En Todo Amar y Servir

Three Gifts from Fr. Galdon: An Appreciation

2010-03-18T07:44:00.005+01:00

I was never close to Fr. Galdon. Even though I took at least five courses under him, he was always a teacher to me, and never a friend or a confidant. The guys in our Ateneo freshman English class, school year 1976-77, used to joke, perhaps not inaccurately, that Fr. Galdon was always closer to the girls in the class. He would give them additional marks if they came to his class wearing skirts instead of the usual slacks. If memory serves me right, the Assumption girls—Candy Monserrat, Liza Lesaca, and Miel Esteban—and Tina Infante were Fr. G’s favorites. The mestizas.

Looking back, though, I realize that I didn’t mind at all, because he was such a good teacher, and that was more than enough.

I was sixteen years old when I first experienced being Joe Galdon’s student. In the summer of 1975, I had the privilege of being one of those chosen to represent Xavier School at the Ateneo Junior Summer Seminar. I remember very little about those two months between junior and senior year in high school, except that every morning, I looked forward to going to the Ateneo just to sit in Fr. Galdon’s English class. I cut classes a lot that summer, but I never missed a single class of Fr. Galdon. Thirty five years later, I still remember two revelatory pieces we took up: Nick Joaquin’s novella, Candido’s Apocalypse, and Tennessee William’s The Glass Menagerie. As a result of that class, I went on to read all the other plays of Tennessee Williams, and I decided that I would go to the Ateneo for college, if they would have me.

As luck, fate or providence would have it, I did get accepted to the Ateneo. Even more fortunately, by the second semester of freshman year, I was back with Fr. Galdon in two classes: poetry and composition. During the next four years of college, I took at least two (possibly three) other courses with him. Fr. Galdon’s death yesterday made me think of him in a way that I haven’t for a very long time. And when I think of my debt of gratitude to Fr. Galdon, I realize I can express things quite simply. First, he taught me how to read. Second, he taught me how to write. Third, he taught me how to teach.

First, he taught me how to read. I think the title of a book by Robert Alter captures well what Fr. Galdon taught me: The Pleasures of Reading in an Ideological Age. Fr. Galdon was an unabashed humanist in his approach to literature. There were no ideological readings of literary works; no cultural studies-based analyses; no post-colonial deconstructions of the work of dead white males. In class, we read dead white males and dead white females, as well as living writers of different colors, and he always asked us to look for the SHE: the “Significant Human Experience”—not, heaven forbid, a “moral lesson,” but what the work revealed about the grandeur and the misery, the complexity and the ambiguity of the human heart and human existence. And in the process, he showed us how to delight in the peculiar beauties of poem or play, essay or narrative. It was

Fr. Galdon who introduced me to many a great work of literature. In his class on classical criticism (which I confess I remember very little about), he made us read Horace and Longinus, Tasso and Alexander Pope. In the course on classical drama, I read Aeschylus’s Oresteia for the first time and still recall the frisson of excitement I felt when, at the end of the trilogy, the Furies are renamed the Eumenides (“the Kindly Ones”), and the dark, barbarous history of bloodshed and vengeance finally finds resolution in justice, reason and civilization. In that same class, we also read Euripedes’ The Trojan Women and I still recall being overcome by the power of its depiction of the unspeakable atrocities of war: the child Astyanax hurled off the battlements of Troy ; the noble Hecuba, bereft of all she loved—kingdom, husband, children, grandchildren--being dragged off to be the slave of the scoundrel Odysseus. In that freshman poetry class, Fr. Galdon introduced us to Andrew Marvell’s To His Coy Mistress, T.S. Eliot’s The Journey of the Magi, Robert Browning’s My Last Duchess, W. H. Auden’s Museé de Beaux Arts, and that glorious Shakespeare sonnet that begins, “When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,” among so many others. This was heady, potent stuff to fill the minds of teen-agers with, teen-agers still so blissfully, stupidly unaware of life, its depths, its impending heartache. As if reading were not enough, he made us memorize. I realize now that most of the poetry that I still know by heart were poems that Fr. Galdon obliged us to memorize: Macbeth’s soliloquy (“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow . . .”); A.E. Houseman’s “Loveliest of trees, the cherry now” and “With rue my heart is laden”; most amazing of all, Matthew Arnold’s Dover Beach, which speaks to me more powerfully now at 51 than it did when I was 17:

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Second, Fr. Galdon taught me how to write—or at least, how to write with a little more clarity, a little more simplicity, a little less pretentiousness. Among the things I learned: Always use simple words, rather than “big” words. Try to use concrete words rather than abstract ones. (I remember he used Oscar Hammerstein’s lyrics to My Favorite Things as a writing exercise to stimulate concrete thinking and communication). Don’t be “OA”—which I suppose meant, don’t be pretentious or inauthentic to yourself or to the experience you are trying to communicate. (I recall the mortification of receiving compositions checked by Fr. Galdon and finding a red circle around some offending patch of prose, accompanied by the dread letters: “OA.”) Seek to communicate significant human experience.

Third, Fr. Galdon taught me how to teach. His striking resemblance to Bob Hope was a good start, but along with it, he brought an engaging classroom manner. There were never dull lectures from Fr. G, who was something of a performer, almost larger than life, in the classroom. His classes were always inter-active, dialogical, deeply involving, funny and fun. Yet he made us work hard: a quiz every blessed class, to aid fallen human nature and ensure that we read the works he assigned; regular compositions, at least once a week, I believe. He worked hard too: every quiz, every composition meticulously corrected and promptly returned. And his standards were high. I remember bemoaning why the masterpieces I poured my soul into ended up so often with a lousy, surely undeserved “7” or “8” (out of “10”); the occasional “9” for a composition produced a glow of pride that lasted for days. When, four years out of college, as a Jesuit regent, I taught my first English classes in Xavier University High School, so much of what I had experienced from Joe Galdon as a teacher I sought to bring to my own students. And now, after almost two decades in the classroom as a teacher myself, I still reverence Fr. Galdon as a teacher nonpareil.

When the news came last week that Fr. Galdon was dying, I confess that I was happy for him. I don’t remember exactly when the dementia began. All I know is that this once vibrant, intelligent Jesuit had become unresponsive, inaccessible, zombie-like. I suspect it’s been almost a decade, and it was painful to see. But I was relieved to know that this diminished half-life would soon come to an end. And yesterday, 15 March 2010, it did.

As I said, I never became close to him, even after I became a Jesuit. I read his homilies with profit and admiration, but I never really benefited from his ministrations as a priest. He was always a teacher to me. But, that was more than enough. He taught me—and so many others like me—how to read, how to write, how to teach. He honed our abilities; opened our imaginations; deepened our humanity. For these precious gifts, thank you, Fr. Galdon. May you now enjoy the fullness of life.

An Italian Boy's Confession

2009-08-28T05:42:00.000+02:00

Someone sent this to me and I thought it would be an appropriate story for the feast of St. Augustine, who had something of a shady past.

'Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I have been with a loose girl'.

The priest asks, 'Is that you, little Joey Pagano ?'

'Yes, Father, it is.'

'And who was the girl you were with?'

'I can't tell you, Father. I don't want to ruin her reputation'.

"Well, Joey, I'm sure to find out her name sooner or later, so you may as well tell me now. Was it Tina Minetti?'

'I cannot say.'

'Was it Teresa Mazzarelli?'

'I'll never tell.'

'Was it Nina Capelli?'

'I'm sorry, but I cannot name her.'

'Was it Cathy Piriano?'

'My lips are sealed.'

'Was it Rosa DiAngelo, then?'

'Please, Father, I cannot tell you.'

The priest sighs in frustration.

'You're very tight lipped, and I admire that. But you've sinned and have to atone.
You cannot be an altar boy now for 4 months. Now you go and behave yourself.'

Joey walks back to his pew, and his friend Franco slides over and whispers, 'What'd you get?'

'Four months vacation and five good leads.'

Men at Forty

2009-08-27T03:43:00.000+02:00

I was led to this poem (and another one which I might post some time in the future) by a thoughtful essay by Exie Abola about turning 41. Maybe mid-life is slightly delayed for Jesuits because of their long course of formation, but I think the poem could just as validly have been entitled Men at Fifty. At any rate, the images of the poem--doors that will not be opened again, catching one's breath on a stair landing, seeing layers of time in the same face reflected in the mirror, the sound of crickets filling the twilight air, and unfinished projects like mortgaged houses--are arresting and perfect evocations of the experience. And the quiet that suffuses the poem, the tinge of melancholy but also the note of mild surprise and uncoerced acceptance of the way things just are, are on-target as well. I suspect there are not a few of us who might resonate with this poem.

Men at Forty
Donald Justice

Men at forty
Learn to close softly
The doors to rooms they will not be
Coming back to.

At rest on a stair landing,
They feel it moving
Beneath them now like the deck of a ship,
Though the swell is gentle.

And deep in mirrors
They rediscover
The face of the boy as he practises tying
His father's tie there in secret

And the face of the father,
Still warm with the mystery of lather.
They are more fathers than sons themselves now.
Something is filling them, something

That is like the twilight sound
Of the crickets, immense,
Filling the woods at the foot of the slope
Behind their mortgaged houses.

1967

"On the Death of the Beloved": A Blessing for Cory Aquino

2009-08-01T05:49:00.000+02:00

Thank you to Inge del Rosario for posting this beautiful prayer by the Irish poet John O'Dononue on Facebook. It expresses the prayers of so many of us for the late President Aquino.

On the Death of the Beloved

Though we need to weep your loss,
You dwell in that safe place in our hearts
Where no storm or night or pain can reach you.

Your love was like the dawn
Brightening over our lives,
Awakening beneath the dark
A further adventure of color.

The sound of your voice
Found for us
A new music
That brightened everything.

Whatever you enfolded in your gaze
Quickened in the joy of its being;
You placed smiles like flowers
On the altar of the heart.
Your mind always sparkled
With wonder at things.

Though your days here were brief,
Your spirit was alive, awake, complete.

We look toward each other no longer
From the old distance of our names;
Now you dwell inside the rhythm of breath
As close to us as we are to ourselves.

Though we cannot see you with outward eyes,
We know our soul's gaze is upon your face,
Smiling back at us from within everything
To which we bring our best refinement.

Let us not look for you only in memory,
Where we would grow lonely without you.
You would want us to find you in presence,
Beside us when beauty brightens,
When kindness glows
And music echoes eternal tones.

When orchids brighten the earth,
Darkest winter has turned to spring;
May this dark grief flower with hope
In every heart that loves you.

May you continue to inspire us:
To enter each day with a generous heart.
To serve the call of courage and love
Until we see your beautiful face again
In that land where there is no more separation,
Where all tears will be wiped from our mind,
And where we will never lose you again.

John O'Donohue

"The Final Word of Ignatius"

2009-07-30T13:54:00.000+02:00

The following is the concluding section of the homily preached by Fr. General Adolfo Nicolas, S.J., at the Eucharist celebrated on July 12, 2009, at the Ateneo de Manila High School Covered Courts, on the occasion of the 150th anniversary of the return of the Jesuits to the Philippines. The prayers and readings of the Eucharist were drawn from the Mass for the Feast of St. Ignatius. In a few simple and deeply personal sentences, Fr. General powerfully lays bare the heart of Ignatius' life and continued challenge to us, who dare to call him our patron and father. Happy feast to all!

"And the final word of Ignatius has always been: Give it all or go your way.

There is a poem of the Sufi mystic Rumi that says--and I paraphrase:
'This is the festival of love.
Give it all.
Or look for another festival.'

I am sure Ignatius could have made this poem his own if he had known it.

When I was elected General, I felt this was the last chance the Lord was giving me to finally 'Give it all.' I never contemplated the possibility. As the day approached and I began to see that things could get complicated, I was convinced I could easily decline and withdraw.

But when the hour came, I could not flee. Even now I am not sure I did the right thing accepting. But I felt deep down in my heart that this was the last call. You take it, or miss the flight of your life. It was time to give, time to love and serve, time to be grateful for everything received, time to give back, or rather, to let the Lord take back.

But this is not only relevant for the dramatic instant of being elected General. This is the call we all go through every time we approach the Lord with an open heart.

We might decide not to listen or to go on singing our own song. But the Lord is there giving, calling and waiting for us to say the final YES, the Ignatian YES, the YES that will finally make a difference.

One hundred fifty years is a good time to become aware of the fire that has kept the Province alive and creative and warm. But it also the time to realize that Lord is giving us another 150 years--on the condition that we say wholeheartedly the Ignatian YES and are willing to die as many times as our predecessors did . . . for the sake of the life of the Filipino people, of Asia, of the world.

Our imperfection, visible or invisible (although never invisible to our own selves) is our title of pride, as Paul would say. It is the best vehicle to share with people the ever life-giving goodness and mercy of God. We are not servants of a calculating and mean God, but of the life-giving God who can give life even to dead bones."

Adolfo Nicolas, S.J.
Superior General of the Society of Jesus
12 July 2009

Mourning Michael Jackson?

2009-06-29T04:46:00.000+02:00

These past two days, I have contributed my modest share to the unprecedented spike in sales of Michael Jackson music and to the dramatic increase in Internet activity connected to him. I have been watching old music videos. I haven’t seen—or even thought of--the Black and White video in over twenty-two years, but now I find myself watching it repeatedly during my free moments—as I have various reincarnations of Billie Jean, Beat It and Say, Say, Say. Beat It and We are the World have my been on my Ipod since I got my first Ipod five years ago, and David Cook’s version of Billie Jean since last year, but in the past couple of days, Man in the Mirror, Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough, She’s Out of My Life, and, of course, Black and White have joined their company.

Last night, I went to Mass and dinner with a group of Filipino priests and sisters. But at the bus stop, on the bus ride to the Collegio Filippino and on the return trip to the Curia after Eucharist, my Michael Jackson Ipod playlist was playing over and over again. It seemed a bit strange to be listening to Michael Jackson as Rome ancient and modern passed before my eyes.

"What am I doing?" I asked myself. I actually didn't know.

When I got back to the Curia later that evening, I had to squeeze into a tiny elevator with two tall and amply built American Jesuits who got off on the floor before mine. I had taken my earphones off to engage in the normal friendly chat. As they alighted and before the elevator doors closed, one of them said in parting, “You can go back to listening to Michael Jackson now.” I was a tad embarrassed. It felt somehow like being found out. A fifty-year-old priest listening to Beat It (which the sharp ears of my companion apparently detected from my dangling earphones) seemed a trifle unseemly, for some reason.

“I’ve been mourning,” I managed to quip back before the elevator doors closed.

Is that what this is: mourning? And if so: for whom?

Maybe “mourning” is too melodramatic a word. I’ve noticed a similar thing happen to me when Jesuits die. People you live with and take for granted as part of the landscape are suddenly gone, and all of a sudden, it’s like you see them for the first time, and realize how good and gifted these men were. So, in a similar way, the stark realization that the King of Pop is gone forever has launched me into a retrospective review of his work, and I find myself almost shocked into realizing some things that I’ve somehow always known, but, like everyone else, kind of forgot in the course of the bizarre, repugnant circus of his later life: that this is wonderful music, complex, rich, and utterly enjoyable; and he was a great and dazzlingly gifted musician and performer, original in an epoch-defining way.

And so, I suppose there is an element of mourning pervading all this: sadness that an artist who gave the world such delight should have been so deeply unhappy and ended up this way, a cautionary tale about our capacity for self-destruction. Sadness too about this perverse tendency in me, and perhaps in others, to appreciate things or people only when they are gone. As Michael Jackson sang (and I quote this from memory):

Now I know that love’s not possession,
And now I know that love can’t wait.
Now I know that love needs expression—
But I learned too late.
--She’s Out of My Life

But I think the point that really hits me is that I am revisiting songs that I never really listened to that closely when they were new. I don’t think I ever owned a single Michael Jackson record or cassette. And so the mysterious thing is: how do I know all these songs? I know the riffs, the lyrics, the vocal inflections, where the musical interludes should be. I am proud to say I never owned a record of Ben, and yet I am embarrassed to admit that I can sing the lyrics practically by heart. How did I end up memorizing the lyrics of She’s Out of My Life (which came out when I was a senior in college)—including my favorite phrase about “damned indecision and cursed pride”? How is it that Say, Say, Say, Beat It, Billie Jean, Rock with You, We are the World are all burned into some part of my internal hard drive, all filed in the folder “Old Favorites”? I can even sing the first part of You Are Not Alone, which came out, I think, in the early ‘90’s, by which time I had already stopped listening to popular music.

The only convincing explanation I can think of is that this was music that was so intertwined with my life world in the ‘70’s and ‘80’s. To put it more simply, Michael Jackson’s music was the soundtrack of those years. His music came at me from everywhere: from the FM radio we listened to at home or while driving to and from the Ateneo; from the MTV’s I watched on TV; from the parties and the programs that were part of my teens and twenties. It was like the air. It surrounded you, and you breathed it in, hardly aware you were doing so.

So his music was intertwined with my youth, and the pleasure his music brought underscored and enhanced the heedless, unnoticed joy of being young.

And so, if there is an element of mourning, I suppose there is a bit of mourning for one’s irretrievably lost youth. The day Michael Jackson died, I read somewhere, the ‘80’s died. He is gone; those years and all they represent are gone; the world and I have grown old.

But lest that sound too maudlin and self-indulgent, I hasten to add that that the tinge of sadness is just that: a tinge. Mostly what I have experienced in my return to MJ music is pleasure. And gratitude: for good music, for the technology that makes access to it so effortless, and for the way that music brings back a time that, I realize now (again: the theme of not being present to one's own life as it happens!), was unburdened with regret, filled with possibilities, and uncomplicatedly happy. That Michael Jackson lives on in his music, and that there was such a time in my life are more than enough to assuage the sadness.

Holy Thursday Reflection, 9 April 2009

2009-04-08T22:33:00.007+02:00

BLOOD COVENANT

"'Then he took the cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them saying, "Drink of it, all of you; for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins."' Have we done it so often that we have forgotten to be shocked by it?

When Jesus holds up the cup and offers what is in it as the fluid of forgiveness, he is not talking to people with a short list of minor sins. He is talking to people who will turn him in, who will scatter to the four winds at the first sign of trouble, and who will swear that they never knew him. He is talking to people who should have been his best friends on earth, who will turn out not to have a loyal bone in their bodies, and he is forgiving them ahead of time, as surely as if he had said, 'I know who you are. I know you will not be innocent of the blood in this cup, but I will not let that come between us. Look, here, I bless it. I make it my gift to you. Let it mean life to you, not death. Let my life become your life, through the blood of this covenant.'

The death cannot be overlooked, but it is the life that is being offered, the life that rushes out of that cup like a spring of living water. It is the new covenant and the last one--new because it is offered to us fresh each day and last because there is nothing more that God can say or do. This is as close as God can get: blood kin, indissoluble union, friend bound to friend for life, forever.

When we lift the cup to our lips and drink, we accept the gift, renewing the covenant and reminding ourselves that we do not live for ourselves alone. We are possessors of a double life, having taken our friend's life and nature into ourselves. Inside of us God rides our bloodstream straight to our hearts where the covenant is written: I shall be your God and you shall be my people."

--Barbara Brown Taylor

Holy Week Reflection, 8 April 2009

2009-04-07T15:33:00.000+02:00

JUDAS AND JESUS

"Whatever Judas's degree of guilt and whatever his motive, it is extremely important to note that Jesus identifies his betrayer by feeding him. Not by turning over the table and casting him out. Not by tying him to his chair so he cannot carry out his plan, but by feeding him--dipping a morsel into his own cup and giving it to Judas, whose feet he has just washed.

Knowing who Judas is and what he is about to do, Jesus does not throw him out. He bathes hm and feeds him, which means that Judas is never--never--excluded from the circle of friends. He is included until he excludes himself.

Jesus went on giving himself away to the one who would give him away, because his faithfulness did not depend on theirs. When he dipped the morsel in his cup and handed it to Judas, he not only revealed who Judas was, he also revealed who he was. The one who feeds his enemies--who goes on treating them as friends--loving them to the end."

--Barbara Brown Taylor

Holy Week Reflection, 7 April 2009

2009-04-06T14:56:00.004+02:00

EVEN PETER, EVEN US

"Peter said a number of important and good things but he also said some very foolish things. Here is what Peter said to Jesus after the Last Supper: 'Even if I must die with you, I will not deny you.'

Have you ever disgraced yourself like that? Of course you have; we all have. Think how many times you and I have said, 'I would never do what that other person is doing. I would never lie, steal, eavesdrop, hit and run, cheat on an exam, slap my child or drive drunk . . .,' whatever.

Now here is a question for us. How did this episode get saved by the Church? It could have easily been suppressed. Why wasn't it? Here's the reason. Peter himself wanted it to be there. Peter wanted the church to remember.

Until the cock crowed, Peter had never really looked into himself. He had never known what he was capable of. He had not seen his dark side clearly. He had believed his own words. Now he is unmasked, not only in the sight of the Lord, but in his own sight.

And so we come to Easter morning. "Go and tell his disciples and Peter that he is going before you to Galilee; there you will see him, as he told you." (Mark 16:2-7)

. . . and Peter! Have you ever heard anything more wonderful than that? All the disciples had failed Jesus, but Peter had failed him the most, because he had been the biggest braggart of them all. Yet it is Peter who received the message of the Resurrection specifically, by his own name. We can translate the Greek to read, 'even Peter!'

Sometimes people speak of what happened in terms of Peter's sin being forgiven. That's true, of course. But it isn't really strong enough."

--Fleming Rutledge

Holy Week Reflection, 6 April 2009

2009-04-06T00:38:00.000+02:00

THE PROPHET MARY (John 12:1-11)

"No one notices that Mary has gone until she comes back holding a slender clay jar in her hands. Without a word she kneels at Jesus' feet and breaks the neck of the jar, so that the smell of spikenard fills the room--a sharp scent somewhere between mint and ginseng.

When Mary stood before Jesus with that pound of pure nard, for a moment--just for a moment--it could have gone either way. She could have anointed his head and everyone there could have proclaimed him a king. But she did not do that. When she moved toward him, she dropped to her knees and poured the salve on his feet, which could mean only one thing. The only man who got his feet anointed was a dead man, and Jesus knew it. 'Leave her alone,' he said to those who would have prevented her. 'Leave her alone.'

So Mary proceeded to rub his feet with ointment so precious that its sale might have fed a poor family for a year, an act so lavish that it suggests another layer to her prophecy. There will be nothing prudent or economical about the death of this man, just as there has been nothing prudent or economical about his life. In him, the extravagance of God's love is made flesh. In him, the excessiveness of God's mercy is made manifest."

--Barbara Brown Taylor

Holy Week Reflection, 5 April 2009

2009-04-04T17:30:00.000+02:00

THE VOICE OF LOVE

"By noon he was panting on a cross, receiving the fury of those whose values he had offended. They worked things he had said to them into their insults, so that his own words came back at him like rocks. Even those who were crucified with him got in on the act. So they insulted him too, filling his ears with filth and hate while he strained--strained--to hear the voice of love that had sustained him all his life. If there were ever a day he needed to hear it--but there was no sound from heaven, no sound at all.

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" It was all he had left in him, and when it came out of him he died.

Why him, why this, why today? I wish I knew. All I know is that, because of it, none of us ever has to feel what he felt again. Because he was alone, and most forsaken by God, we have this companion who has been there and will be there with us. If we say, 'Where are you, God? I'm all alone here,' he said it first.

Jesus died talking to his Abba, who would not talk back to him. In his suffering, he is the comfort of those who have no comfort. In his abandonment, he is the God of those who have no God. Hearing no voice of love, he cried out, making a sound that--for many--became the voice of love."

--Barbara Brown Taylor

Lenten Reflection Series, 4 April 2009

2009-04-03T16:20:00.000+02:00

PRAYER FOR THE RIGHT SPIRIT OF CHRIST'S PRIESTHOOD

On this joyful day, please join me in praying this prayer for my Jesuit brothers--Reverends Javy Alpasa, Francis Alvarez, Jason Dy, Ody Dy, Frank Savadera, and Robbie Sian--who today, because of God's mercy and faithfulness, receive, for the sake of the Church, the precious gift of ordination to the priesthood.

"Grant us, above all, the grace of prayer, and make us love You, O Jesus. What are we without You? Lost. We can only have You if we make You, by love and prayer, again and again and more and more the focus of our heart.

If You want us to be Your priests, then grant us, O Lord, that gift without which we cannot truly be Your priests. Grant us the grace of prayer, of collection, of inwardness, stop us when we want to run away from You in our distraction and absent-mindedness; bring us crazy people back to You, if need be by the prick of pain, the bitterness of heart and of distress.

Give us just one more gift: the grace to pray truly and become daily more. When we pray, we are and remain in fellowship with You, then we shall increasingly become what we are and ought to be according to Your will: Your disciples, Your apostles, Your priests, the witnesses of Your truth and the dispenser of Your mysteries."

--Karl Rahner, SJ

Lenten Reflection Series, 3 April 2009

2009-04-02T16:24:00.000+02:00

PRAYER ON THE EVE OF ORDINATION

As you read this excerpt from a lovely prayer written by the great Karl Rahner, please join me in praying for my Jesuit brothers who will be ordained to the priesthood this Saturday, April 4, 2009: Reverends Javy Alpasa, Francis Alvarez, Jason Dy, Ody Dy, Frank Savadera, and Robbie Sian.

"The bishop will lay his hands on me. And then, still silent, he will take them from my head. But Your hand, O my God, will still remain upon me.

Your hands will remain upon me.

The hands of the Omnipotent, gentler than a mother's hands . . .

And finally the bishop will take my hands in his hands, and I shall promise the Church obedience and loyalty: exacting and unwavering obedience, selfless obedience, obedience in a which a man forgets his life in work that matters more than he does . . . Behold, I lay my hands in Your hands, my God. So take my hands and lead me: through joy and grief, through honor and disgrace, in labor and anguish, in my ordinary life and at great moments, in the holy stillness of Your house but also on the long, dusty roads of the world. Lead me today and always, lead me into the kingdom of Your eternal life. "

--Karl Rahner, SJ

Lenten Reflection Series, 2 April 2009

2009-04-01T18:33:00.000+02:00

RECONCILIATION

"Another trademark of the Holy Spirit is to give people a way back into relationship. Maybe this has happened to you. You are estranged from someone you really care about--because of something you said or did or something the other person said or did--it really does not matter which. The point is, you are tired of it, so you start plotting ways to get through. You draft letters, rehearse phone calls, only none of them sounds right. You are still hanging on to your hurt, or your anger, and it keeps leaking through.

Then one day for no apparent reason something inside of you says, 'Now.' You grab the phone, the persons says, 'Hello?' and the rest is history. Your heart opens and the right words come out. A reunion gets underway. You can call that anything you want. I call it an act of the Holy Spirit."

--Barbara Brown Taylor

Lenten Reflection Series, 1 April 2009

2009-03-31T15:50:00.000+02:00

DIRECTION

"Monks are always having processions. As a community, whenever we go from one place to another, we don't just do it helter-skelter; we go in procession. We process into church; we process out. We process to a meal. We process to our cells. We process to the cemetery. We process around the property. I am glad for all this marching about.. . . I am reminded again and again that I am not just vaguely moving through life. In my life I am inserted into the definitive procession of Christ. I am part of a huge story, a huge movement, a definitive exodus. I am going somewhere."

--Jeremy Driscoll, OSB

Lenten Reflection Series, 31 March 2009

2009-03-30T17:37:00.000+02:00

TRUST

"Angelo was a cheerful and naturally religious boy who was delighted when his normally reserved father hoisted him on his shoulders to get a glimpse of a church procession in a nearby town. He recalled this incident when, as Pope John XXIII, he was first carried into St. Peter's Basilica on his grand seda gestatoria, the portable papal throne. 'Once again I am being carried . . . . More than seventy years ago I was carried on the shoulders of my father at Ponte San Pietro. . . . The secret of life is to let oneself be carried by God and so carry Him to others."

--James Martin, SJ

Lenten Reflection Series, 30 March 2009

2009-03-30T03:26:00.000+02:00

EMBRACING THE WORLD

"Father in heaven,
the love of your Son led him to accept the suffering of the cross
that his brothers and sisters might glory in new life.

Change our selfishness into self-giving.
Help us to embrace the world you have given us,
that we may transform the darkness of its pain
into the life and joy of Easter.

Grant this through Christ our Lord"

--the Roman Missal,
Opening Prayer for the 5th Sunday of Lent

Lenten Reflection Series, 29 March 2009

2009-03-28T19:26:00.003+01:00

SACRAMENTS

"A sacrament is physical and within it is God's love; as a sandwich is physical, and nutritious and pleasurable, and within it is love, if someone makes it for you and gives it to you with love; even harried or tired or impatient love, but with love's direction and concern, love's again and again wavering and distorted focus on goodness; then God's love too is in the sandwich.

Making sandwiches while sitting in a wheelchair is not physically difficult. But it can be a spiritual trial; the chair always makes me remember my legs and how I lived with them. I am beginning my ninth year as a cripple. The memory of having legs that held me upright at this counter and the image of simply turning from the counter are the demons I must keep at bay. So I must try to know the spiritual essence of what I am doing.

On Tuesdays when I make lunches for my girls I focus on this: the sandwiches are sacraments. Not the miracle of transubstantiation, but moving in the same direction. Each motion is a sacrament, this holding of knives, of bread, this spreading of mustard, this trimming of ham. I drive on the highway to their school, and this is not simply a transition: it is my love moving by car; even if I do not feel or acknowledge it, this is a sacrament."

--Andre Dubus

Lenten Reflection Series, 28 March 2009

2009-03-27T15:12:00.000+01:00

BREAKING THE SILENCE

"If God is silent, it may be because we are not speaking God's language yet, but there is still time. God has taught us how to break the silence and has even given us the words. "Here I am." They are the words we long to hear, but they are also the words God longs for us to speak--to stand before a sister, a brother, and say, "Here I am."

Those of us who decide to try it should listen real hard when we are through, because there is likely to be an echo in the air--not silence anymore, but the very voice of God, saying, 'Yes. Hello. Welcome home. Here I am. Here I am.'"

--Barbara Brown Taylor

Lenten Reflection Series, 27 March 2009

2009-03-27T03:48:00.000+01:00

HOPE

"I am quite happy to be called an optimist, but my optimism is not of the utopian variety. It is based on hope. What is an optimist? I can answer for myself in a very simple fashion: He or she is a person who has the conviction that God knows, can do, and will do what is best for mankind."

--Pedro Arrupe, SJ

Lenten Reflection Series, 26 March 2009

2009-03-25T16:08:00.000+01:00

FORGIVENESS

"Forgiveness means that we dare to face what we have done. We dare to remember all of our lives, with the failures and defeats, with our cruelties and lack of love. We dare to remember all the times we have been mean and ungenerous, the ugliness of our deeds. We dare to remember not so as to feel awful, but so as to open our lives to creative transformation.

Forgiveness is God's creativity breaking in and transforming us. Forgiveness means that our sins can find their place in our path to God. No failure need be a dead end.

In the eighteenth century there was a famous Japanese artist called Hokusai. He painted a vase with a superb view of the holy mountain, Fuji Yama. Then one day someone dropped the vase! Slowly he glued the pieces back together. But to acknowledge what happened to this vase, its broken history,he lined each join with a thread of gold. The vase was more beautiful than ever before."

--Timothy Radcliffe, OP

Lenten Reflection Series, 25 March 2009

2009-03-24T18:06:00.002+01:00

SAYING YES

"There is much talk these days about all the choices we have, and about how it is up to each one of us to choose our own lives, but more often than not they seem to choose us. Our best laid ten-year plans are interrupted by life's own plans for us: by sudden illness and surprise babies, by aging parents and the economy. Terrible things happen and wonderful things happen, but seldom do we know ahead of time exactly what will happen to us. Like Mary, our choices often boil down to yes or no: yes, I will live this life that is being held out to me or no, I will not.

If you decide to say no, you simply drop your eyes until you know the angel has left the room. Then you smooth your hair and go back to your spinning or your reading or whatever is most familiar to you and you pretend that nothing has happened.

Or you can decide to say yes. You can decide to be a daredevil, a test pilot, a gambler. You can decide to take part in a plan you did not choose. It does not mean you are not afraid. It just means that you are not willing to let your fear keep you locked in your room."

--Barbara Brown Taylor

Lenten Reflection Series, 24 March 2009

2009-03-24T10:02:00.001+01:00

Thanksgiving

"All Paul's letters begin with a prayer of thanksgiving. Paul knows how to give thanks, and his words do not come from an empty formula but express what he feels. The earliest section of the New Testament is the First Letter to the Thessalonians. Therefore, probably the first words of the New Testament to be written were 'Grace to you and peace. We give thanks to God always for you all. '(1 Thessalonians 1: 1-2)

Paul has the capacity always to see the good first. Beginning every letter with thanks means that he knows how to value primarily the positive in whatever community he is writing to, even if there are some weighty, negative things that will need to be said."

--Carlo Maria Martini, SJ

Lenten Reflection Series, 23 March 2009

2009-03-23T03:56:00.000+01:00

PATIENCE

"Sometimes all we can do is to be in that dark place, and wait for Easter. Much of Christianity is a discipline in waiting, waiting in Advent for Christmas, waiting on Holy Saturday for Easter, waiting after Ascension for Pentecost.

God asks some people to wait long in the dark. We have discovered recently that Mother Teresa of Calcutta was plunged into aridity for decades. St. Teresa of Avila endured the dark night for much of her life, as did St. Therese of Lisieux. It seem to be dangerous to be called Teresa!

I must confess that I have never been fully plunged into the dark night of the soul, more like the occasional grey evening. Maybe God keeps it for his stronger friends."

--Timothy Radcliffe, OP

Lenten Reflection Series, 22 March 2009

2009-03-22T08:32:00.000+01:00

COMPASSION

"Simone de Beauvoir was astonished to learn that Simone Weil wept when she heard of a famine in China. De Beauvoir said, "I envied a heart able to beat across the world."

--Timothy Radcliffe, OP

Lenten Reflection Series, 21 March 2009

2009-03-21T05:47:00.000+01:00

CHOOSING

"A woman I know tells this story: She married a man she loved but was immature. One night she went to a party with her husband, drank too much, and left the party with another man. Her husband demanded neither explanation nor apology. He simply said to her: "I'm going away for a few days so that you can be alone because you need to decide who you are: Are you a married woman or are you something else?" Now, years later, she is inside a solid marriage and infinitely more aware that the pearl of great price comes precisely at a price.

Every choice is a series of renunciations: If I marry one person, I cannot marry anyone else; if I choose a certain career, that excludes many other careers; if I have this, then I cannot have that. To choose one thing is to renounce others. That's the nature of choice.

For what are you willing to renounce other things? What is our own pearl of great price? Are we willing to give up everything in exchange for it? Are we willing to live with its limits?"

--Ron Rolheiser, OMI

Lenten Reflection Series, 20 March 2009

2009-03-20T05:18:00.000+01:00

FAITHFULNESS

"The greatest gift that we have to give is the promise of fidelity, the promise that we will keep trying, that we won't walk away simply because we got hurt or because we felt unwanted or not properly valued.

We are all weak, wounded, sinful, and easily hurt. Inside of our marriages, families, churches, friendships, and places of work, we cannot promise that we won't disappoint each other and, worse still, that we won't hurt each other. But we can promise that we won't walk away because of disappointment and hurt. That's all we can promise - and that's enough!"

--Ron Rolheiser, OMI

Lenten Reflection Series, 19 March 2009

2009-03-19T06:39:00.000+01:00

LISTENING

"Now to hear what God is saying to us, we need to stop completely the mental noise. And this is easier than we think; all that I have to do is realize that talking to myself makes two of me, me and myself, and this can't be true, so I can let this me-with-me collapse into just me, and that's where God is and has been all along. . . It's a bit of a shock at first, but take a few deep breaths, and say, 'OK, I'm here, God. Your move.'"

--Sebastian Moore, OSB

Lenten Reflection Series, 18 March 2009

2009-03-18T16:51:00.000+01:00

Although it is already the third week of Lent, I thought it might not be too late to start a little series that might be of some interest. Every day (or so--depending on my free time), I hope to share a brief excerpt, for reflection and prayer--things that struck me, and that might be helpful to others too.

"If we go to confession, it is not to plead for forgiveness from God. It is to thank him for it. . . When God forgives our sins, he is not changing his mind about us. He is changing our minds about him. He does not change; he is never anything but loving; he is love."

--Herbert McCabe, OP

For Your Birthday: a Poem

2009-03-15T12:25:00.002+01:00

As I turn 50, I want to share a truly lovely poem sent to me as a birthday present by a good friend, Ellen Dionisio, who also celebrates her birthday on the 15th of March. The poem had earlier been sent to her by our common friend, Gina Magadia-Martinez.

The poet, John O'Donahue, is Irish. He died last year.

For Your Birthday

Blessed be the mind that dreamed that day
The blueprint of your life
Would begin to glow on earth,
Illuminating all the faces and voices
That would arrive to invite
Your soul to growth.

Praised be your father and mother,
Who loved you before you were,
And trusted to call you here
With no idea who you would be.

Blessed be those who have loved you
Into becoming who you were meant to be.
Blessed be those who have crossed your life
With dark gifts of hurt and loss
That have helped to school your mind
In the art of disappointment.

When desolation surrounded you,
Blessed be those who looked for you
And found you, their kind hands
Urgent to open a blue window
In the gray wall formed around you.

Blessed be the gifts you never notice,
Your health, eyes to behold the world,
Thoughts to countenance the unknown
Memory to harvest vanished days,
Your heart to feel the world's waves,
Your breath to breathe the nourishment
Of distance made intimate by earth.

On this echoing day of your birth,
May you open the gift of solitude
In order to receive your soul;
Enter the generosity of silence
To hear your hidden heart;
Know the serenity of stillness
To be enfolded anew
By the miracle of your being.

--John O'Donahue

I have been re-reading this poem over and over again since I got it yesterday afternoon. It captures so much of what I feel, and says it so so much more strikingly and beautifully than I ever could. It invites me to prayer and thanksgiving for so much.

So, following O'Donahue, I wish to give thanks. Thank you to my parents who "called me here before they knew who I would be." Thank you to the many who loved me and the much fewer who hurt me, all of whom helped me to grow. Thanks to those, kind and good, who found me in desolation and "opened a blue window in the gray wall" of life. Thank you for gifts, many and varied, that I never notice. Thank you, above all, to the One "who dreamed that day the blueprint of my life would begin to glow on earth."

And I pray that, more and more, I may "open the gift of solitude in order to receive my soul."

In Memoriam: Miguel Anselmo Bernad (1918-2009)

2009-03-15T05:40:00.002+01:00

I woke up this morning to the sad news of yet another senior Jesuit of legendary stature passing away. Fr. Miguel Bernad died today in Cagayan de Oro at the age of 91.

I had the privilege of living with Fr. Mike when I was regent in Xavier University, from 1983 to 85. I know he had his flaws, as we all do; but he was always kind to me, and always, very thoughtfully, sent me his annual Christmas card and new issues of Kinaadman, the journal he had founded at Xavier U.

In his honor, I share this speech I gave in December 2007, at Xavier University, on the occasion of the conferment on Fr. Bernad of an honorary doctorate.

I hope you will not mind if I speak somewhat personally. I am proud to say that I was a student of Fr. Bernad. Twenty five years ago, when I was a Jesuit junior, I asked for and was granted permission to enroll in a Shakespeare course Fr. Bernad was teaching at the Ateneo de Manila. This was the first time I got to know Fr. Bernad “up close and personal,” as they say. He was a marvelous teacher, leading us to depth of insight, and helping us appreciate the greatness of Shakespeare’s poetry by his own dramatic readings of excerpts from the plays. Dr. Edna Manlapaz used to ask me, "How was last night's performance?"--referring to those famous dramatic readings of Fr. Bernad! I also came to realize that Fr. Bernad is a man of excellent judgment, because, at the end of the semester, he gave me an “A”!

From that time on, Fr. Bernad has continued to influence me. Let me just mention three points of influence. First, as a scholastic, I tried to read any book of Fr. Bernad that I came across, first of all because of the beauty of his writing. Whether reading The Lights of Broadway and other Essays, orTradition and Discontinuity, I found myself in constant admiration of what I can best describe as Fr. Bernad’s “chaste prose”. This was writing that was deceptively simple, even spare, without a single superfluous word, but utterly clear and always elegant, graceful, persuasive.

Second, in 1988, during my first year as a priest and on my first assignment as assistant parish priest in Ipil, Zamboanga del Sur, I read Fr. Bernad’s slim volume entited Rizal and Spain. That book’s discussion of Rizal’s life and activities in Dapitan during his time of exile there helped “save my life” that first difficult year of priesthood. I was a Manila boy, and had never been assigned to as rural, as lonely and culturally unfamiliar a place as Ipil. Reading Fr. Bernad’s descriptions of how Rizal redeemed his time of exile in Dapitan with many and varied projects in the service of the people of Mindanao inspired and challenged me to overcome my self-absorption and to aspire to imitate the spirit, if not the achievement, of Rizal.

Finally, in 2001, when I was Rector of San Jose Seminary as the seminary was preparing to celebrate its 400th year of existence, I invited Fr. Bernad to give a lecture on the history of San Jose. His lecture was a model of impeccable historical research. But in the space of an hour or so, Fr. Bernad also captured the color and drama of 400 years. He opened our imaginations, expanded our vision, helped us glimpse past identity and future possibility. For many of us, Fr. Bernad’s lecture was the highlight of our quadricentennial celebration.

I have taxed your patience with my personal testimony of Fr. Bernad’s influence in my life as a way of making more concrete my sense of the fittingness of this historic honor being bestowed on him. When Fr. Samson first broached the idea at the Board meeting of the Ateneo de Davao, and when his initial idea was enthusiastically received and amplified by the Presidents of the Ateneo de Zamboanga and Xavier University, I also gave my full support. At that time, it seemed to me a most appropriate way of honoring an eminent Jesuit scholar.

But now I see a deeper meaning. In honoring Fr. Bernad today, Ateneo de Davao, Xavier University and Ateneo de Zamboanga are also bringing before us a living symbol of the kind of scholarship that the three Mindanao Ateneo’s hope to develop: scholarship that is characterized by eloquent and persuasive communication; rigorous research and study; yet also capable of expanding our imaginations, opening up possibilities, especially in the service of Mindanao. As my experience has shown, these are all qualities of Fr. Bernad’s work. He is an icon, an embodiment of the educational aspirations of the three Jesuit universities in Mindanao.

Let me conclude by adding that I see Fr. Bernad as a living symbol, not just of scholarship, but also of the Ignatian ideals that the three Mindanao universities hope to promote. All of us know Fr. Bernad continues to do research, lecture and write, even though for the past twenty years, his eyesight has been seriously impaired and he has suffered various physical infirmities. Yet, I have never heard him complain about his difficulties; I have never heard him call attention to his failing eyesight or his diminished strength. Instead, I have seen him accepting suffering, aging, and physical diminishment with dignity and quiet grace; and instead of complaining or railing against fate, he has continued to do the service he can do within the limitations of life. This, to me, is Ignatian indifference and Ignatian magis "in action."

And so today, Fr. Bernad, in the name of the whole Province, I offer congratulations and thanks. I share the sentiments of gratitude and respect of the Presidents and communities of the three Mindanao Ateneo’s. May you continue to be an inspiring model of scholarship and life for the men and women of Xavier University, Ateneo de Zamboanga, and Ateneo de Davao, who are honored by your acceptance of this distinction they bestow on you today.

Remembering Tom Green (March 19, 1932-March 13, 2009)

2009-03-13T14:18:00.000+01:00

When I woke up this morning, I was shocked to discover—from Facebook updates, of all things—that Fr. Tom Green had passed away. I had known, of course, that he was sick; but the suddenness of his passing away still came as a sad surprise.

Soon after I had texted my condolences, the present Rector of San Jose Seminary, Vic de Jesus, kindly called me up long distance to inform me of the details of Tom’s passing: how Tom had come home from the hospital last night; how one of the seminarians had peeked into his room this morning and found him sitting in his chair, with his pipe on his chest. He went very quickly, which is a real mercy.

I first met Tom Green thirty years ago. In my senior year at the Ateneo, school year 1979-80, I was in Fr. Green’s philosophy of language class. It was a wonderful course, and thirty years later, the fact that I can still remember so much--of the logical positivists, of Wittgenstein, that language is inescapably metaphorical, that some concepts are essentially contested—is surely testimony to the outstanding clarity and excellence of Fr. Green’s teaching.

My second encounter with Fr. Green was through his books. Opening to God, which I read twice--once as a college student, and more seriously, as a novice in the Society—was a deeply influential book in my life. I don’t think it is an exaggeration to say that it taught me how to pray. I read all his other books too, but my personal favorite, the book which I think is his best and wisest, is When the Wells Run Dry.

Two key insights from that book have remained with me through the decades. The first insight: that darkness happens, not just in prayer, but in life, to move us, in his words, from “loving to truly loving.” I still recall, more or less accurately, a sentence from the book, in which he reflects on a married couple’s promise to love each other “for better or worse”: “The better, the good times are there to teach us the joy of loving; the worse happens to teach us to love truly.”

The second insight: at the end of the book, Fr. Green uses the image of floating (as contrasted with swimming) as a metaphor for the mature life of faith. You give up control over your life (“swimming”); you remain active (otherwise you would sink), but you allow yourself to be led; you let go and entrust yourself to the unpredictable flow of the sea of love that surrounds you, and you let it take you where it wills.

My third and most lasting encounter with Tom Green happened in the eight years, from 1996 to 2004, when we lived together in the same community and worked on the same formation team in San Jose Seminary. At that time, we were also co-faculty members of Loyola School of Theology. From 2000 to 2004, the years I served as Rector of San Jose, Fr. Green was my vice-Rector. He had the room right above mine in those years.

For eight years, we shared meals and attended many staff meetings together. With the rest of the Jesuit team, we processed hundreds of applications to the Seminary; sat through hours of semestral and yearly evaluations of seminarians; discussed and occasionally argued over Seminary policies. Almost every Monday evening, for eight years, we had common prayer together in the BVM chapel on the third floor of San Jose, and after prayer, shared a special meal in the Jesuit community recreation room.

When you live that long with another Jesuit, you get to know him quite well. I got to know about Tom Green’s legendary regularity of life. He followed the same schedule or cycles almost every day, every week, every year. If it was 130 PM, he could invariably be found in his rocking chair on the fifth floor reading the papers. If it was the third (I forget which, actually) Sunday of the month, he would have Mass in Balara or for the L’Arche community. If it was summer vacation, then he would be giving a retreat somewhere in the United States. And woe to you, if you moved that rocking chair, as one unwitting minister did!

I remember pleasant and witty Jesuit banter from those rec-room meals involving Tom Green. Once, Roque Ferriols was talking about Jesuit Bishop Honesto “Onie” Pacana, but kept on referring to him as “Honey Pacana.” The rest of us—Art Borja was there, I remember-- corrected Fr. Roque and told him that the bishop’s nickname was pronounced “Onie” not “Honey.” When Roque said that he had always thought the bishop’s nickname was “Honey,” Tom Green quipped in a deadpan way: “Oh, I thought you were just close.” That brought the house down.

Tom was not perfect, I discovered. (His devoted lay friends, “the Golden Girls,” who took such good care of him, also knew that.) He tended to want things his way. He got cross and cranky when things did not go the way he wanted them to. He could express his opinions a bit too dogmatically. He did not admit his mistakes easily.

And yet, I appreciated his presence in the community and on the Seminary formation team. He was a very generous (he had so many directees!) and wise spiritual director. He was a man of very good and balanced judgment where persons were concerned, and I always valued his perceptions of applicants or seminarians. When I consulted him as Vice-Rector on issues of the Seminary, I usually received very sensible counsel.

By the time I got to San Jose, Tom was a grandfather figure to the seminarians, and his cheerful and easy manner of dealing with them, and the personal witness he gave of a man who had grown old--and happily so--in the priesthood was something, I think, of inestimable value for San Jose. Having been part of San Jose for over three decades, he had become for generations of Josefinos, an icon, a living link between the past and the present, a symbol of their happy years in the Seminary. With Tom’s passing away, an era in the history of San Jose comes to an end, a presence that cannot be replaced has been lost forever.

I am happy that Tom went quickly. He would not have been a good patient. I cannot imagine him in the infirmary: he would have hated giving up control and having his customary routines disrupted. He would have been miserable and made others miserable.

In all my years as Rector and as Provincial, Tom always told me that he hoped he could die in San Jose. He got his wish. I am glad for him. Now, I trust that he is in the presence of the One whom he wrote about, spoke about and served so faithfully and generously for so many years. Now, I trust the darkness has become light for him, and, with a joy no words can describe, he can let go and, at last, float.

"The supreme priority of the Church is love": The Pope's new letter

2009-03-12T12:14:00.000+01:00

Today, the Holy Father released an amazing, moving letter that strikes me as historic in its content and tone. “Never before in his Pontificate has Benedict XVI expressed himself in such a personal manner and with such intensity on a controversial subject,” comments Jesuit Fr. Federico Lombardi, head of the Vatican Press Office.

The letter, addressed by the pope to his “brother bishops,” is his personal reflection on the recent painful controversy brought on by his lifting of the excommunications of four Lefebvrite bishops, one of whom turned out to be a notorious denier of the historical reality of the Holocaust.

The letter is moving precisely because it is personal and humble. It is clearly written by an intellectual, and is characterized by the depth and nuance, the elegance and delicacy that are the hallmarks of Joseph Ratzinger’s writing. But this is also clearly a letter written from the heart, addressed to the heart. One senses that the Pope is seeking to respond to the hurt and bewilderment caused by his act, and hoping to contribute a measure of healing.

Without defensiveness or arrogance, the Pope tries to explain why he chose to lift the excommunications as an act of mercy. More importantly, he expresses real regret that the manner in which this was carried out created unnecessary confusion and pain. What he had intended to be a modest gesture of reconciliation was interpreted instead as a retrograde stepping away from all the recent efforts of the Church at Jewish-Christian reconciliation and a repudiation of Vatican II.

What is touching about the letter is the willingness of the Holy Father to show himself so vulnerable and human. His suffering at how he was misinterpreted is on clear display, as is his surprise at the controversy he unleashed. He admits mistakes and expresses a willingness to learn. To paraphrase him, the Pope says: we should have done our homework better; we should have paid more careful attention to the information available on the Internet; we should have made the announcement more carefully, explaining what it meant and what it did not mean.

As Father Lombardi points out, the Pope does not blame any of his collaborators in the Roman Curia, although he easily and justifiably could have done so. "With great nobility," Fr. Lombardi observes, "he doesn't make others shoulder the responsibility."

For me, the most significant part of the letter comes when Benedict addresses the anguished question raised by many bishops (most notably by the Cardinal Archbishop of Vienna): even if the act of lifting the excommunications was defensible, was it necessary? At a time when the Church faces so many challenges, aren’t there more important problems to address, more urgent priority tasks?

What IS the priority of the Church today? I was deeply struck by the simplicity and the accuracy of Benedict’s articulation:

“In our days, when in vast areas of the world the faith is in danger of dying out like a flame which no longer has fuel, the overriding priority is to make God present in this world and to show men and women the way to God. Not just any god, but the God who spoke on Sinai; to that God whose face we recognize in a love which presses “to the end” (cf. Jn 13:1) – in Jesus Christ, crucified and risen. The real problem at this moment of our history is that God is disappearing from the human horizon, and, with the dimming of the light which comes from God, humanity is losing its bearings, with increasingly evident destructive effects.”

It is within the struggle for faith, hope and love in an unbelieving world, Benedict explains, that his act finds meaning: “Leading men and women to God, to the God who speaks in the Bible: this is the supreme and fundamental priority of the Church and of the Successor of Peter at the present time. A logical consequence of this is that we must have at heart the unity of all believers. Their disunity, their disagreement among themselves, calls into question the credibility of their talk of God.”

The world cannot believe when believers are divided. Their divisions call faith into question. So the building up of unity, the healing of polarizations, the prevention of extremism, the promotion of ecumenism and inter-religious dialogue are all concrete steps which contribute, however modestly, towards responding to the greatest challenge of our time: “If the arduous task of working for faith, hope and love in the world is presently (and, in various ways, always) the Church’s real priority, then part of this is also made up of acts of reconciliation, small and not so small.”

I find that there is much in the letter to reflect on, beyond the immediate issue that gave rise to it. How do we overcome the “biting and devouring” that, quoting St. Paul to the Galatians, Benedict sadly observes continues in the Church today? How do we, in his words, “always learn anew the supreme priority, which is love?” These are searching questions worthy of serious consideration, particularly during this Lenten season.

The Holy Father reflects on Social Networking

2009-02-03T18:47:00.000+01:00

Last January 24, the Holy Father published an important message on the new means of digital communication. It makes for interesting and thought-provoking reading, and deserves, I think, serious consideration by all of us involved in social networking.

The tone of the letter is very positive, appreciative of the "extraordinary potential" that these new technologies make possible. Pope Benedict's words resonate with the experience of many of us, young or old: "Young people, in particular, have grasped the enormous capacity of the new media to foster connectedness, communication and understanding between individuals and communities, and they are turning to them as means of communicating with existing friends, of meeting new friends, of forming communities and networks, of seeking information and news, and of sharing their ideas and opinions. "

In this appreciative context, the Holy Father then highlights three important calls for Christians engaged in these new technologies: first, the promotion of respect for the human person; second, the promotion of dialogue with a certain depth rather than merely superficial contact; and third, the promotion of authentic friendship and of networks of solidarity concerned with global issues such as "peace and justice, human rights and respect for human life and the good of creation."

For Facebook and Multiply users, some of the Pontiff's reflections on "friendship" seem to me to be quite "on-target": "The concept of friendship has enjoyed a renewed prominence in the vocabulary of the new digital social networks that have emerged in the last few years. The concept is one of the noblest achievements of human culture. . . . We should be careful, therefore, never to trivialize the concept or the experience of friendship. It would be sad if our desire to sustain and develop on-line friendships were to be at the cost of our availability to engage with our families, our neighbours and those we meet in the daily reality of our places of work, education and recreation."

The letter ends with a striking invitation to mission, addressed especially to young people: "It falls, in particular, to young people, who have an almost spontaneous affinity for the new means of communication, to take on the responsibility for the evangelization of this "digital continent". Be sure to announce the Gospel to your contemporaries with enthusiasm. You know their fears and their hopes, their aspirations and their disappointments: the greatest gift you can give to them is to share with them the "Good News" of a God who became man, who suffered, died and rose again to save all people. Human hearts are yearning for a world where love endures, where gifts are shared, where unity is built, where freedom finds meaning in truth, and where identity is found in respectful communion. Our faith can respond to these expectations: may you become its heralds!"

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

2008-12-09T16:01:00.001+01:00

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

2008-12-06T14:17:00.000+01:00

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

2008-12-02T17:34:00.000+01:00

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

2008-11-27T07:41:00.000+01:00

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

2008-11-26T07:35:00.000+01:00

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

2008-11-14T04:51:00.000+01:00

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

2008-11-11T11:50:00.000+01:00

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)

2008-11-06T17:56:00.000+01:00

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.

A Prayer Of Saint Patrick - Cambridge Singers

Giving Christ

2008-10-23T03:19:00.000+02:00

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

2008-10-20T22:35:00.000+02:00

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

2008-10-20T12:08:00.000+02:00

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

2008-10-19T22:57:00.000+02:00

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

Paskong Walang Hanggan - The San Miguel Philharmonic Orchestra And The San Miguel Master Chorale

Grateful (John Bucchino)

2008-10-14T23:31:00.000+02:00

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

Grateful - Brian Stokes Mitchell

A Church that Listens

2008-10-09T00:39:00.000+02:00

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

2008-09-04T18:44:00.000+02:00

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."

The Most Important Thing the Church Has to Say to the World

2008-08-23T17:28:00.000+02:00

This morning, reading the August 22 issue of Catholic San Francisco, the archdiocesan newspaper here, I was very struck by Fr. Ron Rolheiser's column entitled "Prophecy--Challenge and Comfort." Fr. Rolheiser is one of the best and most justly popular spiritual writers today. His column, which I shall attempt to summarize here, caught my attention, because he articulates simply and clearly what I find is my own conviction.

Fr. Rolheiser writes that, recently, he attended a conference in which participants were asked to discuss an important and intriguing question: "What is the most important thing the Church needs to be saying to the world today?"

Different groups stressed different "aspects of the Gospel." Conservatives tended to stress sound doctrine, family, marriage; liberals tended to focus on justice and peace.

Upon reflection, Fr. Rolheiser believes that, although truth and justice are important messages, there may be something more basic the world needs to hear from the Church. "One of the major tasks of the churches is to console the world, to comfort its people."

He recalls a conversation he had as a freshly ordained priest with an elderly, exemplary priest. When he asked this older priest (who had been in the ministry for more than 50 years) whether the older man would change anything about the way he had practiced his priestly ministry were he to be given his life to live over, Fr. Rolheiser received a surprising answer.

Rolheiser expected that the priest would not change anything really, since he has been such a faithful and holy priest. Instead the old man said: "If I had my priesthood to live over again, I would be gentler with people. I would console more and challenge more carefully. . . . I regret that sometimes I was too hard on people! I meant it well, I was sincere, but I think that I ended up laying added burdens on people when they were already carrying enough pain. If I were just beginning as a priest, I would be gentler. I would spend my energies more trying to life pain from people. People are in a lot of pain. They need us, first of all, to help them with that!"

I like the way Fr. Rolheiser, years later, approves the wisdom he heard as a young priest: "He's right. What the world needs first of all from us, the churches, is comfort, help in lifting and understanding its complexity, its wounds, its anxieties, its raging restlessness, its temptations, and its infidelities and its sin. Like the prodigal son, the world needs first of all to be surprised by unconditional love. Sometime later, and there will be time for that, it will want hard challenge."

Fr. Rolheiser ends by wisely pointing out that the consolation the churches offer cannot be based simply on human empathy or wisdom. Rather, it must come from the churches' experience of God's all-compassionate heart. This is the only true and enduring comfort the Church can give the world: when, as Fr. Rolheiser eloquently puts it, "we show it [the world] that God feels for it more than it feels for itself, . . . that God always opens another door when we close one, that God is not put off by all the times when we are too weak to do what is best, that God understands our complexity, our weaknesses, our anger, our lusts, our jealousies, and our despair."

The Churches must tell the world that "God descends into all the hells we create, stands inside our muddled, wounded and guilty hearts and breathes peace."

I think Fr. Rolheiser's question and his answer deserve reflection and discussion among my brother Jesuits and other pastoral ministers in the Philippine Church today.

Redemption and Conversion: Remembering Ninoy

2008-08-20T15:33:00.000+02:00

An insightful, inspiring homily by Fr. Provincial Jose Magadia, S.J., on the 25th anniversary of the assassination of Ninoy Aquino. I woke up this morning to a sad text message from Fr. Tony Moreno, President of Ateneo de Zamboanga, about grenade blasts and fear in Zamboanga City. Two nights ago, I was awakened by a text from a young priest from Lanao, about brutal killings and the hostage-taking of the priest in his hometown. During these sad times for our country, perhaps these thoughtful words can help renew our hope, courage, and commitment.

Homily for the 25^th Anniversary of the Death of Senator Benigno Aquino, Jr.

Church of the Gesù, Ateneo de Manila University, 17 August 2008

When I was telling a group of friends about this Mass for the 25^th anniversary of the death of Ninoy Aquino, the common reaction was disbelief: “Twenty-five years? Already?”

Even more striking was the conversation that followed. One said, I was driving my car when I heard the news and I felt so heavy and distressed and sad, and there was this strange emptiness inside. Another said, I was just coming out of class, when word spread on the crowded corridors of our school, and many were stunned and confused and outraged. A third one said, I was at home, and a friend called me, and as I heard the news, the tears started coming for reasons I could not understand.

One after another, my friends and I recalled, how each one remembered that day so vividly, where we were, what we were doing, the thoughts and the feelings that hit us when the news broke out, what we did after, how we all found time to fall in line with the millions of Filipinos from all walks of life who paid their respects at Santo Domingo Church, how some of us joined that unforgettable twelve-hour funeral march from Santo Domingo, down España, crossing Quiapo and Luneta, and all the way to Parañaque, singing and praying, as millions more lined the streets in solidarity, chanting “Ninoy, Ninoy!”, dressed in the signature yellow.

I remember feeling so proud of being Filipino and so proud of Ninoy Aquino, and so emboldened by his death, to continue the fight, and to take part in the next three years of nonviolent struggle, and to join the Filipino people in assuring each other with Ninoy’s immortal words, “Hindi ka nag-iisa.” Yes, those were graced days of unimaginable courage, and I consider myself so blessed to have been part of that.

As I look back, I ask myself, how did Ninoy Aquino do it? How did he leave such a mark on many of us? Was it the disbelief and shock that blood was spilled? Was it the incredible audacity of a man who knew he was risking death, and yet went on with such determination? Was it the sacrifice that was so strikingly and powerfully communicated? Was it the dignity that came with courage recovered?

I suggest that there were two fundamental experiences that marked those days--REDEMPTION and CONVERSION.

First, Redemption. In the Old Testament, the idea of redemption boiled down to something quite simple. It had to do with the payment of a price, in order to release the enslaved or imprisoned or oppressed. It had to do with ransom, in order to liberate and grant freedom to one who is held captive. It had to do with setting free from a power that controls, that burdens, that possesses and imposes and dominates, that makes people unable to take their lives into their own hands, and determine their own futures with dignity. The sacrifice of Ninoy Aquino left such a mark on us because it redeemed us who witnessed the boldness and bravery of someone who was willing to give up his life for those he loves.

The Filipino is worth dying for, Ninoy said, and that anchored our actions in those days. It gave us a share in his vision, his daring, his tenacity. It gave us a spirit that was so fresh and infectious. It made us creative, thinking out of the box, in our ways of fighting the injustices of those days, to the point of being playful and even enjoying ourselves. It gave us a staying power that didn’t give in to petty discouragements, through three long years of seeming impasse. It gave us energy and faith to just hang on, no matter what and no matter how long. Ninoy’s death was our ransom, our redemption.

We were saved, because through his sacrifice, we felt a new strength. We were won over by the power of good and righteousness that Isaiah speaks of in today’s First Reading. Observe what is right, says the Lord, and do what is just, for my salvation is about to come. And Ninoy’s sense of what is right and just gave us a new vitality.

Second, Conversion. In that most touching 1973 letter Ninoy wrote to Senator Soc Rodrigo, he recounts his experience of solitary confinement. He was already in prison, when on March 12, 1973, he and the late Senator Pepe Diokno were ordered to get dressed, and thereafter, the two were blindfolded, handcuffed, and flown by helicopter to an unknown destination.

In that letter, Ninoy writes: “When my blindfold was finally removed, I found myself inside a newly painted room, roughly four by five meters, with barred windows, the outside of which was boarded with plywood panels. There was a six-inch gap between the panels and the window frame to allow slight ventilation. There was a bright daylight neon tube that glowed day and night. There were no electric switches in the room, and the door had no knobs, only locks on the outside. The room was completely bare except for a steel bed without mattress. No chairs, tables, nothing.

“I was stripped naked. My wedding ring, watch, eyeglasses, shoes, clothes were all taken away. Later, a guard who was in civilian clothes brought in a bedpan and told me that I would be allowed to go to the bathroom once a day in the morning, to shower, brush my teeth and wash my clothes [two shirts and underwear]…. the intention was to make us really feel helpless and dependent for everything on the guards.”

In those days of solitary confinement, Ninoy reached a point of desperation and desolation, as he questioned the justice of God. He told Soc Rodrigo, “I remembered your famous words: Hindi natutulog ang Diyos…but I felt, at that moment, he was having a very good sound siesta and I was afraid when he finally woke up, I would have been gone! … Would God allow me to die without seeing my family? What terrible crimes have I committed to deserve this fate? The magnanakaws are living it up and I who tried to walk the narrow path of public service with integrity am now about to meet uncertain fate? Is this justice?

And then, something happened. “Suddenly,” Ninoy relates, “Jesus became a live human being.” And he awakened to the truth that in Jesus was “a God-Man who preached nothing but love and was rewarded with death…. who had power over all creation but took the mockery of a crown of thorns with humility and patience. And for all his noble intentions, he was shamed, vilified, slandered, and betrayed.”

“Then as if I heard a voice tell me: Why do you cry? I have gifted you with consolations, honors and glory which have been denied to the millions of your countrymen. I made you the youngest war correspondent, presidential assistant, mayor, vice governor, governor, and Senator of the Republic, and I recall you never thanked me for all these gifts. I have given you a full life, a great wife and beautiful lovable children. Now that I visit you with a slight desolation, you cry and whimper like a spoiled brat!

“With this realization, I went down on my knees and begged His forgiveness. I know I was merely undergoing a test, maybe in preparation for another mission. I know everything that happens in this world is with his knowledge and consent. I knew He would not burden me with a load I could not carry. I therefore resigned myself to His will.”

This, my friends, is conversion. And it is this conversion that we were invited to in those three years of struggle against the dictatorship--a conversion that meant working and giving it our best, but in the end, knowing that we could only depend on God. It was a conversion that meant accepting our limitations, and allowing the Lord to move in and fill in the blanks, and bring all the loose ends together into some unity. It meant surrendering everything, and then allowing ourselves to be surprised by the Lord’s ways, as he would later show so wonderfully at EDSA in 1986.

For Ninoy, and for those who saw his conversion, it also meant embracing the ways of active non-violence, which called for courage and daring. It sought reconciliation, and not the defeat of an adversary. It was directed at eliminating an evil, not destroying an evil-doer. It entailed a willingness to accept suffering for the cause, should it be called for, but never to inflict it. It rejected hatred, animosity or violence of the spirit, in addition to renouncing all forms of physical violence. It demanded a fundamental faith that in the end, justice would prevail. And that is why, the conversion to non-violence also means an openness to even the inclusion of the dogs who depend on the crumbs that fall from the master’s tables, an openness to receiving the aggressor who turns away from his old ways, an openness to reconciliation and forgiveness, after repentance.

As I look at the Philippines today, I feel sad. I am sad about the brazen corruption of many who are supposed to serve in public office.

I am sad about how we Filipinos have become so tolerant of injustice and oppression, and how we do not challenge ourselves enough, and easily let ourselves off the hook. I am sad about how many have given up integrity to claim their share of the booty that the powerful dangle before them.

I am sad that so many of our people have to leave their homes and their families, in search of employment overseas, because the country could not offer them opportunity.

I am sad about the acts of violence all around, from the violence of the criminal, to the violence in Mindanao, to the violence of poverty and hunger and inequality and miseducation. This morning we received news from the Assumption sisters, asking for prayers because of the war that has just begun again inLanao del Norte.

I feel sad about the greed of those who abuse power, and selfishly cling to it at any cost. And through all this, it is so easy to be discouraged. But if we were to give in to this discouragement, then this commemoration of the sacrifice of Ninoy will have been merely ritual, and nothing more.

Instead, today, I suggest that we are asked to step back for a moment, and look back to the life of this man, twenty-five years after the great sacrifice of his life. We are invited to consider that what Ninoy’s experience really tells us is that the struggle is really not meant to end, that the true offering of self is a daily and ongoing oblation that can only last a lifetime, and that the fight for justice must go on, ever-renewing itself, and ever re-creating itself in the face of new injustices. We are challenged to re-tell the story of Ninoy to our young, those who did not see, firsthand, those years of amazing spirit, and to rekindle in them that fire that burned so strongly in many of us.

My friends, if we are to live through all the difficulties in our country today, if we are to persevere with dignity and determination, we can draw our strength once more from Ninoy, by reclaiming the redemption he offered, and the conversion he shared. This day, we thank the Lord once more for all our Filipino martyrs and heroes, men and women, known and unknown, whose lives have been a great light and a source of hope, that feed into the work of continuing national transformation.

Today, we pray very especially for President Cory Aquino, for healing and for strength. We pray for peace in Mindanao. We ask Ninoy to pray for us and intercede for us, for we know he is with the Lord he sought to serve, the Lord in whose redemption Ninoy participated, the Lord in whose hands we entrust our lives and our loves, confident that he will bring us his peace. Amen.

- Fr. Jose Cecilio Magadia, SJ
Homily for the 25th Anniversary
of the Death of Senator Benigno Aquino, Jr.
Church of the Gesù, Ateneo de Manila University,

17 August 2008

The Ones You Leave Behind

2008-08-04T07:18:00.000+02:00

I wrote this on the evening of Monday, the eve of my departure for Hongkong (and from here, the States).

So, tomorrow, I finally head off for my sabbatical. I should be happy, and I am, but there is the ache left by the knowledge that my going is causing some pain to loved ones.

I am thinking especially of Mom. Last night, after the Province celebrations for the feast of St. Ignatius, I went to say good-bye. When I got home, the house was dark. She was already in bed. She looked so frail, so vulnerable, lying there. I woke her up and we talked a bit. I tried to reassure her that it was only two months, that I would call and email.

But I guess she knows that these first two months are the start of my leaving the country more or less for good. I will return in October for her 80^th birthday, but will leave for Rome soon after that. And even though I will come back from time to time, my home will be in another country for the next few years.

So no matter how I tried to be cheerful and casual, as though this was just one of my short trips abroad, I guess both of us knew that there was a qualitative difference to this parting.

Chinese Filipino families are not demonstrative where feelings are concerned. There is much left unsaid, unexpressed--simply felt, guessed, intuited. So when the frail, ailing woman who is my mother lifted a hand from her pillow to touch my cheek every so briefly, something she has never done before, I knew and felt all her unspoken tenderness, sadness and love in that brief caress.

And so I am writing this, because my brothers will print this out and let her read it, and so she will know that I know and am so grateful for the sacrifice she is making in letting me go, without question or complaint, as she has let me go time and time again in the past twenty eight years of my Jesuit life. I can only imagine that it’s gotten more difficult, not easier, over the years. When I first left home to enter the Novitiate in 1980, Mom was only 51, only two years older than I am now, with a full and active life and many other children to keep her occupied. Now she is turning 80, and because of her Parkinson’s disease, she doesn’t get out as much as she used to, but rather spends most of her time alone at home, with TV game shows and soap operas as her only companions.

What is so clear to me this evening is that, while those who leave home because of the Lord’s call sacrifice something, those who are left behind, like Mary, like Mom, also make an enormous sacrifice.

I went back home briefly tonight to bring a couple of framed pictures of myself with the Holy Father. I know they will make Mom happy and proud. She asked me to write out my new “title” or position in the Society, because she finds it hard to remember (and let’s face it: “General Councilor and Regional Assistant for East Asia and Oceania” is a mouthful). I know that she will want to tell her friends and our relatives about me. If that makes her happy, I am glad.

Before I left, she asked me to bless her. I said a prayer aloud while I lightly placed my hands on her head, and I was grateful that, after the blessing, the mood lightened, and she smiled as she told me to go and get a good night’s sleep before my trip the next day. When I blessed her, I asked God to keep her in good health, to give her peace of heart and mind, and to help her always to trust in his love. It is a prayer I will make very often and with much love and gratitude in the days to come.

The Last Despedida

2008-07-25T23:54:00.001+02:00

People I meet these days have been asking me the same question: “Are you still here?”

Well, yes, I am. But, not to fear, I am finally leaving this coming Tuesday, July 29th, for my first ever “sabbatical” in twenty-eight years of Jesuit life. Two months of doing nothing, not being responsible for anything, with time to sleep, read, and pray! What a gift! I am very grateful.

Last night, I attended the last of perhaps twenty despedidas I’ve attended in the past month or so. Very kindly organized and hosted by Jimmy and Jojo Hofileña in their Xavierville home, this was a gathering of AtSCA alumni from the ‘70’s and (very) early ‘80’s.

It was a magical evening of good food and drink and of marvelous conversation and music. We remembered old loves and spoke of present concerns. We talked about, among other things, children (theirs, not mine, of course), the present woes of the country and the work needed for meaningful change in 2010, and the various symptoms of the mid-life transition, which all of us, all in our late ‘40’s and early ‘50’s, are going through in various ways.

Mostly, we sang, with Jimmy and Rene San Andres playing the guitar as wonderfully as they did thirty years ago, and with Titay Bonto-La Viña’s still lovely soprano soaring above all our combined voices. We sang the old AtSCA songs we composed. We found ourselves laughing at how naïve and, well, young some of the words we set to music were, and , at the same time, found ourselves too shaking our heads in wonder and disbelief at the beauty and depth of other lyrics, like those by Ellen Dionisio and Achoot Cuyegkeng--a beauty and depth which we had perhaps not noticed when we were teen-agers.

I found myself in awe again at the lovely lyrical quality of Jimmy Hofilena’s melodies, none of which, tragically, have ever been recorded. Jimmy also played a song Rene San Andres and I wrote the music for in 1979, with haunting lyrics by Ellen Dionisio, a song that won first place in the Ateneo song-writing contest of that year and which I have not heard or even thought of in at least two decades. Then, to my surprise, Jimmy played another song I wrote in 1980, with lyrics by Achoot, which was sung in one musical presentation and never again, and which I certainly have not thought of in 28 years. I could not believe that Jimmy still remembered it, and the 49 year old me could not believe there was that kind of music in me when I was young.

All of us stopped writing songs after we graduated from college. No loss where I am concerned, but a sad waste for prodigious musical talents like Jimmy’s or Rene’s. Where did the music go when we began our careers in the “real world”?

There were other songs from the ‘70’s that we sang last night. Fumbling through half-forgotten lyrics of Metro-Pop hits, laughing when, through the haze of thirty years, we surprised ourselves by still recalling, as if by instinct, the lyrics to Ngayon at Kailanman, How Deep is Your Love, or Don’t Give Up on Us, Baby, the soundtrack of our youth was played back to us in our singing, and with that music, I think, came all the warmth of good memories, friendships and dreams, from that now irretrievably lost time of our lives.

A snippet of a conversation returns to me this morning, however. While we were getting our food from the buffet table, I turned to Chochoy Medina, our AtSCA president during our senior year, and said something to this effect: “We’re going to be 50 next year, Choy. More than half of our lives are over. What have we done with them?” With what sounded to me like a rueful chuckle, Chochoy answered: “Oo nga. When we were young, we wanted to change the world. At ngayon . . . “ After a pause, he smiled and continued, “we still want to change the world.” We laughed. While much has changed, and life and the world “has happened to us,” some things remain.

Of course, the most precious things that remain are these old friends. Over the decades, some of us have remained in closer contact and others have moved further away from the circle of regular inter-actions. But, when we get together like this, somehow the years fall away, and without sentimentality or illusion, I think, we become aware, with a kind of quiet gratitude, of the enduring bonds that link our lives to each other’s. I remember the lyrics of a Stephen Sondheim song, Old Friends:

Say, old friends,

How do we stay old friends?

No one can say, old friends,

How an old friendship survives.

One day chums, having a laugh a minute.

One day comes, and they’re a part of your lives . . .

Last night, when I got home close to midnight, still warmed by this gift of a gathering, I looked for the copy of the last novel I had just finished the previous day, Alexander McCall Smith’s The World According To Bertie. As he always ends his novels in his 44 Scotland Street series, McCall has the painter Angus Lourdie recite an extemporaneous poem in a final dinner with friends. I l wanted to share that poem with my friends. It is not Eliot or Auden, but it will do to express something of what I feel and pray as we come to yet another parting of ways:

Dear friends, we are the inhabitants

Of a city which can be loved, as any place can be,

In so many different and particular ways;

But who amongst us can predict

For which reasons, and along which fault lines,

Will the heart of each of us

Be broken? I cannot, for I am moved

By so many different and unexpected things . . .

But what breaks the heart the most, I think,

Is the knowledge that what we have

We all must lose:

I don’t care much for denial,

But if pressed to say goodbye, that final word

On which even the strongest can stumble,

I am not above pretending

That the party continues elsewhere,

With a guest list that’s mostly the same,

And every bit as satisfactory;

That what we think are ends are really adjournments,

An entr’acte, an interval, not real goodbyes;

And perhaps they are, dear friends, perhaps they are.

July 26, 2008

Gently, A New Role Begins

2008-06-29T05:28:00.000+02:00

So this is what it is like to be Regional Assistant.

Here in Tokyo today, after Mass at St. Ignatius Church, the parish priest, an Italian Jesuit, introduced me to an Argentinian Jesuit this way: “He is OUR new Assistant.”

I was struck by that simple pronoun OUR. I was being claimed by two brothers, from Europe and South America but working in Japan, as, somehow, “theirs.”

I recall now that, the other night, in a similar way, the Japanese and Korean Provincials introduced me to our scholastics from Japan, Korea, Indonesia and India, as “OUR new Assistant.”

I hear in that single possessive pronoun the call to a wider sense of belonging that seems to be part of my new mission.

I guess it took being out of the Philippines, in a foreign country, in a very international, multi-cultural setting, for this call to sink in. These are brothers I have never met before, from countries and cultures not my own, and yet I am called, somehow to care for them, somehow to be concerned for them.

There is something daunting about all this that makes me feel very small and inadequate. The other night, for example, I was surprised to be asked to write a message for the Japanese Province Newsletter. When I expressed my surprise at being asked, I was told that the Jesuits would like to hear something from the new Regional Assistant. “Something?” I asked myself. What could I say to and for a Province that I had never visited till now?

Yet, I also feel excitement and gratitude as new vistas, new ways of making a contribution open up. These days, my calendar for the coming months has quickly filled up. I have been invited to give Regional or Province Retreats for Thailand (April 2009) and for China (July 2010), in addition to the ones I am already committed to in East Timor (July 2008) and Cambodia (October 2008). I have been asked to take part in a Regional Meeting of the Jesuits in Thailand this October, and (I was reminded by the Japanese Provincial) I am scheduled to return to Tokyo this December this year, to accompany the General when he visits his former Province for their 100^th anniversary celebration. Next year, I am expected to attend a meeting of Jesuit High Schools in East Asia in July in Fukoaka, as well as to participate in meetings of the Major Superiors in Manila (January 2009) and Jogjakarata (July 2009).

But I think what I feel most is this quiet sense of wonder at how I have come to this: how God’s providence has led me so far from the boundaries set by my natural comfort zones. I had never, NEVER expected to minister outside the Philippines in all the years of my Jesuit life, always feeling that the “missionary vocation” was for others, but not for me. And yet here I am, and I am, to my surprise, at peace.

I pray that I can continue to let the Lord lead me and use me, and that I can follow the path, still unknown, that He is opening up before me, with peace, trust, humility, and generosity.

The Surprising Mathematics of the Gospel

2008-06-28T21:12:00.000+02:00

“5 + 2 = 5,000”

These were the intriguing numbers on the T-shirt held up before us by the Delegate of the Provincial of Korea in Cambodia, Fr. Gabriel Je, at the start of our JCEAO [Jesuit Conference of East Asia and Oceania] meeting last June 26. He explained the strange mathematics of the equation by simply flipping the shirt around. The back of the t-shirt depicted five loaves, two fishes, and many smiling faces.

That equation has stayed with me throughout these intense days of meeting on our shared mission in East Asia and Oceania here in Tokyo. It captures vividly for me our reality, our response, and our hope, all of which we touched on during these days.

First, our reality: that of a dire scarcity of resources before the enormous challenges of mission in our region. As we discussed the challenges we face in our missions in Thailand, in East Timor, in Myanmar, in China, in Cambodia, in Micronesia, in Japan, the image of five loaves and two fishes seemed particularly apt. In some of our provinces or regions, that scarcity takes the form of the lack of material resources or educational facilities. In some places, the lack is experienced in the realm of spirit or morale, or in the perceived absence of creative leadership. In some areas, that poverty is simply one of warm bodies, of Jesuit manpower. For example, I was very struck that the Japanese Province, with about 246 Jesuits, counts only nine scholastics in that number.

Second, our response: that of daring to share despite our poverty. The only reason why so many were fed from so little was because the disciples took the risk of sharing the little they had. Despite the temptation to hoard ideas, resources or personnel to take care of the legitimate concerns of our own provinces, the major superiors found themselves trying to do the same thing. These JCEAO meetings are inspiring events of sharing: friends in the Lord daring to share our limited manpower, resources, energy and concern for the sake of our common, more universal mission in Asia and Oceania. No Province or Region in the Assistancy has not "sacrificed" some of its most precious and limited resource, Jesuit manpower, for the sake of the needs of our Assistancy. I was consoled to hear of the Indonesians in Myanmar and Thailand, the Myanmarese in Micronesia, the Filipinos in East Timor and Cambodia, the Koreans in Cambodia and Japan, the Vietnamese in East Timor and Japan, and so forth.

Third, our hope: that the surprising mathematics of the Gospel will continue to operate in our time and in our world of Asia and Oceania; that limited resources shared in faith and in love, and surrendered into the Lord’s hands, will be multiplied beyond our imagining.

One morning, we prayed a beautiful prayer for the beatification of Fr. Pedro Arrupe, which spoke of Fr. Arrupe's "boundless optimism." I am grateful that, despite all our limitations and difficulties, our Conference of Jesuit major superiors in East Asia seems to have been given a share of that "optimism" as we face the future of our mission.

Singing in the Dark: Reflections for Hard Times

2008-06-24T00:06:00.000+02:00

I thought of sharing some excerpts from reflections I shared with my Jesuit brothers on January 1, 2004. We were facing hard times then, and the figure of Mary of the Magnificat seemed to me an image of deep meaning and encouragement for the times. As we face perhaps even more challenging times in mid-2008--inflation, rising prices of food and oil, the seeming spread of criminality and violence, much uncertainty on many levels--perhaps there is a renewed invitation to let our prayer focus on this luminous image of Mary singing in the dark, to allow her strength and faith to flow into us as well.

The reading is from the gospel of Luke (Lk 1: 39-56).

I believe this story connects powerfully with our situation at the threshold of 2004. At this point in the Gospel, Mary is faced with an uncertain future too. She has generously, courageously placed herself at the disposal of God’s mysterious plan. But at this point, she has nothing: no sonogram; no understanding and accepting husband; no affidavit from the Holy Spirit saying: “The child is mine. Leave the poor girl alone.” (Barbara Brown Taylor) From a human point of view, the future is dark. Rejection, shame, and possibly death loom as real possibilities for her.

And yet, she sings. She dares to sing a song of rapturous joy: not “a superficial joy, but [one] that is written against the whole canvas of the world’s pain.” (Elizabeth Johnson) She is singing in the dark, in the face of an uncertain future. Not only that: she sings, as one author puts it, “ahead of time.” (Taylor) Her verb tenses get mixed up. Speaking of the great marvels the Lord will do, she sings of them in the past tense, as though they had already happened: already the poor have been raised up, already the hungry are fed, already the proud and powerful are brought low and the rich made empty.

In the end, she offers her humble service to Elizabeth, knowing that insignificant though that service might appear, it is part of God’s great project of overturning an old world of oppression and suffering and creating a new world of freedom and fullness of life.

Four things strike us about Mary. First is her courageous and daring freedom, her ability to allow God to enter her life in an utterly disruptive manner, to lead her along unfamiliar, unforeseen, uncomfortable roads. The Capuchin preacher Raniero Cantalamessa puts it well when he says that at one point, he found himself moved to pray “Hail Mary, empty of yourself” instead of “full of grace,” so moved was he by Mary’s complete availability for God’s purposes.

Second, I am struck by Mary’s largeness of heart, her capaciousness of spirit, the wide-reaching extent of her compassion. She rejoices in God’s mercy towards herself, but does not remain in self-absorbed contemplation of her privileges. Her delight spills over and in the end focuses not on herself, but on the lowly and hungry of the world who will soon taste God’s life-giving mercy.

Third is Mary’s profound faith that bears fruit in joy. She has, as we have said, at this point, no guarantees for the future, yet she sings gladly in the dark, she rejoices ahead of time, simply because of her utter confidence in the God whom she dares to call “my Savior,” whose mercy, fidelity and power can and will do what is impossible in the eyes of the world and according to limited human capabilities.

Finally, I am struck by the fact that this audacious faith is called forth in Mary by the encouraging word of a sister in faith, Elizabeth, who gives confirming testimony of the impossibilities of God at work in her, and who blesses Mary for her faith.

Interior freedom, compassion for the poor, joy-evoking faith, and belonging to a community of encouragement: these four aspects of Mary’s person suggest the graces we might pray for and beg for ourselves as we begin this year of uncertainty.

First, we might pray for the grace of Mary’s deeper interior freedom, her availability for God’s surprising will, her capacity for letting go of her personal plans, her preferences, her securities in favor of God’s unsettling impossibilities. This freedom, we know, of course, in our Ignatian tradition as “indifference.” During the Congregation of Procurators in 2003, Fr. General Peter-Hans Kolvenbach suggested that the absence of this freedom is at the root of the failure of province planning in some places. Fr. General remarked in his address De Statu: “Some provinces were content to bless what is already being done . . . More often than not, provinces hesitated to make painful choices, even though discernment confirmed that such choices were going to be inevitable in the long run.” But, Fr. General continues, “far from being content to maintain the status quo, even where it is satisfactory, we must look toward the future of our mission. There will have to be new initiatives, while some old ones will have to be abandoned. There will have to be new openings and closings.” For this to take place, Fr. General calls for a “constant spirit of openness to serve the Lord and His Church’s greatest need,” which is perhaps another way of referring to the inner freedom we are reflecting on.

Secondly, we might beg for a deeper share in Mary’s largeness of her heart, her spirit of compassion and solidarity for the great world of suffering and hunger around her. During the Congregation of Procurators, several times during the discussions, procurators who were formators, from places as diverse as Japan, on the one hand, and Germany on the other, used the same word to describe a problem formators often confront in the men: narcissism. For some of our men, apparently among the young, but certainly not exclusively with the young, narcissism is manifested thus: what is real are my issues, my aches and pains, my concerns, my problems, my relationships, my grievances, my apostolate. “MPD: may prosesong dinadaanan, and let the rest of the world go on its way, I can’t be bothered with anything but my issues.” This narcissism is, of course, the opposite of love, which the philosopher Iris Murdoch memorably defined as “the extremely difficult realization that someone other than myself exists.” If we find ourselves sometimes caught up in the self-absorbed dynamics of narcissism, it might be good to turn to Mary in prayer, and ask her to share with us the secret of her great and capacious heart, decentered from an exclusive focus on self, passionately concerned about the destinies of the poor and the little ones. Perhaps then we might be more able to respond to Fr. General’s invitation to us during the Congregation of Procurators: “We must try unceasingly to find again the path to solidarity with the poor.”

Thirdly, this evening, we might pray too for a share of Mary’s joy-evoking faith as we face our uncertain future and struggle to discern how we are to act and serve. Mary, as we have seen, believed that that our God is with us and for us and actively building up a new world of life and freedom. Significantly, such a faith is the very foundation of our apostolic Jesuit spirituality, for, as Fr. General once boldly suggested, Ignatius was perhaps "the first person in the history of Christian spirituality to perceive the Trinity as God at work—as the God who continues to work, always filling up the universe and actively awakening the divine life in all things for the salvation of humanity." As we face the challenges of how to respond to our national and province challenges, perhaps we can seek a share of that lively faith in God’s ongoing activity in the world.

Finally, just as Mary’s faith was confirmed and strengthened by Elizabeth, we might pray that we too can similarly receive from and give to one another encouragement and confirmation in difficult times. In the Congregation of Procurators, Fr. General made the somewhat startling assertion that “our mission encompasses the witness of community life.” He went on to say, in rather strong words: “we must have the will … to live … in the Society as friends in the Lord. . . . We must constantly reestablish that union that individualism and rivalry constantly dissolve.” Surely living as friends in the Lord means that we seek to live as communities of mutual encouragement.

As I come to the end of these rambling points, might I share a favorite passage from Tolkien’s The Return of the King. It is the conversation between Eowyn and Faramir before the decisive battle between the forces of good and evil. The forces of good are pathetically weak and ill equipped before the magnificent array of Sauron’s armies. The future seems dark, uncertain, desperate. And so Eowyn, the white lady of Rohan asks Faramir:

‘Then you think the Darkness is coming?’ said Eowyn. ‘Darkness Unescapable?' And suddenly she drew close to him. ‘No,’ said Faramir, looking into her face. ‘…I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me to no reason can deny. Eowyn, Eowyn, While Lady of Rohan, in this hour, I do not believe that any darkness will endure!” (J.R. Tolkien)

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On this first day of a seemingly unpromising year filled with worrisome uncertainties for our nation and our province, perhaps, for some of us, like Faramir, the reason of our waking minds tells us that great evil has befallen and nagging fears that we may stand at the end of days haunt us. But tonight, we place before us the radiant image of the Holy Mother of God, interiorly free, passionate about the poor, joyful beyond reason because of her faith in God her Savior, and encouraged and strengthened by her companion on the pilgrimage of faith. As we contemplate Mary of the Magnificat, singing in the dark, singing “ahead of time,” pregnant with Jesus, pregnant with the world’s hope of salvation, may we find our hearts saying “nay” to all that discourages and paralyzes. May our limbs find a new lightness for service; and, may a hope and joy come to us that no reason can deny. Let us make our own tonight the lovely petition Ignatius composed in 1524: “I pray to our Lady to implore on our behalf between us sinners and her Son and Lord, and to gain us His grace, that… our weak and sad spirits may be transformed and become strong and joyful in his praise.” Amen.

January 1, 2004, Loyola House of Studies

A Homily for a New Provincial by Fr. Ben Nebres

2008-06-16T00:58:00.000+02:00

Fr. Ben Nebres, SJ, a former Provincial Superior of the Philippine Jesuits, welcomes Fr. Jojo Magadia, the new Provincial, to the mission he will have for the next six years...

The 35th General Congregation (GC 35) Document on Jesuit Identity “A Fire Kindling Other Fires” says: “What unites us as Jesuits is Christ and the desire to serve him . . . He is the unique image of the unseen God . . . Jesuits know who they are by looking at him.”

We can say that a Jesuit Provincial knows who he is and what his mission is by contemplating the scene between Jesus and Peter in our Gospel today (John 21: 15-19). In the midst of the great challenges that will face Fr. Jojo in the years to come, rising prices, political and economic turmoil, vocations and formation, leadership for our many and demanding institutions, it is consoling to know that the call is ultimately deeply personal – it is a call to keep his eyes on the Lord and answer his question, “Do you love me?” And respond to the Lord’s sending: “Feed my lambs, feed my sheep.”

I think for all of us former Provincials, Fr. Bernie Bernas, myself, Fr. Noel Vasquez, Fr. Archie Intengan, and soon to be former Provincial, Fr. Danny Huang, it is this deeply personal part that lingers most in our memories and our hearts.

One of the most enduring memories of my early weeks as Provincial was my first visitation to Bukidnon mission and having one of our veteran missionaries, Fr. Jim Cawley, a living legend by then, kneeling down to get my blessing. It was at the same time a very embarrassing and a very edifying experience. I think all of us former Provincials probably go back to our visits to the Mindanao missions as among our deepest and most moving experiences.

Being Provincial surely has its burdens. But among its great gifts is that of coming to know our brother Jesuits, their pains and struggles, yes, but their honesty, generosity and courage as well. It is like the image Fr. Danny painted of Fr. Ting Samson, the President of Ateneo de Davao, last June 4 in his homily for Fr. Ting’s Jesuit Golden Jubilee. He said that Fr. Ting and perhaps most Jesuits are like stained glass – we cannot see the beauty looking from the outside, we only see it looking from the inside. And to see from the inside, that is one of the great graces of being Provincial.

GC 35 asks us how we might recover our inspiration and energy, how we might rekindle the fire within us and thus kindle the fire in others. It asks us how we may become more deeply Friends with the Lord and Friends in the Lord with one another and with all with whom we share our mission and our life. I think of the many nights in Kabanglasan with Fr. Leoni, listening to his passionate dreams for his people. He had dreams of developing a large rubber plantation, dreams of all the children going to school and doing well – he continued to dream and to struggle up the hills to reach his people, love overcoming the pain of cancer eating into his bone. I remember arriving to see Fr. Leo Welch just when he was sitting down with his boys for their usual lunch – every possible thing thrown into a pot of boiling water. “Oh,” he says, “Fr. Provincial is here. We must have something special”, and so he opens a can of sardines.

Above all, I remember the nights of story telling during mission gatherings and rediscovering the wonder of story telling – with Fr. John Krebs and his stories of the interesting characters in his parish, Fr. Bob Walsh describing his adventures shuttling between MNLF and military lines in Jolo or tracking Bishop Escaler when he was kidnapped. Enchanted evenings and enchanted memories.

During Ateneo de Manila’s 10th anniversary Ignatian Spirituality in Education Workshop the other weekend, after the presentation by Fr. Danny, myself and Fr. Jojo on the themes of FIRE, FRONTIERS, FRIENDSHIP, I focused our discussion on FIRE and FRIENDSHIP since this year the focus in our Sesquicentennial preparation is “Deepening Spirituality.” I shared an article of Carlo Cardinal Martini on “Teaching the Faith in a Postmodern World” – about today’s youth that seeks not so much teachers, but witnesses.

I invited Dr. Marlu Vilches to share an experience with her Freshman class on “Introduction to Ateneo Culture and Traditions” (INTACT). Her session was on our image of God. She decided that the only way to do this was to take a risk and begin with her own experience of God: “I told them about how in a time of confusion in my life God seemed like a huge force that let go of me down down deep into the pit of the cold and dark earth. In that utter helplessness when I cried out 'enough!' I realized that God - calm and collected - was actually just looking at me, ready to lower a rope on which I could cling to help me up. The class was quiet when I shared my story, and then, one by one, each of the students joined in to tell theirs.”

After Marlu shared her story, our group in Antipolo was also silent and then one by one people began to share their stories.

We rekindle FIRE by telling our story, inviting others to tell their stories and in this shared story-telling retrace our journey. Just as Jesus rekindled FIRE in the disciples, who had given up and were walking away to EMMAUS, by walking with them and telling once more the story of God’s love affair with his people.

The other night, I was rereading my homily and Fr. Danny’s reflections for the 50th anniversary of the Philippine Province. I was struck again by our brother Jesuits from East Asia and Oceania wanting so much to hear more stories of the Philippine Province

So let me end with the stories we tell and re-tell of the Provincials who have gone ahead:

- Our first Provincial, Fr. Francis Clark, who had the vision and drive to build Loyola House of Studies, despite a lot of criticism (including from Ting Samson and myself, who were then philosophers in Cebu). The older ones among us here remember two Fr.Clarks, the Rector and Provincial who lived the ideals of the Society before Vatican II and the post-Vatican II Fr. Clark , who learned Tagalog and Cebuano and became an immensely loved teacher, pastor and friend in St. John Vianney and Cagayan de Oro Cathedral.

- Our first Filipino Provincial, Fr. Horacio de la Costa, in the turbulent period of nationalism of the late 60s, early 70s, meeting with Filipino Jesuits one night, American Jesuits another night, carrying within him our confusion and our pain. We owe it to his leadership and the greatness of his person that we came through a better and stronger Province.

- We remember Fr. Mayo, leading us to a deeper involvement with the poor, facing down the Marcos government in the raid on Novaliches and on many other occasions.

- I remember Fr. Bernie the year we had so many deaths, Fr. De la Costa, Fr. Flores, Fr. Giron, Fr. Magtoto, even a double funeral, Fr. Kieran Egan and Fr. Andy Bolinas, writing a letter to the Province that from now on, no one was to die without first getting permission.

- Fr. Bernie and I sometimes talk also about my not so liturgical missioning ceremony – our present format began after me with Fr. Rene Ocampo. When people ask me when was our turnover ceremony, I always say “I am not quite sure, but I guess it was when we met in the corridor after the New Year Province mass and he gave me the car keys.”

I will stop there and leave further story telling for all of us after the Mass. As this year is also the 50th anniversary of the Philippine Province, we thank the Lord for the graces given to our Province through all of us who have been called to lead in earlier years: Fr. Francis Clark, Fr. Horacio de la Costa, Fr. Benigno Mayo, Fr. Bernie Bernas, myself, Fr. Rene A. Ocampo, Fr. Noel Vasquez, Fr. Archie Intengan.

To our outgoing Provincial Fr. Danny, thank you for the FIRE and the FRIENDSHIP, the inspiration and the time with each one of us and with each of our communities and our works. We will miss your happy presence and your gift of eloquence and heart. But you can always send us a weekly message on youtube or on multiply. Thank you for confronting the FRONTIERS of your time: having the courage to challenge us to consolidate our works, guiding and supporting the rise of younger leadership, helping lead the Church in our time, bearing our weaknesses and helping to heal our wounds.

To Fr. Jojo, as Fr. Henri Madelin, the French Provincial. wrote to me in my time, “Welcome to the brotherhood, it is not so bad.” And, yes, fortunately in our tradition, it is simply one mission and there will be other missions. There is life after being Provincial – so when things get a bit heavy, you can always say, “This too shall pass.” But kidding aside, you will have many moments of fulfillment, in the deeper knowledge of our brothers, of their generosity and courage; in the times you will have of swapping stories. FRONTIERS may challenge us. But you will have times of FIRE and FRIENDSHIP to renew you.

And so as we leave this mass of thanksgiving and missioning and Danny passes on to you the car keys – or to be more scriptural, as he passes on to you his mantle, as it was passed on to him and to us here with you -- we pray that especially in times of uncertainty and challenge you may sense the Lord walking with you and your heart burning within you. May you then, as Jesus tells Peter in the Gospel of Luke, strengthen us, your brothers, so that together we may be “fire kindling other fires” in the often dark and confused world of today.

-Bienvenido F. Nebres, S.J.
Mass for the New Provincial, Fr. Jose Cecilio Magadia, S.J.
Loyola House of Studies
June 12, 2008

Our New Provincial

2008-06-11T20:34:00.000+02:00

This evening, I lose my car.

The new Provincial, Fr. Jojo Magadia, who will be installed in office tonight, will get it.

That is how some of my relatives sum up the essence of my handing over of responsibilities as Provincial to my successor.

Not so accurate, perhaps.

These past days, Jojo and I have been meeting daily. We have gone institution-by-institution, community-by-community, person-by-person. We touched on hopes and ongoing concerns. As we talked, I felt more and more compassion for Jojo as this enormous burden was being placed on his shoulders, but also an ever growing sense of gratitude for his generous availability and an equally deep sense of trust that the Province is blessed in having him as the new Provincial.

In him, the Province is getting someone like Barnabas: “a good man, filled with the Holy Spirit and faith.” (Acts 11: 24), a Jesuit of quiet simplicity, deep kindness, evident centeredness and self-possession, love for the poor, not to mention his intelligence and other leadership gifts and experience.

We pray in gratitude for our new Provincial. Let us ask the gracious Lord, the Good Shepherd to bless him with wisdom, strength and joy, and to always remind him that, as he carries the flock entrusted to him, the Lord himself, the merciful and faithful One, carries him always.

A Moment of Thankfulness

2008-06-02T08:06:00.000+02:00

At the end of this day of work, I spent some time going over more papers and folders in my office, part of the Herculean task of clearing out stuff in time for the new Provincial to take over the premises by June 12--a mere ten days from now!

As usually happens when I pore over the accumulated debris of the centuries, I found myself constantly distracted from my more immediate task by a bit memorabilia here or a scrap of a letter there that I had not seen in years and which opened the floodgates of memory.

This evening, I found a long talk I gave to the Province on January 1, 2004, a few weeks after it was announced that I was to serve as the next Provincial. I re-read these words that I wrote six months before I took office:

Fr. Doan secretly told me of the General’s decision [to appoint me Provincial] on Nov. 24, 2003, the day after Christ the King. I found myself numb in the first few days, burdened by an overwhelming sense of my limitations, fearful of the future and the enormous challenges ahead. But in the forty-eight hours after the official announcement on Dec. 3, the torrent of kind encouragement that the brethren have given me has consoled and strengthened me to face the unknown future with some peace.

For example, Bobby Yap called immediately and he simply repeated: “Danny, basta trust in the grace of the office. Trust in the grace of the office.” Fr. Arevalo sent me several messages that always contained the same final word: “Corragio!” Vic de Jesus just listened to me patiently while I ventilated about my fears concerning my limitations. The good thing about old friends is that they do not allow you to remain in illusion and the one sentence I most remember from Vic is: “Yes, Danny, I know all about your limitations”--even while he continued to encourage and confirm! Albert Alejo texted me a message that moved me very much: “Danny, malalim ang saya ko.” My favorite greeting came from one scholastic who texted: “I pledge my allegiance to you as provincial”—and I found myself laughingly asking myself, "Áno ako, flag?" Another texted me, “For what it’s worth, I will try to be a good and obedient subject,” and still another said, “I promise to try to be good so as not to add to your problems”—which, when you think about it, is a really generous promise! So many brothers, from varying age groups and communities, texted, emailed, wrote messages that conveyed the same consoling message: “I am praying for you. You can rely on me for support and help.”

Now that it is almost over, I look back and smile. Was I really that frightened four years ago?

More importantly, I am moved by wonder and gratitude. My brothers, on the whole, have come through.It is only because of them that I have made it to this point of soon joining the happy ranks of ex-Provincials. Through these years, they have been faithful to their promises of support. God has made his kindness and fidelity real to me through them.

Deo gratias.

Memories of Avery Cardinal Dulles, S.J.

2008-06-01T13:44:00.003+02:00

Cardinal Avery Dulles, S.J., recently delivered his final lecture as McGinley Professor at Fordham University. More accurately, his lecture was delivered for him—by Fr. Joseph O’Hare, former President of Fordham.

I was deeply saddened when I watched the video of Cardinal Dulles’ valedictory lecture. (Cf. http://www.fordham.edu/media/dulles/DULLES_Farewell.ram). This most respected, most erudite of theologians in North America, son of John Foster Dulles (who was Secretary of State under Eisenhower and after whom Dulles Airport in Washington, D.C. is named), is now in his ‘90’s. As a result apparently of polio contracted in his youth, the Cardinal is now partially paralyzed and unable to speak.

I first met Cardinal Dulles in July, 1989, when he was still Fr. Avery Dulles. During my first week in the United States, as I was on my way to Washington, D.C. to begin my graduate studies in theology, I had the privilege of having a private meeting with him at the University of San Francisco. I remember little about that thirty-minute encounter beyond a still painful sense of profound embarrassment at my stammering inability to answer his simple questions about my theological interests with any measure of intelligence. I do recall that he began our conversation by asking me, in a sort of mock-dramatic way, as he pointed to my chair: “Do you realize who was sitting in that chair yesterday?” When I confessed ignorance, he answered in the same stentorian tones: “The great Catalino AREVALO!” Apparently, the day before my meeting with Fr. Dulles, Fr. Arevalo had visited Fr. Dulles. The thought of having to follow Fr. Arevalo, and possibly being compared (no doubt, unfavorably) with him, completely unnerved me.

Given the unpromising first impression I probably gave Fr. Dulles, I was very pleasantly surprised when he accepted my invitation to be the first reader for my doctoral dissertation in 1993. He had left the Catholic University of America for Fordham by then, but, as Professor Emeritus of CUA, he was still available to help graduate students like myself. I submitted my chapters dutifully, as I churned them out. Amazingly, given all his other commitments, without fail I would receive my corrected chapter back within a week, complete with handwritten notes and comments. I have kept those handwritten scribblings of Cardinal Dulles as treasured relics.

I met him again at Oxford in 1995, when I attended a theological conference on John Henry Newman, at which Fr. Dulles delivered a lecture. My proudest moment during that conference took place after I had preached the homily at the Eucharist on the Feast of St. Dominic in Oriel College, Oxford. Fr. Dulles was in the congregation, along with the other conference participants. At the end of Mass, he came up to me and said, in that austere, spare way of his, “That was an architecturally perfect homily.” I was not completely sure what he meant, but it sounded like a compliment, and I was flattered no end.

He came down to Washington, D.C. from New York, for the two days of my doctoral lectio and defense in 1996. He was a demanding, but not unkind examiner. But what I remember most was a little incident during Morning Prayer at Carroll House, the Jesuit community where I lived, and where Fr. Dulles stayed for those two days. During the prayers of intercession during Morning Prayer, Fr. Dulles, without any drama or pretentiousness said something like, “Let us pray for my friend Peggy Rockefeller, who passed away yesterday.” I think all of us were dumbfounded that here was a Jesuit who moved familiarly, apparently without any sense of discomfort, among Rockefellers!

Whatever judgments are made about his more recent theological positions and writings, I think that his most substantial works, written in his prime, will stand the test of time. The Dimensions of the Church, Models of the Church, Models of Revelation, The Assurance of Things Hoped For, The Craft of Theology, and for me, above all, The Catholicity of the Church are major theological works that manifest all the virtues of vintage Dulles: breathtaking erudition and knowledge of the tradition and history of Catholic theology; judicious, careful, unfailingly fair judgments; a lucid, austerely elegant style. His intellectual virtues, in a way, are a reflection of his personal ones: humility, kindness, diligence and dedication to work--and a quiet, dry sense of humor! It is no wonder that in his introduction to Cardinal Dulles during the McGinley lecture, Fr. McShane, the president President of Fordham, refers to the Cardinal's reputation as a saint.

I was delighted to learn that, during his recent pastoral visit to the United States, before his meeting with young people at Dunwoodie, the Holy Father graciously made time for a brief and moving meeting with Cardinal Dulles. (http://www.fordham.edu/campus_resources/public_affairs/archives/2008/archive_1244.asp)

The final paragraphs of Cardinal Dulles’ valedictory lecture, are quoted below. Uncharacteristically personal, they are written without any trace of sentimentality or self-promotion. Instead, they exude serenity amidst suffering, a deep sense of contentment with one’s lot in life, a purity of spiritual freedom--all borne of an obviously profound faith in Christ. I hope, that if and when my time comes to experience diminishment like this, I can have even a fraction of Avery Dulles’ faith and love. In the meantime, I pray for this great Jesuit, theologian and servant of the Church.

*******************************************

From Cardinal Dulles’ Final McGinley Lecture, April 2008:

"As I approach the termination of my active life, I gratefully acknowledge that a benign providence has governed my days. The persons I have met, the places I have been, the things I have been asked to do, have all coalesced into a pattern, so that each stage of my life has prepared me for the next. My 20 years on the McGinley Chair have been a kind of climax, at least from my personal point of view. I often feel that there is no one on earth with whom I would want to exchange places. It has been a special privilege to serve in the Society of Jesus, a religious community specially dedicated to the Savior of the world.

The good life does not have to be an easy one, as our blessed Lord and the saints have taught us. Pope John Paul II in his later years used to say, “The Pope must suffer.” Suffering and diminishment are not the greatest of evils, but are normal ingredients in life, especially in old age. They are to be accepted as elements of a full human existence. Well into my 90th year I have been able to work productively. As I become increasingly paralyzed and unable to speak, I can identify with the many paralytics and mute persons in the Gospels, grateful for the loving and skillful care I receive and for the hope of everlasting life in Christ. If the Lord now calls me to a period of weakness, I know well that his power can be made perfect in infirmity. “Blessed be the name of the Lord!”"

Fiat, Stabat, Magnificat: A Homily for the Final Vows of RVM Sisters, 2003

2008-05-26T11:55:00.000+02:00

As the month of May--a month traditionally dedicated to our Blessed Mother--comes to a close, and as the profession of first vows of seven of our Jesuit novices draws near, I thought of sharing a homily I preached five years ago at the final vows of RVM sisters, most of whom had been my former students at Loyola School of Theology. In this homily, I tried to share something about Mary and something, too, about the vows that religious make. May i request those who take the time to read this long-ish homily to pray especially for religious in the Church, especially for the young who, despite everything, still dare to make and strive to keep these promises.

In preparing for today’s celebration, I read through Mother Ignacia’s 1726 rules, your revised 2002 Constitution which you call Landas, and Sr. Annie Co’s wonderful book A Lamp to our Path. I found many rich and inspiring passages in what I read. For example, in Mother Ignacia’s 1726 rule, I found this rule: “On the streets, Sisters should walk with religious decorum . . . observing modesty of the eyes, meditating on how Jesus carried the cross out of love for us.” Immediately, I thought of Sr. Rose—because she is the living opposite of this rule! Also, in Sr. Annie’s book, I read about how Mother Ignacia founded the Beaterio under the guidance of her Jesuit spiritual director Fr. Paul Klein. Immediately, I remembered Sr. Norma and myself—para pala kaming Mother Ignacia and Fr. Klein of the new millennium! The only difference is, of course, Fr. Klein was older than Mother Ignacia, but Manay Norms is older than me!

More seriously though, the one sentence that struck me most was in Chapter Three of your Landas. In discussing your religious consecration, NO. 15 says this: “The example of the Blessed Virgin Mary in her complete surrender and dedication to the Word of God is the principal inspiration of our religious and apostolic consecration to the Lord.” And so this morning, on this feast of the Annunciation, I invite you to a two-part reflection. First, let us contemplate your inspiration, our Blessed Mother. Second, let us contemplate her daughters who will be specially hers today, our sisters professing final vows.

I think one can summarize the life of Mary in three Latin words connected to her life: Fiat, Stabat and Magnificat.

First, Fiat. This is the first Latin word in Mary’s response to the Angel in today’s gospel: Fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum. “Let it be done to me according to your word.” Fiat speaks of Mary as a woman of faith and surrender, pagtuo ug pagtugyan sa kaugalingon, as we say in Visayan. The British spiritual writer Caryl Houselander writes that, before Mary, humanity was like a closed, dark, house without light or air. For centuries, the Spirit was tapping on the closed windows of the house. Finally, a little girl named Mary said Fiat, and the doors of the house were flung open, allowing the sweet wind of the Spirit to sweep through the airless house, allowing seas of light to flood the house, and the light remained, for in that house a child was born and the child was God. Mary was a woman of Fiat, of total surrender and openness and availability to God. Her life was like a blank check given over to the Lord to fill out, even when her pilgrimage of life brought her to moments of pain and incomprehension: while in labor in the stable at Bethlehem, as a refugee fleeing violence in Egypt, at the foot of the cross. Surely, in those times, she repeated: Fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum.

Second, Stabat. This is the first Latin word in the medieval hymn sung during the feast of the Sorrowful mother: Stabat Mater dolorosa, iuxta crucem lacrimosa dum pendebat filius. It means: “Stood.” “The sorrowful mother stood by the side of the cross weeping while her son hung on it.” It is a word that speaks of Mary as a woman of compassion and fidelity. Wherever there was pain or need, she stood there, was present in compassion and service: with her aged cousin Elizabeth, with the couple at Cana who ran out of wine, with her Son suffering on the cross, with the disciples waiting in the upper room.

The third word is Magnificat, and it is, of course, the first word in Mary’s great hymn of thanksgiving during the Visitation. Magnificat anima mea Dominum. “My soul magnifies the Lord.” Magnificat is a word that captures Mary’s identity as a woman of joy and hope. The sword pierced her soul many times, yet do we not know Mary as a woman of joy? What was her secret? It is there in the words of the Magnificat: she was a woman who felt the eyes of the Lord look upon her in her poverty and littleness, and who was, thus filled with thanksgiving for the great things the mighty and merciful Lord had done for her.

Fiat, Stabat, Magnificat: words that, in a simple way, tell us who this peasant woman of Nazareth, whom we honor above all saints, is: Mary, woman of faith, of compassion, of joy.

Fiat, Stabat, Magnificat: they are words that tell us too who our sisters who are making their vows today are or desire to be.

My dear sisters, today, you say Fiat. By your vows, you make a breathtaking act of surrender to your God. The most elemental, primal, urgent longings of your heart—of loving, of having, of deciding—today, in freedom, you hand over to the Lord as you pronounce your promises of perpetual chastity, poverty and obedience. Today, you say to Jesus in the spirit and with the heart of Mary: “No love but you. No wealth but you. No will but yours.” Totus tuus: I am completely yours. Fiat.

Today, too, you promise to be women of Stabat, who will stand beside the poor and the suffering, as Mary did. By giving up having a “special someone” and a family of your own, you free yourself to love all those who are in need of God’s compassion and service. By embracing poverty, you free yourself to give service without seeking reward and to be in solidarity with the little ones of the world. By promising obedience, you choose, in the words of your Constitutions, “to make the irrevocable sacrifice of our your life, will and talents for the good of the community and the service of God’s people.”

Finally, and most of all, I hope today you experience yourselves as women of Magnificat.

My dear sisters, last night, as I was thinking of you and what you are doing today, a word that I often hear young people today use came to my mind: Exaj! It is short for “exaggerated”—and it is used to say sobra naman, too much! And I could not help thinking, exaj talaga ang ginagawa ng mga madreng ito. These vows are too much, too radical, too total a gift of self to this God who sometimes feels so distant or so absent, and to this Church, that can sometimes be so ungrateful and unkind. Part of me wanted to ask each one of you: Ito ba talaga ang gusto mo? Higit sa ibang maaring maging buhay mo? Higit sa pagiging asawa at ina, higit sa buhay na may kayapap? Higit sa buhay na ikaw lang ang boss, na hindi ka ipapadala sa Africa o sa Indonesia kung ayaw mo, malayo sa pamilya at bansa? Higit sa komportableng buhay, na napapaligiran ng rangya at kayamanan, na, kung tututusin, ay kayang abutin na mga bright and beautiful katulad ninyo? I wanted to ask each one of you: sure ka na ba? Sure na ba kayo na gusto ninyong mapabilang sa mga kamadrehang ito: na may mababait, may sweet, may inspiring, pero may maarte, mataray, at malakas ang dating din?

You see I was overwhelmed by how exaj your vows are, how imprudent and unreasonable an offering they are from a human point of view. And then I remembered a favorite scene from the movie A Man for All Seasons, about St. Thomas More. His daughter Margaret asks Thomas to compromise, to be less radical and generous, to save his life: “Haven’t you done all that God could reasonably ask of a man?” she asks in frustration. And Thomas More answers simply: “Finally, it’s not a matter of reason, it’s a matter of love.”

I recalled the excitement and joy I felt when you invited me to preach on this day. And I realized: yes, exaj, unreasonable nga ang vows nila, but in the end, it’s not a matter of reason, it’s a matter of love; and today, we face a group of women in love. Frightened, unsure, struggling still, but in the end, women who have, like Mary, been overwhelmed by God’s generous, merciful love to them, and today, are responding, in the gratitude, joy and hope of Mary’s Magnificat.

Friends, the promises of poverty, chastity and obedience you make so boldly and dramatically today must be lived in the ordinary days that follow from today; and that daily fidelity to these vows will not always be easy. And so allow me to close with a story and a final word of encouragement for the journey ahead.

There is a lovely story told about St. Teresa of Avila. In the old days, as you know, sisters chose special names when they made their vows. Teresa had chosen the name "Teresa de Jesus, Teresa of Jesus." The day after her vows, she met a young boy of about twelve in the cloister, where those who were not members of the community were forbidden. Before she could ask the name of the intruder, he asked her: “What is your name?” She answered, “Teresa of Jesus.” “And you,” Teresa asked in turn, “Who are you?” The boy smiled and said: “Jesus of Teresa.”

My dear Sisters, my point is simply this: you are not the only ones making a commitment today. The Lord of love, our heart’s deepest desire, also and even more deeply commits himself to you. Today, by your promises, in a radical way, you will forever be Miriam, Charlette, Leah, Sheila, Norma, Rose, Fatima . . . of Jesus. But as you put on your rings, hear him say to you that he is Jesus of Miriam, Charlette, Leah, Sheila, Norma, Rose, Fatima . . . as well. And so my final word is borrowed from the greeting of the angel Gabriel to Mary at the annunciation: "Do not be afraid!" God bless you all!

March 25, 2003

Come, South Wind: A Poem for Pentecost

2008-05-11T01:08:00.000+02:00

Mr. Eddie Calasanz emailed me this truly lovely poem by the American poet Jessica Powers as a Pentecost gift. Powers is also known by her name in religion, Sr. Miriam of the Holy Spirit, OCD. She died in 1988 and is buried in the Carmel of the Mother of God in Wisconsin.

This poem calls forth my own poorly expressed but deeply felt prayer for myself and for us this Pentecost:

Come, Love who awakens love.

Come, burning Fire of God's own infinite love.

Come South wind, blow warmth into the sterile and wintry inscapes of our hearts,

provoke sudden springs and lush summers,

that we might become sanctuary and pasture,

home and nourishment,

for my beloved Shepherd's hungry flock.

COME, SOUTH WIND

'By south wind is meant the Holy Spirit who awakens
love.' St. John of the Cross

Over and over I say to the south wind: come,
waken in me and warm me!
I have walked too long with a death's chill in the air,
mourned over trees too long with branches bare.
Ice has a falsity for all its brightness
and so has need of your warm reprimand.
A curse be on the snow that lapsed from whiteness,
and all bleak days that paralyze my land.

I am saying all day to Love who wakens love:
rise in the south and come!
Hurry me into springtime; hustle the winter
out of my sight; make dumb
the north wind's loud impertinence. Then plunge me
into my leafing and my blossoming,
and give me pasture, sweet and sudden pasture.
Where could the Shepherd bring
his flocks to graze? Where could they rest at noonday?
0 south wind, listen to the woe I sing!
One whom I love is asking for the summer from me,
who still am distances from spring.

--Jessica Powers

Trusting in the Slow Work of God

2008-05-09T09:58:00.000+02:00

This morning, a friend struggling with various problems shared with me that his spiritual director had given him this piece of advice: Trust in the slow work of God.

The sentence is not original. My friend's director had borrowed it from one of the writings of the great Jesuit scientist and thinker, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin.

The spiritual director, with a touch of humor, had continued: God's work is slow, because you are a slow learner.

"We all are," I told my friend reflectively. "We are all slow learners. Besides," I added, "maybe God's work is slow because it is meant to go deep. Work that goes too fast tends to be superficial, to remain on the surface."

I felt this morning that that single sentence of Teilhard was a word from On High for me too.

Especially during this last month of my term as Provincial, as I try to resolve problems quickly--perhaps too quickly-- for the sake of sparing my successor additional burdens; as I find myself perhaps rushing solutions because of an imminent deadline; as I become more aware of all that I have left undone or done poorly because of my considerable limitations and weaknesses; as I catch myself reviewing and questioning the rightness or wrongness of decisions I have made, especially about people; as I occasionally wonder about the significance and enduring value of what I have tried to contribute these past four years; and as I find myself surprised by anxieties about the family, especially the mother, I will leave here in Manila when I move to Rome, Teilhard's words hit me with a kind of deep resonance and liberating clarity.

So here are the words of that wise Jesuit, Teilhard de Chardin. May they bear God's wisdom and a share of his infinite peace to those who read them:

Above all, trust in the slow work of God.

We are quite naturally impatient in everything

to reach the end without delay.

We should like to skip the intermediate stages.

We are impatient of being on the way to something

unknown, something new.

And yet is the law of all progress

that it is made by passing through

some stages of instability--

and that it may take a very long time.

And so I think it is with you . . .

Give our Lord the benefit of believing

that his hand is leading you,

and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself

in suspense and incomplete.

--Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, SJ

A Homily for Mom

2008-04-27T19:16:00.000+02:00

These past weeks, I have tried to be more faithful to my weekly visit to my mother every Sunday evening. She is 79 going on 80 and has Parkinson’s disease. Mercifully, her variety of Parkinson’s doesn’t involve tremors. But she is weak, weaker than I have ever seen her before. She can barely stand up by herself, easily loses balance, shuffles rather than walks, with the help of a cane. She often falls, I am told. I catch her sometimes just slumped forward in her chair, looking so tired. At times, I can barely understand her: inexplicably to me, she sometimes seems to lose even the strength to open her mouth to speak, and so mumbles responses to my questions. I have to guess what she is saying, and occasionally, like tonight, I really have to struggle to make out what she wants to communicate.

Last Sunday, she asked me to pray for her. I said I do, always. I do.

I wanted to share a homily I preached on her 75th birthday five years ago. It says a lot about what I feel when I pray for her.

Today, we give thanks to our loving God for the gift he has given us in Mommy, who came to this world 75 years ago. I did some calculations and I figured that Mom got married to Daddy at the age of 26, in February 1955. She gave birth to Atchi at the age of 27, so she has been a fulltime mother for 48 years out of her 75, 48 years that have not always been easy. That means two thirds of her life has been spent really living for us, her children. Two thirds of her life has been given to living out the difficult vocation of motherhood.

Our readings tonight help us appreciate the gift of our mother and her love for us. You see, if you listened to the readings carefully, you will see that even God places enormous value on this precious thing called a mother’s love. In the first reading, he compares his own tender, faithful love to the love of a mother. When Israel complains that she has been forsaken, God says, No: “Can a mother forget her infant, be without tenderness for the child of her womb?” If you know how a mother loves, God tells Israel, you could never imagine me abandoning you. In the Gospel, Jesus is dying on the cross and looks upon his beloved disciple, so sorrowful and lost. And so he hands over to his closest friend the most valuable person in his life, his mother. It is as if Jesus is saying, “I have nothing more precious to give you than this woman who has loved me so much and will now love you in turn.” If God values a mother’s love so much, perhaps, this evening we too can try to appreciate this mother, our mother’s love for us.

In the brief time we have at this Mass, I just want to say two simple things in appreciation of Mom’s love for us: first, that it is a love that gives us a home; second, it is a love that has taught us to love.

First, I think Mom’s love gives us a home. What do I mean? Not just a physical home, our houses in Silencio and Acropolis. Recently I read a mother describing her feelings as she watched her young son sleep. This is what she wrote:

I sit on the edge of my son’s bed. His face is smooth with sleep. The glow of the night light stands vigil against the monsters that lurk beneath his table. As I stand up to leave, I feel my heart, pulled out of my breast, stretched to span the widening distance between us. Before he was born, I did not know how I could ever let him in. Now that I have, I don’t know how I will ever let him go.

I love those last two sentences, because they capture so perfectly a mother, our mother’s love: “Before he was born I did not know how I could ever let him in. Now that I have, I don’t know how I will ever let him go.”

Mom carried each one of us siblings in her womb for nine months, but even after she let go of us to enter the world, I know she keeps each one of us in her heart. When she welcomed us into her womb, she welcomed our whole lives after that, with all its ups and downs, its joys and sorrows, into her own heart. They have become her ups and downs, her joys and sorrows for 48 years.

Mom often confides in me her worries and complaints about each of us. My answer has usually been: Mom, bahala na siya or bahala na sila. He or she is old enough. He or she has his or her own life. It’s only recently that I realized that this was very easy for me to say, because I am not a mother. While what I say is true, in a sense, you can never tell a mother to cut this ongoing care and concern for the lives of her sons and daughters from her heart. It’s like telling the sun not to rise or the sea not to rush to the shore. Whether it’s a little thing, like wondering whether I will have a jacket for Europe, or a big thing, like Paul’s tumor, I know Mom keeps our lives in her heart, and that when she prays, she brings each one of us to the Lord. That’s what I mean when I say, that Mom’s love gives us a home. It means that, in this world, we know we have a place where we will always belong. Despite the occasional tampuhan or misunderstandings, which are part of life, we have a home in her heart and prayers.

Second, I think Mom’s love has taught us how to love. What do I mean? Let me be concrete. When I see Atchi’s very real thoughtfulness in trying to get just the right pasalubong for each of us, or that same thoughtfulness in Dickie’s very careful wrapping of gifts and making of special Christmas tags, I think to myself: they got this from Mom, who always thoughtfully made sure that when we grew up, we were always specially remembered on birthdays, on Three Kings, on Christmas. When I see Ako John generously providing Mikey with all the books and gadgets that will develop Mikey’s intelligence and talents, I think to myself: he got this from Mom, who made sure too that we grew up in a house full of good books, who made sure we got the best education, that we would develop our talents and gifts.

When I see Peter or Franny taking the trouble to take their not always so well behaved kids out on trips out of town, to Tagaytay or Baguio or the provinces, I think to myself: they got this from Mom, who with Dad, took the trouble to fill our young minds and hearts with good memories, who would drive us when we were small to watch “The Littlest Angel” display in front of the old Coke building or the COD display in Cubao or brought us in the old station wagon to Baguio or to the beach. When I see Stevie buying food for us, and taking pains to get really good food and make sure there’s always more than enough, I think to myself: he got this from Mom, who made sure that we never knew hunger or want while we were growing up, who saw to it that we grew up with an always abundant table, and with such a rich variety of eatables in the house.

When I see Paul facing his brain tumor with such quiet, uncomplaining courage and dignity, I think to myself: he got this from Mom, who has carried sickness for more than a decade without complaint or demands from others. Actually, when I see myself, trying to be a parent now to 54 seminarians, and I see my care for each one, and yet also my tendency to be strict and somewhat directive in what I feel they should be doing, I know too where I got that from! The wonder of Mom’s love is that it has become unconsciously contagious, and it is her love, living in us with which we face life and the next generation.

A friend of mine had a poster in his office that said something like this: A parent’s love is there to give children roots and wings. I guess what I’ve been trying to say is that Mom has given us both: roots, a home in her heart and in her concern and prayers; wings, in our own ability to love and care for others, which we learned from her, and which we now take on our own very different life journeys.

Mom, tonight, at this Mass, in the presence of the Lord, we want to thank you for your very precious love, which is our home, and which is now our own capacity to love. And our prayer tonight is that you feel tonight that the love you have given us is being returned to you with such gratitude. Often, I know you feel we don’t show it enough, but tonight, please pay attention to all the little details, and to how much we all want to make this special for you, so that you know in your deepest heart that you are loved and appreciated by your children. Life is not perfect; this side of heaven, it will never be; we struggle with our different personalities and concerns, and we sometimes fight or seem to neglect one another; but tonight, I pray the Lord may make you know that your seventy five years of life are cherished and valued by us, and that we love you. May this knowledge give you the inner peace and the happiness you deserve after forty-eight years of mothering. Happy birthday, Mom, from all of us, with much love and prayer!

October 3, 2003

The Pope's Important Call for Unity in the Church

2008-04-19T21:26:00.002+02:00

The homily the Holy Father preached yesterday at St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York addresses one of the most painful problems of the Church in the United States, but also in other parts of the world, including the Philippines: polarization in the Church. The hardening of positions into ideological and mutually hostile divisions between so-called "conservatives" and "liberals" among Catholics is one of the most terrible wounds of the Church today.

Even the categories of "conservative" and "liberal" are unhelpful. They over-simplify very complex and nuanced positions. (For example, the popular (mis)characterization of Benedict as "conservative," hardly captures the complexity and radicality of his thought.) They allow one to be easily and unfairly dismissive of those whose ideas are different from one's own, without having to go through the laborious work of dialogue, dialogue which is, in the end, an imperative of charity.

When the mindset of "black and white," "us versus them" is appropriated by individuals or groups in the Church, when those who have different points of view are immediately and conveniently labeled as either "unorthodox" or "fundamentalist," dialogue becomes impossible, unity is destroyed, and scandal is created. One only need read the blogs of polarized individuals and groups. The vituperation, anger, arrogance, intolerance and blindness one often finds takes one's breath away. One wonders how the young would ever be attracted to such a Church.

That is why the Holy Father's homily is deeply significant. Just as he has courageously and honestly named the problem of sexual abuse, so he has named and confronted the terrible scourge of polarization in the Church. This is not a Pontiff who will indulge in comfortable denial for the sake of peace and bella figura ("a good image."). He names the problem plainly and clearly:

"For all of us, I think, one of the great disappointments which followed the Second Vatican Council, with its call for a greater engagement in the Church’s mission to the world, has been the experience of division between different groups, different generations, different members of the same religious family."

He points out the challenging and difficult way forward: the path of conversion and dialogue:

"We can only move forward if we turn our gaze together to Christ! In the light of faith, we will then discover the wisdom and strength needed to open ourselves to points of view which may not necessarily conform to our own ideas or assumptions. Thus we can value the perspectives of others, be they younger or older than ourselves, and ultimately hear "what the Spirit is saying" to us and to the Church (cf. Rev 2:7). In this way, we will move together towards that true spiritual renewal desired by the Council, a renewal which can only strengthen the Church in that holiness and unity indispensable for the effective proclamation of the Gospel in today’s world."

Why is the task of healing division and fostering unity anew so vital? The Holy Father explains using the image of the stained glass windows of the Cathedral. "From the outside," he says, "those windows are dark, heavy, even dreary." But, "once one enters the church, they suddenly come alive; reflecting the light passing through them, they reveal all their splendor." So it is, the Holy Father says, with the Church: "It is only from the inside, from the experience of faith and ecclesial life, that we see the Church as she truly is: flooded with grace, resplendent in beauty, adorned by the manifold gifts of the Spirit."

The problem is: how do you draw people into the Church? The Holy Father admits that "this is no easy task in a world which can tend to look at the Church, like those stained glass windows, 'from the outside': a world which deeply senses a need for spirituality, yet finds it difficult to 'enter into' the mystery of the Church."

Thus the need to overcome the ideological hostility and division in the Church, for amidst all this angry mutual excommunication and bitter condemnation, "Perhaps we have lost sight of this: in a society where the Church seems legalistic and "institutional" to many people, our most urgent challenge is to communicate the joy born of faith and the experience of God’s love."

This is a constant theme of Benedict in his many homilies and discourses. The world needs to see the joy that comes from embracing the Gospel if it is to receive the Gospel as the Word of life which responds to its deepest longings. Thus, he exhorts the seminarians and young religious present:

Act as beacons of hope, casting the light of Christ upon the world, and encouraging young people to discover the beauty of a life given completely to the Lord and his Church. I make this plea in a particular way to the many seminarians and young religious present. All of you have a special place in my heart. Never forget that you are called to carry on, with all the enthusiasm and joy that the Spirit has given you, a work that others have begun, a legacy that one day you too will have to pass on to a new generation. Work generously and joyfully, for he whom you serve is the Lord! 

That we may overcome divisions in the Church through dialogue, and that together we may "communicate [to the world] the joy born of faith and the experience of God's love": this is the prayer the Holy Father's homily inspires.

Christ our Hope: Audio of the Pope's Homily at Washington Stadium

2008-04-18T03:29:00.000+02:00

Below is the Vatican Radio recording of the Holy Father's homily at the Mass he celebrated yesterday at the Washington National Stadium, before a congregation of about 50,000 people.

The homily is a moving message of hope, including a courageous and humble admission (the third public mention) of the terrible pain and shame caused by abuse in the Church. It calls the Church in America (and indeed in all parts of the world) to work for healing, to remain firm in hope even amidst the "groaning" of this present time, to overcome the divisions of polarization in the Church, and to continue proclaiming the Gospel which is a response to world's deepest search for freedom, authentic happiness and "the fulfillment of its deepest aspirations." It is permeated by a profound longing that the Holy Spirit renew the face of the earth and the Church.

The Holy Father has surprised and consoled so many by his great-hearted, humble and hopeful deeds and acts: in his meetings with the bishops, with the victims of abuse, with University Presidents. We continue to pray for the Holy Father in his mission, as successor of Peter, of witnessing to the Resurrection, and of confirming the brothers and sisters in faith, hope and love.

Audio of the Benedict XVI's Address to the US Bishops

2008-04-17T20:16:00.000+02:00

From the Vatican Radio podcast, here is an audio clip of the Holy Father's encounter with the American bishops. I include here only the question and answer (apparently previously prepared) section. The Holy Father answers three questions: his assessment of secularism, his comments on a "quiet attrition" by which Catholics gradually distance themselves from the practice of the faith in the Church, his advice on the issue of decline of priestly vocations.

If one can get past the somewhat heavy German accent of Pope Benedict, and listens in a more meditative manner, one will find much here that is deep, interesting and thought-provoking. I am particularly taken by the Holy Father's insistence that one of today's great challenges is "recapturing the Catholic vision of reality and presenting it in an engaging and imaginative way."