The Faces of Two Women, and the Hands of a Third

The Prayer for today’s Feast of St. Luke the Evangelist begins: “Father, You chose Luke the Evangelist to reveal by preaching and writing the mystery of Your love for the poor.” With this prayer in mind, I thought it was fitting that the photo above was featured in today’s online issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer. Indeed, the faces of these two women succinctly captures the dilemma of our world: even as our culture invites us to the worship of the beautiful, the sexy, and the trendy, Christ’s Gospel always reminds us of our call and our mission to minister to the lowly and the poor.

This Feast of the Evangelist is also special for me because today would have been my grandmother’s 88th birthday. Lola (literally, grandma in Tagalog), as all her grandchildren and great grandchildren called her, was Elpidia Antonio Soriano Vda. de Zamora. Widowed at 36 with four children in her care and an unborn child in her womb, this unlettered woman knew what it was like to be poor yet gave to her children the one treasure she possessed: her Catholic faith. I don’t remember Lola as a great and glamorous dame; rather, she was the silent old lady kneeling in front of the image of the Mater Dolorosa, her back hunched by years of washing other people’s laundry, her hands worn and calloused as much by water and detergent as they were by the beads of her rosary.

I remember my Lola’s hands and find in them a model for the Priesthood. Indeed, should not the priest’s hands be as much worn and calloused by his prayers as much as they should be by his labor for God’s poor? Even as I find myself falling short of this ideal, this balanced dedication for both ora and labora, I also am confident that Lola continues to ask the Mother of our Joys and our Sorrows to teach me what it means to be a lowly servant magnifying God, our Lord and Lover of the poor. At the end of my days I pray that I might see the faces of these two women—my Lola and our Blessed Mother—and that they might lead me by their worn and calloused hands into the welcoming arms of Him who has so richly loved us in our poverty.

The Best View of Saint Meinrad

I was asked by the Saint Meinrad Development Office to speak at the Louisville/New Albany Regional Benefactors’ Brunch. The brunch was held at the elegant Fountain Room of the Galt House in Louisville KY for seventy or so benefactors of Saint Meinrad. Among those in attendance were the Most Rev. Thomas C. Kelly, OP, DD, Archbishop of Louisville (who was recently made an Honorary Alumnus of the School of Theology), and the Right Rev. Bonaventure Knaebel, OSB, Retired Archabbot of Saint Meinrad (who in fact is a native of New Albany). What follows is the text of what I shared today to the benefactors about the role Saint Meinrad has played in my discernment and preparation for the Priesthood.

An older monk was once heard saying at the end of a long day, “The best view of Saint Meinrad is from a rearview mirror.” I suppose many of us at Saint Meinrad have found ourselves in the shoes of that anonymous monk at one time or another during our stay on the Holy Hill. Some perhaps on a weary day. Others at the end of a frustrating week of work. Most seminarians feel that way during Finals. I felt that way in my first year of seminary.

I had a difficult first year at Saint Meinrad: half of the time I was dreadfully homesick. I missed my family who were all back in the Philippines, on the other side of the globe. I missed teaching Literature in the university. I missed eating Filipino food and speaking in my own native tongue. So, I kept praying to God: “Lord, You told the rich young man in the Gospel to sell all his possessions and then follow You. He turned his back on You but I didn’t. I left my home, my family, my job, because I firmly believed You were calling me to be a priest in the mission diocese of Lexington, to serve especially the growing Filipino community there. You promised that I would be rewarded a hundredfold, yet here I am in the middle of Nowhere, Indiana, in the land of bratwursts and sauerkraut, where the bells wake every monk, seminarian, and cattle at 5:15 in the morning. Lord Jesus, where is the love?”

Yes, I was homesick. But most of all, I was frustrated with how my vocation story was unfolding. I was frustrated because I came to Saint Meinrad with my own vision of seminary life, with my own program of formation for the priesthood. I thought I knew better. I thought I had it all figured out. I thought they should have taken one look at me and then called Bishop Williams in and had him lay his hands on my head and ordain me right then and there. I was wrong.

I was wrong in thinking that conversion ended the day I entered seminary. I was wrong in thinking that the giving up of possessions ended when I arrived in Lexington. I was wrong in thinking that my vision of seminary life and my own program of formation were better than the Church’s vision and the Church’s program of formation. I was wrong in thinking that fervor and enthusiasm could take the place of formation.

In that difficult first year of seminary, Fr. Kurt Stasiak, OSB, spoke to our class on a verse from St. Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians. The verse is from 2 Cor 4:7, and it goes: “But we hold this treasure in earthen vessels, that the surpassing power may be of God and not from us.” That short verse put everything in my life into perspective: it reminded me why I am in seminary (to be formed into this earthen vessel), what my call is (to be a herald of a Gospel that is not my own), and whom I am serving (God and God alone).

Four years have passed since I heard that verse in a new and profound way. Four years of having his earthen vessel formed and re-formed by Saint Meinrad, of having the arrogance of my youth humbled by the constant witness of the monks to the Gospel of Christ. Four years of being in seminary and being taught everyday by everyone in Saint Meinrad—monks, faculty, coworkers, and brother-seminarians—that the call to the Priesthood is already in itself Christ’s promised hundredfold return. Four years of continually giving up my earthly possessions to finally realize that there is but only one possession in the world worth keeping: our faith in Christ. Four years of missing out on parties and dates to finally realize that there is but one feast worth partaking: the Eucharist. Four years of living apart from my family to finally realize that there is but one family worth belonging to: the Church. Four years of being in constant prayer to finally realize that there is but one life worth living: life in the Spirit.

Four years have come and gone and I am now in my final year in seminary. Next May, when, God willing, Bishop Gainer will call me to the Order of the Priesthood, I will pack my bags and drive down that Holy Hill and I will see on my rearview mirror the best view of Saint Meinrad. That view I will see at the end of a worthwhile formation by Saint Meinrad, and it will help me to look back at the joys and sorrows, struggles and growth that Saint Meinrad has helped me through to be, God willing, a good priest, but more so to be a better Catholic and to be a better human being.

Fall Festivities 2006

We used to call it the Around the World Party. On a Thursday in mid-October, seminarians—most especially the foreign-born seminarians—would host together a room that showcased the culture and food (not to mention, the drinks) of their homeland or their home state. The international flair and flavor (hence, the name Around the World Party) was already there when I entered Saint Meinrad in 2002. Thus far, we’ve had everything from the Polish Room to the African Room, from the Latin American Room to the Korean Room, as well as the state-side rooms: Kansas City KS, Toledo OH, Tulsa OK, Louisiana, Iowa,—you get the picture.

If truth be told, I never did host a Filipino Room in my five years here at Saint Meinrad. The prospect of cooking that much Filipino food on my own was too scary, I suppose. Yet, I did host the Kentucky room with Deacon Chris Clay for a couple of years. The first time was during our Pre-Theology days; we had mint juleps flowing from our makeshift bar, horse races blaring on the small TV, Derby pies, country ham—you name it. We were quite successful in presenting this whole ambience of Kentuckiana that we received the award for the Best Room that year. (The secret to our success, as the joke goes, was serving the bourbon.) The second time we hosted the Kentucky room we teamed up with the seminarians from the Diocese of Owensboro. That was last year. Chris and I again provided the libations and the races, while the Owensboro guys brought burgoo, Owensboro barbeque, and venison. By that time, awards and prizes were no longer given away and the name Around the World Party had been changed to the more benign Fall Festivities.

But even with the name change, everyone still receives a “passport” of trivia questions on each of the Rooms featured in the Festivities. People would bring their passport along and ask their host/s for the answers to the trivia questions about their home. This has always been a fun and informative icebreaker especially for those of us who are introverts.

This year there were twelve rooms in all: Togo, Kenya, Fall Foods, New York City, India, the Southern States, Zambia, Nigeria, South Korea, Latin America, Vietnam, and Toledo OH. Third floor Sherwood hasn’t had this much activity since they moved out all the seminarians there for the renovation. (Sherwood is scheduled to be gutted out in November and then renovated within the year or so.) There was plenty of food and drinks: cheesecake in New York, kimchi in Korea, chili dogs in Toledo, salsa and tortillas in Latin America, just to name a few. Needless to say, most everyone ate a light dinner (several opted for a salad) in anticipation of tonight's Festivities.

I especially had fun visiting our seminarian-brothers studying here at Saint Meinrad for the Diocese of Busan in South Korea: John Kang, Pan Lim, Timothy Lee, and TA Hong. Above is my picture with them in front of the Korean Room.

Class Picnic at the Esser House

It was warm and sunny here in Southern Indiana—a great day for a picnic! So to a picnic our Deacon Class went. Actually, Fr. Joe Moriarty, the Associate Spiritual Director of the School of Theology, had invited our class a couple of weeks ago for a meal today at his home here at Saint Meinrad. Thus, we gathered at Esser House (a good six minute walk down one hill and up another, located at the far western side of the Archabbey grounds) at five in the afternoon to pray Vespers and then to partake of a meal prepared by Fr. Joe and Aaron, one of the seminarians from the Archdiocese of Indianapolis. We had steak, baked potatoes, and green beans, cookies for dessert, and much deserved rest and relaxation.


Fr. Joe’s warm Irish hospitality was a welcome respite from our barrage of readings and assignments. It is becoming a very busy Fall Semester; we have several deadlines coming up this week (a paper on our genogram for Ministry to Families and postings for Catholic Sexual and Medical Ethics) and the next (a wedding homily for Practicum). Of course, most everyone's mind is really on October 28, the Diaconate Ordination of twelve members of our class (and Br. Paul, OSB, of the Archabbey) at the Archabbey Church. I know how much anxiety builds up as the date gets closer (call it pre-ordination jitters, for lack of a better term) because I had to deal with the same bulk of planning and preparation for my Diaconate Ordination last June. Fr. Joe had wanted to host our class to a Pre-Ordination meal and thanks to him we got to leave our anxieties about school and ordination at his door, if only for an hour or two.

Father

Today is the Memorial of St. Denis, Martyr and Bishop of Paris and patron saint of our own Fr. Denis, OSB, here at Saint Meinrad. Last semester, Fr. Denis' lecture in our Sacrament of Marriage Class (on George Eliot's novel Middlemarch) inspired me to revise a poem I had written on the Priesthood. I share this poem in his honor.

Father
for the Rev. Denis Robinson, OSB

This must be my heaven:
cold bed of a lenten life,
heated leftovers from another man’s feast,
cold shower on a winter morning.

(Hell’s next door: the empty church
parking lot littered by teenagers’
beer cans on New Year’s eve.)

This eden’s rein is the white band
around my neck, the noose of a pluperfect life.
With it I wear my blacks—not to mourn
lost loves but—to savor God’s spoils:
sexless nights, wifeless days, childless years.

Here I found my advent joy:
on a nameless night, beside her numbered
hospital bed, a dying penitent clings to my hand
and whispers in her final breath my borrowed name:
Father.

12.iii.2006

Deacon at the Abbey Church

The Rosary as the Epic of Our Salvation

On this Memorial of Our Lady of the Holy Rosary, I would like to share this Rosary Reflection I delivered last year, October 9, 2005, the 28th Sunday in Ordinary Time, here at the St. Thomas Aquinas Chapel of the Saint Meinrad School of Theology.

She never learned how to read or write. She never went to school. And so, my grandmother, Elpidia Soriano viuda de Zamora, learned her prayers the way we learned ours as little children: by first hearing them and then repeating them on her own. That was how she learned the rosary: by first listening to the rhythm and regularity of misterio, one Ibpa mi, ten Bapu Marias, one Gloria Patri, O Jesus co, and so on, and then saying this mantra-like sequence of prayers: misterio, one Ibpa mi, ten Bapu Marias, one Gloria Patri, O Jesus co. That was also how the rest of my family learned the rosary; we first heard it and then we repeated it.

But the way grandmother prayed her rosary was different from the way my cousins and I did it. She always said the words slowly and surely, while the rest of us, all college educated, just spouted and sped through the prayers like trains madly rushing to their destinations. No matter what happened, grandma never sped through her rosary; she prayed it deliberately, meant and measured every word. She meant and measured every word because it was only in the speaking and the hearing of those mysteries of faith that she could remember them. She could not read them again in the Bible or in a theology textbook. She could not expound on what they meant in writing. All that she could do was to repeat the Good News that she had heard before. Indeed, while my cousins and I were merely repeating formulas we have learned, formulas read and further explained to us in our education, my grandma, on the other hand, was drawing from her own fragile memory an epic story taught to her by her own parents, an epic handed down through the centuries from one generation of Sorianos and Zamoras to another. Unfortunately, the rosary was not an epic for me and my cousins; it was merely a string of words: one word after another. For our illiterate grandma, the rosary was more than that; it was for her words of joy, sorrow, glory, and light.

She never learned how to read or write. She never went to school. All that Mary of Nazareth could look forward to as the wife of a carpenter was to be the mother of a carpenter. After all, nothing good was expected to come out of Nazareth. And yet, from that forgotten town the epic of our salvation was fulfilled, having as its main characters that same illiterate woman and her carpenter son. It is that epic of joy, sorrow, glory, and light that we remember in every rosary. It is that epic of mysteries from on high unfolding from those considered lowly that we have recited from generation to generation to generation. It is that epic taught to me by an illiterate woman about another illiterate woman in ages past who said but a word and the Word was made flesh and the world was never the same way again.

Beneath the Same Sheltering Sky

The sun shines bright red over the horizon as dawn dissolves the surrounding darkness. Slowly, like pigments being smeared together, stains of purple fade into maroon, then orange, then pink, till the palest blue emerges and scatters all over the dome of the sky. Again, the miracle of morning unfolds.

I remember witnessing this same miracle many, many mornings before with my father. He would wake me up early and we would ride on his bicycle to the bridge over Cutud. There we would hold vigil for the gentle rising of the sun from behind the lofty lonely summit of Arayat. I would watch in that twilight the water buffalo wade through the golden fields of ripening rice. Behind him walked the farmer singing an ancient kundiman to his beloved, while crickets and cicadas hummed their own little ditties.

But there is no Arayat summit before me here. Instead, I have the day breaking from behind the indigo-shadowed Appalachian range. I watch the thoroughbreds graze on the bluegrass-blanketed hills as the robins chirp away in the shade of the elms. In the distance, an old man plays his fiddle while his young companion wails the loss of his wife, his dog, and his automobile.

I close my eyes as I stand here, a stranger in a strange land. I know that my feet do not rest on the soft, pliant earth of my homeland, yet I find my heart and my soul truly at rest. Yes, this mountain rock may be unmarked by the hooves of the damulag and unwatered by monsoon rains. Still, I stand here, my feet now rooted to this foreign soil, basking beneath the same sheltering sky.