An "Ordinary" Jesuit: Bl. Nicholas Keian Fukunaga, SJ

Jesuits in formation are constantly being evaluated by other Jesuits. (And I am referring here, of course, only to the formal processes of evaluation, rather than the ongoing, informal assessments that, no doubt, occur!)

As they pass from stage to stage, information is collected from reliable sources, in order to discern whether Novice X or Brother Y or Scholastic Z can be prudently allowed to pronounce first vows, or go on regency, or move on to theology, or be admitted to ordination. When a Jesuit is being considered for a position of governance, a similar process of evaluation is undergone. Information concerning his aptitude for governance is collected, and, if the Jesuit is being considered for a position like Rector of a large community or Novice Master that requires the appointment of Fr. General, the whole dossier of information and evaluations is forwarded to Rome.

The documents surviving in Rome concerning Nicholas  Keian Fukunaga (one of the four new Jesuit blessed beatified last November 24, 2008) all have a simple unanimous theme: his superiors considered Nicholas “ordinary.” No doubt, in the Latin they used at that time, the word would have been more pointed:  “mediocritatem.”

He was never ordained.  He never passed the evaluations.

 Born in 1569 (around twenty years before Pedro Kibe), he entered the novitiate in Amagusa at the age of 18, in 1588. The future saint, Paul Miki, had entered a few years ahead of him and was still in Amagusa when Nicholas entered.  Nicholas made his first vows in 1590. The years after that saw him studying for the priesthood, doing excellent ministry as a preacher, but somehow never being considered “fit” enough to be ordained.

One of his classmates, for example, Blessed Julian Nakaura (beatified along with him last November 24) was ordained in 1608. Nicholas was sent to assist him in Fukuoka, was considered a great help as a lay preacher, but was, mysteriously, not considered ready for ordination.

In 1614, Nicholas was one of those expelled from Japan to Macau, along with Peter Kibe, who was then a lay catechist or dojuko. Nicholas was put in charge of these lay catechists. He was finally admitted to final vows in 1619, when he was fifty years old, an unusually long thirty-seven years after he had entered the Society. He was still, it seems, not considered worthy of ordination.

In 1620, he was sent back to Japan, apparently because he dared to express an opinion that differed from that of his superiors.  From 1620 till 1633, he ministered in the Fukuoka area, till he was arrested in 1633 in Nagasaki. He was one of the first, if not the first, to suffer the terrible torture of the pit. It was in the pit that he gave his most powerful sermon. When his torturers asked him if there was anything he regretted in his life, Nicholas answered: “Yes, I regret very much that I was not able to lead all the Japanese people, beginning with the shogun, to Christ.” Nicholas died after three days in the pit, significantly on the morning of the feast of St. Ignatius, 31 July 1633.

Having done my fair share of evaluations of Jesuits over the years, the story of Blessed Nicholas Fukunaga is both humbling and inspiring. After all, it was the Jesuit Provincial, Cristobal Ferreira, who apostasized, not this ordinary Jesuit, whose apparent deficiencies kept him from being ordained, and whose final vows were constantly postponed. The preface of the Mass of Martyrs says it most powerfully: “You choose the weak, and make them strong in bearing witness to you.”

Nicholas’ story is, to me, a striking reminder about the limits of human judgments—or a testimony to the limitlessness of God’s power at work in us.  It invites me to be careful in making and trusting human judgments, and at the same time, calls me to be daring in my hope and trust in God’s surprisingly creative grace.

"The man who would not give in": Blessed Peter Kibe, SJ

I first heard about Pedro Kibe during GC 35. One of the delegates from Japan, the 42-year old Argentianian Jesuit Renzo de Luca, who is director of the Shrine of the Japanese Martyrs in Nagasaki, shared Kibe’s amazing story during a homily. 

Last November 24, 2008, in the presence of a crowd of 30,000, Pedro Kibe, a Jesuit priest who was martyred in 1639, was beatified, along with 187 other Japanese martyrs, among them, three other Jesuits. It was Kibe’s name, however, that was chosen to lead the group of martyrs; and I was happy to read in the accounts of the beatification that the ceremonies began with my friend Renzo carrying the relics of Pedro Kibe to the altar. I can only imagine how happy he was.

Who was Pedro Kibe? He was born in 1587, in what is now the Oita Prefecture on the island of Kyushu. At the age of 14, he studied under the Jesuits and learned Japanese, Latin and religion. By the time he was 19, he had become a dojoku, a lay catechist who accompanied the Jesuits in their missions. He felt in his heart, however, that God was calling him to become a Jesuit priest. What he endured in order to fulfill what he believed was his vocation is truly astounding.

In 1614, when he was 27 years old, he was expelled from Japan along with 115 Portuguese Jesuits, Japanese priests, seminarians, and dojoku. In Macau, he continued his studies, but was not admitted to the Society. Instead of giving up, in 1617, he took a ship to Goa, the site of Francis Xavier’s first Asian mission, to seek admission there, only to be refused again. 

Undeterred, he decided to do the impossible. He would go to Rome to ask the Jesuit General himself. Traveling along the paths of the famed Silk Road, he went by foot, through India and Pakistan, through Persia and Arabia, finally arriving in Jerusalem two years later, in 1619. (He was thus the first Japanese to ever visit the Holy Land.) From there, he was finally able to board a ship for Venice, and arrived in Rome in May of 1620.

The General was impressed by Kibe’s astonishing determination and fortitude, and arranged, first for his ordination, on November 15, 1620, at the Basilica of St. John Lateran, and secondly, for his admission to the Society of Jesus. On November 20, 1620, at the age of 33, Kibe entered the Jesuit Novitiate in Sant’Andrea al Quiranale. Kibe was fortunate to be in Rome to witness the canonization of St. Ignatius Loyola and St. Francis Xavier, on March 12, 1622.

It took years for Kibe to reach Rome and enter the Society. It would take years again for him to return to Japan. In 1623, in the company of other Jesuits, he left Lisbon to return to Goa. His goal was to return to Japan, to provide spiritual encouragement to the beleaguered Japanese Christians. It took him seven years of traveling around Southeast Asia before he could find a way to return. From Goa, he went to Macau, then to Thailand, and finally, in 1629, ended up in Manila.

In Manila, along with another Japanese priest, he was able to make arrangements for a termite-ridden sailboat to make the dangerous trip to Japan. Aware of the perils involved in traveling in such an untrustworthy vessel, Kibe decided to entrust himself to divine Providence. Leaving Manila finally in May of 1630, Kibe’s boat found itself caught in a violent typhoon, which ultimately destroyed the vessel. Kibe and his companion priest only survived because they were rescued by natives of Southern Kyushu.

From there, Kibe, finally in Japan after seven years, walked to Nagasaki, where he found, to his dismay and sadness, that the persecution of Japanese Christians had become more intense and violent in the years of his absence. Three years later, in 1633, Kibe moved to an area north of Tokyo, where he ministered to the suffering Christians for six years.

Finally , on March 17, 1639, Kibe was arrested along with two other Jesuit priests, Frs. Porro and Shikimi. They were sent to Edo (Tokyo), and met there by the prize of the Japanese persecutors: the former Jesuit Provincial Cristobal Ferreira, who had apostasized while in the pit, under the cruel handling of the master inquisitor and torturer Inoue. Ferreira tried to persuade Kibe and his companions to apostasize. Eventually, unable to bear the rigors of the pit (the same torture Lorenzo Ruiz had to endure, in which one is hung upside down in a pit of excrement, with one’s face cut to prolong the agony), Frs. Porro and Shikima apostasized.

Showing the same kind of tenacity and perseverance that marked his whole life, however, Pedro Kibe refused to deny his faith. Finally, his persecutors, frustrated by what they saw as his obstinacy, removed him from the pit and killed him. Accounts of his death differ: one Portuguese account describes how red-hot metals were applied to his body till he died; another account speaks of wood piled on his bare stomach and set afire there; still another account speaks of his being disemboweled by his torturers. He died in July, 1639, 52 years old, 19 years a priest and Jesuit.

Inoue, the chief torturer, sent back the best account of Kibe: Kibe, he wrote the Shogun, was “the man who would not say, ‘I give in.’”

There is a Greek word found often in the New Testament. The word is hupomonē. It is difficult to translate. Some translate it as “patient endurance” or “fortitude” or “strength to persevere.” In Filipino, we might say hupomonē is pagtiyatiyaga, pananatiling tapat sa gitna ng kahirapan at mga pagsubok. It is the virtue of staying the course, of not giving up even when one is discouraged or tired, of continuing the journey, even if it means just putting one weary foot in front of the other. 

When I think of Kibe—of his amazing three-year trek across the Silk Road, his seven-year search through Asia for a way to return to Japan, his six years of dangerous ministry in Sendai, his ten days of cruel torture—I think of the word hupomonē. And I remember that the secret of hupomonē in the New Testament is a secret that anyone who cares for someone else understands: for those you love, you are willing to endure difficulty; and if your love is deep, you are willing to endure anything.

A constant theme of Fr. General in his talks and letters is the spiritual depth Jesuits today need. I know all too well, from my own life, what the fruit of superficiality in love and faith is: a tendency to complain too often, to be discouraged too easily, and to give up too quickly. This Advent then, Kibe is an inspiration and invitation to pray for a share of the depth of love, the intensity of passion for Christ, that makes fortitude and perseverance in the face of life's difficulties possible.

A Tomb and a Letter: the Passion and Freedom of Francis Xavier

Francis Xavier was always depicted as a man with a burning heart: a man on fire with passion. Today, on the feast of this great and beloved Jesuit saint, father of so many of us who have gone to schools carrying his name, or who have sought to follow his missionary path, I thought I would share two excerpts from previously given talks that focus on two "relics" of Xavier. The first reflects on his empty tomb in Shangchuan, which I had the privilege of visiting in 2006; the second contains an excerpt from the letter Xavier wrote to his friend Ignatius, before embarking on the journey that would separate them forever, which was read during the close of GC 35.

Both capture the passion and freedom of Xavier: his passionate commitment to mission, that led him halfway around the world, to so many different cultures, climes and tongues, to share with those different from him what was, to him, the most precious gift in the world: the Gospel; and his passionate love for the brothers and friends he left behind, a love that led him to say, in all simplicity and sincerity: "Society of Jesus--Society of love." 

Both the icon of McNichols and the painting of Murillo depict, in different ways, the source of Xavier's passion for mission and his brother Jesuits: the love of Christ, depicted in the icon with the image of the Pelican, ancient symbol for Christ, because of the way the pelican feeds its young from its very blood.

From an article written in November 2006:

Off the southern coast of China, there is a small island called Shangchuan. Four hundred years ago, it was a quiet fishing village. Today, it is still little more than that, a striking contrast to the booming cities that are sprouting up so quickly in today’s hectic, development-driven China. A few kilometers out of the modest commercial center, on a hillside fronting the sea is a rundown chapel with an empty tomb. Here, we believe, was the place, where Francis Xavier, at the age of 46, died and was laid to rest for a few years, before parts of his body made their way all around the world again.

        When I visited that tomb last July with the other Provincials of East Asia, we found ourselves spontaneously drawn to silent and prolonged prayer. I was moved at the pathos of Xavier’s last moments. Here he died alone, half a world away from home, without his friends in Europe even knowing that he was in extremis. Here he died, after years of pioneering work of bringing the Good News to Asia: after baptizing till his arms ached with weariness in India; after traveling through the steaming jungles of Malacca; after enduring humiliation because of his appearance, his wretched Japanese, and his strange doctrine in Japan. And he died here, on this lonely island, precisely because, in order to win the peoples of Asia for Christ, he was convinced he had to do the impossible: enter the great and mysterious Empire of China and preach the Gospel there. He died with an unfulfilled dream, a longing unrequited.

That tomb is the image for me of Xavier’s gift: his burning and intense Passion. Only that passion—for Christ, for the peoples of Asia, for service—could explain why Francis Xavier, scion of a noble family who grew up in a castle in Navarre, died alone and with arms outstretched toward China on desolate Shangchuan.  Only that passion makes sense of Xavier’s constant, almost driven pushing beyond familiar boundaries into new territories. It was that passion that enabled him to endure physical hardships, cultural disorientation, piercing loneliness, frustrations and persecutions—and not give up.

From a homily preached in May 2008:

On the last day of GC 35, at the start of our final session after more than two months of being together as a discerning community, an older member of the General Curia read a remarkable passage from a letter of Francis Xavier to Ignatius, written by Xavier as he was about to leave Lisbon for India. Let me share what he read:

            We ask you, Father, and repeatedly entreat you in our Lord, because of our intimate friendship in Jesus Christ, to write to us and to advise us on how we may better serve God our Lord . . . In addition to your usual remembrance, we ask you to be particularly mindful of us in your prayers, since our long voyage and new contacts with gentiles together with out own inexperience will require much more help than usual. . . . There is nothing more to tell you except that we are about to embark. We close by asking Christ our Lord for the grace of seeing each other again in the next life; for I do not know if we shall ever see each other again in this, because of the great distance between Rome and India and the great harvest to be found there . . . Whoever will be the first to go to the other life and does not there find his brother, whom he loves in the Lord, must ask Christ our Lord to unite us all there in his glory.

  As he read this letter, that senior Jesuit’s voice broke, and soon, many of the delegates of the Congregation found ourselves in tears. I think many of us wept because we were moved by the poignant relevance of the letter as we were about to part. But now I see that what also moved me was that, at that moment, I was granted a glimpse of the inner truth, if you wish, of the Society of Jesus, what it was from its beginnings in our first fathers and what it is even to this day: a company of flawed, fallible, foolish men, it is true; but, at its best, and because of God’s goodness, a company of true friends in the Lord, free to serve the Lord in dispersionem, but always united, despite distances, by the deepest bonds of friendship and love that have their source in God himself.

  May the prayers of St. Francis Xavier obtain for us a share of his passionate love and his freedom.

Mixed Blessings: A Thanksgiving Sermon

On Thanksgiving Day, I wanted to share excerpts from a beautiful sermon preached by Barbara Brown Taylor--to my mind, one of the finest preachers in the "business" today. How does one give thanks when events in the great world, and in the smaller world of one's own life, do not seem to lead one to gratitude? Taylor's faith-filled response to that question merits reflection.

Without too much etymological violence, Thanksgiving Day becomes Eucharist Day, a day when we are called to offer thanks to God for the whole of our lives.

Which is not always an easy thing to do.

Last week, I found a bumper sticker that summed it all up, an example of the laugh-until-you-cry school of humor. “Life is hard,” it says. “Then you die.” . . . As I was showing it around yesterday to great hilarity, one perceptive person declined to laugh, cocked her head, and asked, “Have you had a hard week?”

I have had a hard year, and not just me; the world has had a hard year.

Three thousand years ago the Jews formulated blessings—berakoth—for every circumstance of their lives. Come weal or woe, they had a blessing. If it were good news, then “Blessed be he who is good and does good.” If it were bad news, then “Blessed be the judge of truth.” As far as they were concerned, humankind has a duty to pronounce a blessing on the bad in life as well as the good, because all life came from God.

And when we gather for eucharist, for thanksgiving, what we toast is the whole of our Lord’s life, the defeats along with the victories, the gentle birth alongside the violent crucifixion, the sleepless night in Gethsemane alongside the empty tomb on Easter morning. Because, in retrospect, in faith, we believe that it is all a single tapestry and the removal of a single thread diminishes the whole creation.

Our challenge this Thanksgiving morning is to see our own lives the same way, to learn how to give thanks at this altar not only for the mixed blessings of Christ’s life but also for our own, to say “thank you” for the whole mess, the things we welcome as well as the things we risk our souls to escape.

“Thanks be to God,” we say, because we believe that God is somewhere to be found in everything that happens to us. “Thanks be to God,” we say, because we believe that the cords of God’s love are never severed, however dark or convoluted our path through life may sometimes be.

God is God, and our lives are our lives, and we can love them or leave them, give thanks for them or whittle them away with regret. Our dare this morning is to embrace all that we have ever been and done and haul it up upon the altar, and there to recognize our lives as sacraments, outward and visible signs of an inward and spiritual grace.

So happy Thanksgiving. Happy Eucharist. Whether we leave this place to join friends and family or to dine alone . . . God goes with us, and there is no corner of our lives that he does not inhabit. Let us be on the lookout for him, and ready with our chorus: “Thanks be to God. Alleluia. Amen.”

A Joyful Giver: St. John Berchmans

There is a lot that a cynic could make fun of in the story of St. John Berchmans, who died at the age of 22 in Rome in 1621, and whose feast we celebrate today.

For one thing, one could say that he died as a martyr to studies and because of the imprudence or, at best, the obliviousness of his Jesuit superiors. During a terrible Roman summer, he had studied perhaps too intensely for his final exams in philosophy (today, we would call them his “comprehensives”), and as a result, he felt very weak. Although he had hoped to get some rest after his “comps,” his superiors didn’t give him a chance. They chose him to represent the Roman College at a disputation with the Greek College. The effort of all this study was just too much for the poor scholastic. He developed a fever and died a few days later.

Too much study, one could say, led to Berchmans’early death. About which one can make two further comments. First, that some things change: one doubts whether too many scholastics today are in danger of dying from too much study; and second, that some things don’t, like clueless superiors.

Berchmans was also known as a paragon of fidelity to the rules. As he lay dying, it is said that he asked for three things: his crucifix, his rosary, and the rule book. “These are the three things most dear to me; with them I willingly die,” he is reported as saying.

I wonder what Scholastic X or Scholastic Y of today would clasp to his chest in his dying embrace. Perhaps a cell phone and an MP3 player? The latter, of course, would be dear to him only because that it is what he used, of course, for prayer, aided perhaps by the “Pray as you go” podcast of the British Province.

Having given in to cynicism for a while, however, one looks at Berchmans brief life and finds things one cannot mock. Such as his youthful passion for and complete dedication to Christ. The other “boy saints,” Kostka and Gonzaga, came from noble families and gave up their privileged lives and promising futures. Berchmans was the son of a shoemaker. He was what we would call today a “working student”; more specifically, Filipinos would call him a “convento boy,’ doing menial jobs in a priest’s rectory in exchange for the chance to study. To follow what he felt was Christ’s call he had to turn a deaf ear to his parents’ entreaties that he help the family in their needs. I do not know who made the bigger sacrifice: the noble Gonzaga or the Berchmans the shoemaker’s son. But having encountered situations similar to that of Berchmans in scholastics today, and having seen the real, heartbreaking pain of their not being able to help their families in the latter’s needs because of their faithfulness to their Jesuit vocations, I am inclined to see Berchmans’ choice as involving the greater cost.

One can see Berchmans’ famous fidelity to the rules in the light of this complete, loving dedication. There was nothing, it seems, of servile fear, or currying favor with superiors, or scrupulous self-righteousness in Berchmans’ attitude towards the rules of common life. In a letter to his parents, very simply, he spoke of Jesus as his “beloved.” It was in the desire to give himself completely to his beloved, to respond to Christ’s love with generosity, in all the ordinary details of daily and communal life that one finds the meaning of Berchmans’ attitude.

Finally, what clearly emerges from his biographers is the attractive, winning personality of Berchmans, particularly his joy and gentleness. The children he taught catechism to when he was a novice were greatly attached to him, because of his kindness and joy. He was clearly beloved by his community, and in his illness, the entire community, his classmates, and even the General of the Society, came to visit him. When he died on August 13, 1621, he was deeply mourned by all. There seems to have been a luminous kind of simplicity, goodness and gladness that flowed effortlessly from him, an overflow, one surmises, of his closeness to Christ.

So, in the end, it is not cynicism that has the upper hand where Berchmans is concerned, but inspiration and gratitude for the gift of this young saint, whose spirit continues to live in many formands and formed members of the Society. The lovely opening prayer for the Mass of the feast of John Berchmans captures well the grace one can pray for today: “Lord our God, you invite us always to give you our love, and you are pleased with a cheerful giver. Give us a youthful spirit to be like St. John Berchmans, always eager to seek you and to do your will.”

A Leader for Dark Times: St. Joseph Pignatelli

Two of the darkest moments in Scripture are the Exile, suffered by Israel, and the final desolation of Jesus on the cross. Both were experiences of apparent abandonment by God.

The Exile was that traumatic period in Israel’s history, when everything that spoke to the chosen people of God’s love and election, everything that gave them security and identity as a people—the Temple, the Land, the King—was taken away from them.

And of course, on the cross, Jesus, who only wanted to help people experience the merciful nearness of the God he called Abba, cried out in profound desolation: “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?” Everything he had built up in the three years of his ministry lay in ruins around him, and the absence of God mocked all his words and deeds. It is no wonder that later theologians conjectured that, on the cross, Jesus truly descended into hell, that he was “damned with the damned,” sharing the complete meaninglessness and lovelessness of the lost.

The experience of Israel in exile and Jesus on the cross, this sense of a familiar world collapsing all around one, of the loss of moorings, security, love, meaning, of abandonment by God, must have also been the experience of the Jesuits during the traumatic period of the Suppression.  One can only imagine the anguish and disorientation of the 600 Jesuits who, expelled from their home in Spain in 1767, had to travel for months to nearby Italy, and were refused safe haven repeatedly. With the stroke of a king’s pen, they had lost everything: their works, their home, their future.

What must they and all the 23, 000 other Jesuits have felt when after a few years of homelessness and exile, in 1773, they finally heard the decree of the Holy Father--the Pope they had promised special obedience to--dissolving the Society of Jesus? Again, one can only imagine their feelings: a gut-wrenching sense of having been betrayed by the Church; complete disorientation and senselessness as their world, their home, their identities collapsed; grief, disillusionment, despair, fear. How many Jesuits must have felt their faith in God tried almost to breaking point at that time.

In the midst of this darkness, Joseph Pignatelli was a light of hope. At the tender age of thirty, he was acting Rector and Acting Provincial of these lost and frightened men. With them, he suffered the trauma of suppression, of homelessness for almost forty years, as the Society of Jesus disappeared from the face of the earth (except in White Russia).And in the midst of this darkness, he did three things.

First, he abandoned himself  in faith to the incomprehensible will and Providence of God. Apparent abandonment by God led him to abandon himself to God, who is semper Maior: whose ways are not our ways, and whose plans are always greater than human beings can see or understand. What made his utter surrender to God so poignant and powerful was that Pignatelli sustained this trust in God’s mysterious Providence, not for a month or a year or even a decade, but for thirty years. Pignatelli knew how to wait, to endure and suffer in patience.

Second, he united, strengthened and encouraged his brothers. He provided leadership and sustenance for them during the initial years of expulsion. He invited them to see things through the eyes of faith, and with the spirit of Ignatian indifference and obedience. Throughout the long and dark years of suppression, he maintained contact, friendship, communication, hope.

Finally, he never lost faith in his Jesuit vocation.  As he wrote to his brother in 1767: “No reason will induce me to leave the Society, in which I have determined to live and die. . . . I implore you not to make any moves to have me transferred to another religious order. I should never accept such a proposal, even though I had to die a thousand times.”  And when, thirty years later, in 1797, the Society that was thought dead stirred slowly back to life in Parma, Pignatelli was ready to return home, to serve as novice master and later Provincial of Italy.

I pray to Fr. Pignatelli today on his feast, remembering all my brothers who, in different ways, might be experiencing something of the trauma of exile, something of the collapse of secure and familiar worlds, something of the pain of the apparent distance of God.  I think of young scholastics painfully struggling with disillusionment as they face for the first time the reality of the brokenness of the Society. I think of our missionaries, experiencing the shock of new cultures and languages, letting go of familiar ways and secure relationships, experiencing the lonely pain of rebirth in a new world. I think of Jesuits who worry about our falling numbers, about our apparent inability to attract a new generation to share our passion and our dreams, and who experience deep anxiety about the future of this least Society.

The prayer for the Feast of St. Joseph Pignatelli captures wonderfully my prayer for my brothers and myself:

“Lord God, in a time of trial, you gave St. Joseph courage and strength to unite his scattered companions. May we always receive support from our brothers, and remain faithful to our vocation in the midst of every change.”

The More Loving One

For the wedding of my friends Luigi Bernas and Luli Arroyo, I quoted in my homily two lines from a poem by W. H. Auden, which I had picked up from a novel by Alexander McCall Smith. Smith gently suggests through a character in his novel that the meaning of kindness is best captured by two lines of Auden:

If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me. 

Luigi emailed me today from Australia, asking for a copy of the poem—which I had never seen in its entirety. After finding the poem and reading it through, I now realize that while Smith aptly linked the two lines to kindness, in fact, they are not so much about kindness, but about the decision to love even if one is not loved in return. 

Here is the poem, written by Auden in 1957:

The More Loving One

by W. H. Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time. 


This is a sad and brave poem about accepting the suffering of unrequited love—an experience that Auden was apparently familiar with. In this poem, he makes his peace with his experience of “stars” whose beauty inspires such passion and longing, but which care nothing for him in return. 

Being treated with indifference is not so bad, Auden says, in the first stanza; there are worse things in life. To love, even if one is not loved back, is more than enough, he suggests in the second stanza. And, in the final two stanzas, Auden tells himself that even if that which one loves were to disappear from one’s life, one would survive the grief and the emptiness—even if, as he poignantly understates it in the last line, being reconciled with that loss may “take a little time.” 

A Prayer of St. Patrick (John Rutter)

There are many variations of the Prayer of St. Patrick but this one, in a lovely setting by John Rutter, is particularly beautiful. "Christ behind me, Christ before me" reminds me that just as Christ has been with me in the past, so He will be waiting for me in what lies ahead. "Christ in hearts of all that love me, Christ in mouth of friend and stranger" calls me to be grateful for the many times Christ has spoken to me through the love of friends, but also to trust that, even among strangers, He will speak.

A Prayer of St. Patrick (John Rutter)


Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me,
Christ above me, Christ beneath me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

Giving Christ

Here in the Saigon airport, whiling away a three hour lay-over en route to Phnom Penh, I dipped into a marvelous book of essays by Ron Hansen, Gerard Manley Hopkins Professor of Arts and Humanities at the University of Santa Clara. Having read Hansen's novel Exiles (about Hopkins and the five nuns who inspired Hopkins Wreck of the Deutchsland), I looked forward to this volume entitled A Stay Against Confusion. I have not been disappointed. Hansen's lovely prose is the perfect vehicle for his illuminating thoughts on faith and fiction.

His last essay in the book is simply entitled "Eucharist." I was particularly moved by the final paragraphs of the essay. Hansen, having begun the essay with a nostalgic account of his first communion in Omaha, Nebraska, in the pre-Vatican II Church, ends with a description of his feelings, now that he has become a Eucharistic minister in the Jesuit Church in Santa Clara. For me, he puts into moving words what I have often felt in the two decades I have been privileged to share the Eucharistic Lord to the faithful when I distribute Holy Communion:

"I was a lector at Mass for many years before I became a eucharistic minister. . . . [But] to hand Christ's body and blood to the congregation at Mass, seemed such a staggering and godly thing to do that I felt too unworthy to try it.

"Then I realized there was an important theological point in that: I am, as we all are, a sinner; but in Christ I am as loved and forgiven as the good thief on the cross; in him my faith and worthiness are sufficient.

"And so at noon Mass in the old California mission church of Santa Clara, I have the courage to go up to the tabernacle, genuflect before it just as Monsignor Flanagan would, and get out a ciborium I would not have dared touch in my childhood. And I stand where a railing used to be, holding the consecrated elements of either bread or wine, giving Christ to those holier than me, who walk up with such reverence, simplicity, seriousness, and childlike vulnerability that my eyes sometimes film with tears. It's a gift to me, that giving; it's the glorious feeling I have when I am writing as well as I can, when I feel I am, in ways I have no control of, an instrument of the Holy Being; for I have just an inkling of what Jesus felt when he looked on his friends in mercy and aching love, and I have a sense why, just before he died, he established this gracious sacrament of himself."

From Twenty Years Ago: Remembering Dad's Last Days Part 2

Yesterday, I shared the first part of a long unread letter dated 1 December 1988, written when I was 29 year old, in which I recounted to my sister in the States the events surrounding my father's passing away on November 13, 1988--twenty years ago this year. I continue and conclude with an account of the wake, the funeral and the ninth day novena. I share this in memory of my father, but also as a witness to the grace and love that God's goodness draws from pain and grief.

1 December 1988 

. . .The wake was a great consolation for all of us. So many of Dad's friends--many of whom we did not know at all--came and told us stories about Dad's high school and college days in La Salle and Ateneo; or told us many good things about Dad--about his humor, his friendliness, the help he had given them. So many of our friends--your friends, too--came to be with us. Over a hundred wreaths arrived, and the chapel of the church in Green Meadows was filled with flowers. Kamayan sent food and waiters, and on Tuesday night, Dad's rotary club sponsored the Mass and sent food. The Cardinal [Cardinal Sin] came to bless Daddy. Every night, at the 8 PM novena Masses, an average of about 7 Jesuits would concelebrate with me, and the Jesuit scholastics would lead the singing. Even our novices (who, as you know, are normally "quarantined" in Novaliches) came. On Wednesday night, Franny's "Days with the Lord" friends from Xavier School led the singing.

We buried Daddy on Thursday, November 17. The funeral services were very solemn and beautiful. About 28 priests came to concelebrate at the 830 AM Mass (about 25 were brother Jesuits--I was very moved by this support); and the Barangka Choir, that had sung at my Thanksgiving Mass, was conducted by Vic de Jesus and sang beautifully. I preached the homily, and Ako John gave a very moving speech of thanksgiving that spoke of how full Daddy's life had been in the past year, and how his passing away came at a time in his life when he had so much to be thankful for. We were all in tears when Ako John finally said good-bye to Dad for all of us.

And then something happened, something I'm sure Daddy had a hand in. After Ako spoke, I spent a few moments recollecting myself, and then went to the altar to announce that I would now bless Dad's body. As I very solemnly walked down the steps from the sanctuary, I tripped on the carpet--I actually found myself sitting on the steps! The atmosphere of sorrow suddenly lightened: Mom and the others could not help smiling; I myself was smiling ear to ear as I blessed Dad's body! I was remembering how much Dad enjoyed the similar way you fell in the parking lot of Mt. Carmel Church many years ago--remember? I could not help feeling that Dad, who loved a good and corny joke more than anyone else, was somehow behind this little incident. (Of course, Peter thinks it was my own stupidity that was behind it, but maybe both Dad's corniness and my clumsiness worked together!) I presided over the final blessing at Manila Memorial Park--no accidents this time!

That evening, I happened to pass by the guest room at around 630 PM. The lights were off, but I thought I heard someone sniffling inside. I went in, and there, lying on the sofa was Franny, quietly crying in the dark, staring at the light from the street lamp coming in through the window. I sat beside him, held his hand, and asked if he missed Daddy. He nodded yes, and we just sat there in the dark together for a few minutes. That night, Franny slept between Mom and me in Mom and Dad's bed.

We continued the novena Masses at Mary the Queen Church, and ended on Monday, Nov. 21. As usual, so many of Dad's friends came to be with us. Our great benefactors that night were Xavier School and Kamayan. Xavier really decorated the high school gym beautifully with colored lights, silver and gold palms, Chinese lanterns, and even a Chinese arch one had to pass through to enter the gym! Kamayan catered gratis et amore--Tito Tito Eduque insisted--and served us lechon de leche, inihaw na manok, kare-kare, pancit malabon, rellenong bangus, etc--the works! For about 250 guests, they provided over 60 waiters--all of whom were chosen because Daddy knew each of them personally! Coca-cola, care of Tito Nano Limjap, provided all the soft drinks for free as well. So much to be grateful for.

Let me end here, Atchi, I hope this little report of mine helps you; certainly, through all these events, you were very much part of us . . . Dad is with the Lord and this conviction has given us peace in the midst of our pain. He is with us too--with you, as well---but he is with us in a new way, a non-physical way, which it takes time for us to get used to and accept. . . . I pray that you may sense Dad's loving, fatherly presence near you always . . .

I leave tomorrow for Ipil, but will be back on December 20, to spend Christmas with the family. I hope I can talk to you over the phone then to personally wish you a happy Christmas!

Much love,

From Twenty Years Ago: Remembering Dad's Last Days Part 1

A few days ago, my brother Steven texted me to inform me that he had found two boxes in my mother's house, containing "stuff" that belonged to me. I had completely forgotten about the existence of these cartons. I must have left them in my Mom's house when I left for my first priestly assignment in Mindanao in 1988.  

Today, I went through the contents of the cartons, which had been unopened for twenty years. I found things I had forgotten even existed. Compositions from high school, including one intriguingly entitled "Why Xavierians are Superior to Icans." A one-act play and a short story I wrote in my senior year in Xavier School. My first philosophy paper entitled "A phenomenology of saying goodbye" (with a proud grade of "A+"!) which I wrote in 1978. Research papers written in college and during Jesuit formation: on Jane Austen, Graham Greene, Shakespeare's King Lear, etc. And poetry, including, among others, four sonnets (when did I write them? As a college freshman?) on Mozart, Bach, Ravel and Stravinsky and some angst-ridden semi-love poems.

But the one piece of writing that struck me most was a four page account of the last days of my father (who passed away at the age of 61 twenty years ago, on November 13, 1988), contained in a letter to my sister in the States, who was not able to come home for the funeral. I reproduce the contents of this letter, to remember those days that were filled with such grief and such grace.

Dear Atchi,

I'm writing because Mom thought that you would appreciate a fuller account of the many things that have been happening here before and after Dad's passing away.

You know that Dad had his attack on Wednesday night (Nov. 9). He had come from a golf game in Canlubang and was in the office talking to Susie over the phone. He just suddenly slumped over; his last words were words of fatherly concern: "How's Peter?" Dennis [our cousin] saw him and brought him to Makati Medical. Dad's heart had already stopped beating; they revived him with electric shock, but the five minutes without oxygen had already caused brain damage. The doctors said that if he did not regain consciousness in 72 hours--that is, by 730 PM Saturday night--that meant that the brain damage was very serious. . . .

I received the news in Ipil, Zamboanga del Sur on Thursday morning. There are no phones in Ipil, so the message, from Fr. Maceda, the assistant of the provincial came via radio: "Your father suffered a massive heart attack last night. He is in the ICU of Makati Medical Center and Fr. Zuloaga has given him the last sacraments. Please come." I hurriedly packed my things, made some arrangements for the work I had to leave behind, and forty-five minutes later, I was aboard the bishop's Suzuki bound for Zamboanga City, about 180 kilometers away. As I was leaving, the girls who worked in the bishop's house (where I had been living for a week as OIC) came out to send me off; one slipped me a piece of Swiss chocolate "stolen" from the bishop's refrigerator. It was her simple way of trying to express her sympathy and concern, and I was very touched. I left so hurriedly that I forgot to inform the superior of the mission district, Fr. Antonio, that I was leaving.

We made what was usually a four hour trip by bus in three hours or so. I had hoped to take a night flight to Manila, only to learn that the night flights had been cancelled. Through the intercession of Fr. Carretero, the president of the Ateneo de Zamboanga, I was able to book a ticket for the Friday morning flight. I arrived in Manila on Friday afternoon, was met at the airport by Tita Betty and Tita Mel, and went directly to the hospital.

I was shocked and deeply saddened to see Dad's condition: unconscious, with all sorts of wires and tubes inserted into him, breathing only because of a respirator. As I entered the ICU room with Mommy, Dicky greeted me with tears in his eyes. Later, when Peter and Ako John came, the same quiet weeping took place among us--though I tried my best to control myself, since I was aware that I had to be the priest in the family . . .

I stayed overnight in the hospital with Mom, taking turns watching over Dad and monitoring his heart condition through the machine. We slept very little. The next morning, Saturday, I said Mass in the hospital chapel for Mom; Lorraine, Robert and Freddy-boy Ortiz, who were visiting, joined us, while Dicky remained in the ICU. The Gospel was about Jesus' prayer during his agony in the garden: "Father, if it is possible, take this cup away from me, but not my will, but your will be done." I shared a little about what I had been thinking about the night before: that like Jesus, we should be ready to accept God's will, whatever it may be, trusting that God, in his goodness and wisdom, knows what is best for Daddy . . .

That day, Ako John and Peter made the necessary preparations concerning the legal and business arrangements. I stayed with Mom, and in the evening, when Dad had not recovered consciousness, I talked to Stevie [who was 19 then] and tried to prepare him for what might happen. Paul did the same with Franny [who was 18 then]. When all the visitors had left, at about 1130 PM, we all prayed the rosary around Daddy, as we had done the night before. We left Franny and Paul to stay overnight with Mom.

The next morning, Sunday, Nov. 13, at around 530 AM, Dad had his last attack. They tried to revive him to no avail. Paul called up the house, and we rushed to the hospital. All of us were around Daddy, and we began to pray the rosary again, praying Daddy into heaven, as it were. Though he was comatose, I kept talking into his ear, assuring him of our loving presence during this last journey of his. After the rosary, I prayed Psalm 23 into Dad's ear: " The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Though I walk in the valley of darkness, no evil shall I fear for you are with me." We then each walked up to Daddy, said words of farewell and kissed him goodbye. Somewhere in the middle of all this, Peter suddenly said, "That's it!" The heart monitor said "0." Daddy was dead. It was about 650 AM.

We all wept for a while, feeling such grief as I think we had never felt before. Then we quieted down. We saw the change in Dad's face: the look of agony and pain that was on his face during his last attack had been replaced by a look of peace. Perhaps he had heard us after all; certainly, he was now at peace with the Lord. I blessed the water in a little bottle beside DAd's bed and blessed his body. Mom said, "Tell Daddy to pray for us," and I did.

[to be continued]

Paskong Walang Hanggan

Okay, perhaps it is a bit early for Christmas carols.  Perhaps though, when one is preparing to leave one's country for an extended period of time, listening to Filipino music written for the best time of the year in the Philippines is excusable. 

There is something achingly lovely about this piece by Ryan Cayabyab (music) and Jose Javier Reyes (lyrics).  I remember reading a discussion on the net as to whether this can be sung as a communion song, whether the lyrics can be "applied" to Christ. That seemed to me a little far-fetched and strained, at that time; but today, I realized that the lyrics can be "legitimately"--and indeed, movingly--read that way: as thanksgiving addressed to One whose love has transformed one's life and whose presence makes every day a celebration of Christmas.

PASKONG WALANG HANGGAN

Tinanong mo sa akin kung ano ang gusto ko
Upang mapaligaya ang aking pasko
Bakit mo pa kaya kailangan sabihin sa akin yan
Para namang kasi hindi mo pa alam

Ang aking araw-araw ay iyo nang iniba
Mula pa noong ikaw ay aking nakilala
Pinasayaw ang ikot ng aking munting mundo
Binigyan ng dahilan ang bawat oras at minuto

Ang bawat kong pangarap iyong pinalitan
Binigyan ako ng lakas, tiyaga at tapang
Na harapin ang bawat tanong at pag-aalinlangan
Dahil alam kong ikaw ay katabi ko lamang

At sa tuwing pagsikat at paglubog ng araw
Nagsisimula at nagwawakas sa salitang: "Ikaw" 
Kaya’t huwag mo nang itanong kung ano pa sa akin ay kulang
Dahil bawat araw kasama ka ay Paskong walang hanggan

Grateful (John Bucchino)

Brian Stokes Mitchell, one of Broadway's leading singer-actors today, sings a lovely, lyrical song by John Bucchino (who also wrote Better Than I). Yesterday, at Sacred Heart Novitiate, I listened to this on my Ipod while walking around the grounds, and found it captured movingly for me what I am--and we are all--called to be.

GRATEFUL [Music and lyrics by John Bucchino]

I've got a roof over my head
I've got a warm place to sleep
Some nights I lie awake counting gifts
Instead of counting sheep

I've got a heart that can hold love
I've got a mind that can think
There may be times when I lose the light
And let my spirits sink
But I can't stay depressed
When I remember how I'm blessed

Grateful, grateful
Truly grateful I am
Grateful, grateful
Truly blessed
And duly grateful

In a city of strangers 
I've got a family of friends
No matter what rocks and brambles fill the way
I know that they will stay in the end

I feel a hand holding my hand
It's not a hand you can see
But on the road to the promised land
This hand will shepherd me
Through delight and despair
Holding tight and always there

Grateful, grateful
Truly grateful I am
Grateful, grateful
Truly blessed
And duly grateful

It's not that I don't want a lot
Or hope for more, or dream of more
But giving thanks for what I've got
Makes me so much happier than keeping score

In a world that can bring pain
I will still take each chance
For I believe that whatever the terrain
Our feet can learn to dance
Whatever stone life may sling
We can moan or we can sing

Grateful, grateful
Truly grateful I am
Grateful, grateful
Truly blessed
And duly grateful 

A Church that Listens

Below is a summary of the main points of the speech of Bishop Chito Tagle, delivered on Tuesday, October 7, at the ongoing Synod of Bishops in Rome, on the theme of the Word of God. As John Allen reports, Bishop Tagle's speech was one of only two interventions that were greeted with spontaneous applause by the Assembly. 

One hopes for a copy of the full speech soon, but in the meantime, there is much that merits serious reflection and consideration even in this summary of Bishop Chito's points. 

How different, how much more life-giving the Church would be, if, as Bishop Tagle points out, the Church does not see itself exclusively or even primarily as a teaching Church, but as a Church that listens, and creates an environment hospitable to listening--as a Church that listens in the way that God listens, particularly to the poor, the vulnerable, the voiceless.


H.E. Most. Rev. Luis Antonio G. TAGLE, Bishop of Imus (PHILIPPINES)

The Synod rightly deals with the disposition of listening. In Scriptures, when people listen to God's Word they experience true life. If they refuse, life ends in tragedy. Listening is a serious matter. The Church must form hearers of the Word. But listening is not transmitted only by teaching but more by a milieu of listening. I propose three approaches for deepening the disposition for listening.

1. Our concern is listening in faith. Faith is a gift of the Spirit, yet it also is an exercise of human freedom. Listening in faith means opening one's heart to God's Word, allowing it to penetrate and transform us, and practicing it. It is equivalent to obedience in faith. Formation in listening is integral faith formation. Formation programs should be designed as formation in holistic listening.

2. Events in our world show the tragic effects of the lack of listening: conflicts in families, gaps between generations and nations, and violence. People are trapped in a milieu of monologues, inattentiveness, noise, intolerance and self-absorption. The Church can provide a milieu of dialogue, respect, mutuality and self-transcendence.

3. God speaks and the Church, as servant lends its voice to the Word. But God does not only speak. God also listens especially to the just, widows, orphans, persecuted, and the poor who have no voice. The Church must learn to listen the way God listens and must lend its voice to the voiceless.

[Original text: English]

Narcissus Leaves the Pool

Narcissus Leaves the Pool is the title of a charming (as far as I can tell, having read only the first chapter thus far) book of essays by Joseph Epstein that I fortunately happened upon and purchased this morning at Barnes and Noble, courtesy of a gift card very kindly given me by my friends Hec and Woweene last night.

Epstein is the author of two books I have previously read, both of which I found delightful and insightful: the first, a slim volume entitled Envy; the second, heftier volume, a bestseller entitled Snobbery: The American Version.

Over panfried noodles enjoyed in an old haunt in DC's Chinatown, Full Kee, I pored over the engaging first essay of my newly purchased book (which gives the book its title, incidentally). Besides being elegant and witty, It's the kind of essay that speaks very powerfully to a mid-lifer like me.

The (then) sixty-one year old Epstein reflects on his body at 61, reviewing his relationship to it since his more athletic youth, to the present, when the natural processes of aging, while not exactly ravaging him, have certainly forced him to accept that, corporeally speaking, things are not what they used to be--and that they will never be the same again. 

Much of the essay confronts today's emphasis on fitness and healthy living as a form of denial of mortality. "At some point in one's life . . . one has to become reconciled to one's body, to play the cards that one was dealt," he writes. "But not quite any longer. The currently belief, widely held, is that we can do a lot to change things: lose weight, tone things up, somehow or other cheat the dealer." Epstein concludes: "We can, I suppose, for a while."

In the end, for Epstein, "Working out is, as T. S. Eliot described poetry, a mug's game. It is so because one cannot finally win at it."

"My own relationship with my body has changed gradually over the years," he reflects. "I used to think it an agreeable companion that yielded me great pleasure on many fronts. Today, I look at it somewhat paranoically, chiefly for signs of betrayal, for ways it might let me down."

Epstein is not maudlin or morbid, however. As he takes stock, he recognizes that the body given him "hasn't been a lemon. . . . It has chugged along pretty well and required relatively little servicing." 

And yet, he adds, "with so much mileage on it, breakdowns oughtn't come as a surprise."

His final paragraph is worth quoting at length. Maybe it is just me, looking at 50 coming around the corner. Yes, it is true that yesterday, I was flattered no end when my Argentinian barber, on discovering I was 49, announced to everyone in the barbershop: "Look, this guy's almost 50! Can you believe it? He looks 36!" (Although one, of course, wonders, whether Jose, my barber, was being unduly kind, since he knew I was a priest, and both he and the Italian owner of the barbershop were obviously Catholics.) 

But I am not 36. I am 49. And maybe that's why Epstein's final paragraph strikes me as both poignant and ineffably wise:

"Thrift and prudence may, with luck, make one wealthy. Thoughtfulness and learning may, with even more luck, make one wise. But there stands the body to mock both wealth and wisdom and every kind of accumulation. . . . Beyond a certain point one ceases to grow stronger, more beautiful, more desirable. Neither all the king's personal trainers nor all the king's cosmetic surgeons can put any of us together again. The body reminds us that we are in the swim only for a short, however glorious, while. Then, no matter what one's station in life, or what one's natural endowments, the whistle blows and it's everybody but everybody out of the pool, and that includes you--which is to say me--Narcissus, baby."