A Leader for Dark Times: St. Joseph Pignatelli

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The More Loving One

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

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

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

Here is the poem, written by Auden in 1957:

The More Loving One

by W. H. Auden

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

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

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

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


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

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

A Prayer of St. Patrick (John Rutter)

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

A Prayer of St. Patrick (John Rutter)


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

Giving Christ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1 December 1988 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love,

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

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

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

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

Dear Atchi,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[to be continued]

Paskong Walang Hanggan

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

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

PASKONG WALANG HANGGAN

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

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

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

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