came to Minneapolis to speak at the University of Minnesota and the University of St. Thomas. We talked again about our faith—this time about the impact of my faith on my work as a federal judge. In the intervening thirty-three years, we had countless conversations, and there were few of them that did not touch in some way on faith.
That was to be expected. After my clerkship ended, our conversations were more about life than about law, and to talk to Justice Scalia about life was to talk to him about faith. His faith was his lodestar. The center of Justice Scalia’s life as a Catholic—and thus the center of his life—was the Eucharist. I first attended Mass with Justice Scalia in early 1986, during the first of my two years clerking for him. His mother died just before Christmas in 1985, and his father died about two weeks later. My co-clerks and I had a Mass offered for them at Holy Rosary Church in Washington, D.C. Holy Rosary was just a few blocks from the courthouse, and it had been founded by Italian immigrants. The memorial Mass for Justice Scalia’s parents was celebrated at noon on a weekday in January or February. Only a handful of people attended.
Catholics believe that when the bread and wine are consecrated during the Eucharistic Prayer in the Mass, they are transformed into the Body and Blood of Christ—the actual, not merely symbolic, Body and Blood of Christ. This belief—known as the doctrine of transubstantiation—is one of the most difficult doctrines for non-Catholics to understand. But Justice Scalia left no doubt about the sincerity of his belief.
What sticks in my mind about that first Mass with Justice Scalia was the intensity with which he worshipped—and, in particular, the intensity with which he prayed during the Eucharistic Prayer. Kneeling, head bowed, eyes closed, hands tightly clasped, brow deeply furrowed, Justice Scalia was so focused that he almost seemed to be in pain. But at the moment of the consecration of the bread—and then again at the moment of the consecration of the wine—he would raise his head, open his eyes, and look intently at the newly consecrated bread or wine as the priest held it aloft.
The fact that I can still remember this over thirty years later testifies to its impact on me. I grew up in the immediate aftermath of Vatican II, when the Church was struggling to figure out how it would pass on the faith to children. There was a sense that catechists should not dwell on the “old stuff”—such as the doctrine of transubstantiation—but no sense about what should replace it. And thus, while I grew up aware of the doctrine, I cannot really say that I internalized it. When I was at Mass, I would often be unengaged, and my attention would often wander.
That changed after I worshipped with Justice Scalia in that empty church on that cold day in 1986. Kneeling next to him, I realized that this was what it looked like when someone truly believed what I professed to believe. If I truly believed that Jesus Christ was present, I should be praying with intensity, not thinking about where to go for lunch. And if I truly believed that Jesus Christ was present fifty feet in front of me under the appearance of bread and wine, I should be looking at him, not at the bad toupee of the man in the next pew.
After attending one Mass with Justice Scalia, I never worshipped—or thought about worship—the same way.
Patrick J. Schiltz has served as a federal district judge in Minnesota since 2006. He was a law clerk to then–D.C. Circuit judge Scalia from 1985 to 1986 and again to Justice Scalia during the justice’s first year on the Court, its October 1986 term.