Beneath the Same Sheltering Sky

New Blog

2009-01-04T16:20:00.003-05:00

I have decided to start fresh. On the first of this year, I've moved on to a new blog: noelzamora.wordpress.com which is a little more friendly to guys like me who don't know a whole lot about formatting blogs. I won't be updating this blog anymore; in fact, I am planning on deleting it in the near future. So, please visit and subscribe to my new blog at wordpress.

God Never Stops Being Our Father

2007-09-16T23:58:00.000-04:00

I preached the homily for the 24th Sunday in Ordinary Time this weekend (September 15-16) at the 4PM Saturday evening Mass and the 8:15 AM Sunday morning Mass here at Mary, Queen of the Holy Rosary Catholic Church, Lexington KY, where I've been Parochial Vicar since the 5th of July. The readings for this Sunday are the following: Ex 32:7-11, 13-14; Ps 51:3-4, 12-13, 17, 19; 1 Tim 1:12-17; Lk 15:1-32. What are in parentheses below are lines that I delivered spontaneously during the homily and only added afterwards to the original text.

Last Friday, I drove down Kingdom Come Parkway to attend a funeral for a Filipino doctor in Harlan, Kentucky. (Of course, I knew that Harlan is a fur piece from Lexington but I didn’t realize that I had to drive through Kingdom Come to get there.) At the funeral, several people gave eulogies in honor of Dr. Ocampo, among them this older gentleman who shared something that seemed to me really didn’t fit in his eulogy and it was also something that I found to be quite sad. For the sake of this story, let’s call this man 'Ron.'

This man shared that his son now calls him 'Ron' and not 'Dad,' because the son had told him that after his 18th birthday, his father’s work was done, his father no longer has any control or influence over him, he is now forever independent from his father. Thus, he feels no need to call his dad 'Dad;' he’s now just plain 'Ron.'

I don’t know about you, but, I thought to myself that they got it all wrong. At least from what I was taught as a child growing up, a father never stops being a father, a mother never ceases being a mother. A son or a daughter might stop being a son or a daughter to his or her parents, that is, he or she might stop being a child who respects and honors his or her parents, but a father is always a father, a mother is always a mother.

Then again, this just might be my so-called ‘backward-Third-World’ values talking. What do I know? I don’t have any kids of my own.

Still, this incident came to mind when I heard this Parable of the Prodigal Son, how in the parable the son decided to stop being a son to his father, how he was insistent on cutting his ties with his family, how he wanted to leave home with his share of the inheritance and to spend it every which way he wanted—every which way that brought shame and disgrace to himself, every which way that brought shame and disgrace to his father, every which way that brought shame and disgrace to his family name. The Prodigal Son stopped being his father’s son, and he himself admitted this when he said, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I no longer deserve to be called your son.”

But here is the Good News: the father in the parable never stopped being a father. Despite the fact that his son has brought shame upon himself and to his name, despite the fact that he no longer deserved to be called his son, despite the fact that his son had rejected him, the father never stopped being a father to his son. He never stopped calling him his son. He never stopped forgiving his son. He never stopped loving his son. He never stopped loving his son because he knows that a parent’s love does not come with expiration dates.

But in our lives, in our society, in our day, we know that there are fathers who have forgotten how to be fathers and have left their families. We know that there are mothers who have forsaken being mothers and have allowed their unborn children to be killed. Yet, we hear the words of the Lord from the 49th chapter of Isaiah: “Can a mother forget her baby, or a woman the child within her womb? Yet even if these forget, I will never forget you. I will never forsake you. See, I have carved your name on the palm of my hands.”

Indeed, even when we stop being God’s children, God never stops being our Father—just like that father in the parable: God never stops being God. Even when we forget God, God never forgets us. Even when we turn our back to God, God never turns His back on us. Even when we stop praying to God, God never stops calling us His children. Even when we sin and devote ourselves to the idols of our day, God never stops forgiving us. Even when we stop loving God, God never stops loving us.

(This past Tuesday, we marked the sixth anniversary of the tragedy of September 11. I remember how many in those days following 9-11 demanded, “Where was God?” And yet, at the 5:30 PM Mass last Tuesday, on the sixth anniversary of that tragedy, there were only six people at Mass. I was wondering whether God was going to ask back, “Where were you?” Where is God? God is always with us. Indeed, it is us who are not always with Him. We, just like that prodigal son, are the ones who often distance ourselves away from God. But, day in and day out, God is always with us.)

We might forget that. We might not even believe that. But that doesn’t change the fact that our names are carved on the palm of His hands. Our names are carved there by rusty nails driven through flesh because there is no pain, there is no suffering, there is no sin of ours that He would not bear, because there is nothing that would stop Him from loving us.

Comfort Food

2007-05-09T00:10:00.000-04:00

I presided over the Exposition and Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament tonight at the Saint Thomas Aquinas Chapel here at Saint Meinrad. I preached a short homily (my last as a transitional deacon here at the seminary) based on one of the Bread of Life discourses, specifically, Jn 6:24-35.

Some people have fried twinkies. Others have Doritos. I have the strawberry cheesequake blizzard from Dairy Queen. It’s what we call comfort food: the dessert, the snack, the meal that we would turn to when our day needs some major cheering up. When all else fails, a pint of ice cream, a slice of cold pizza, a bag of butter-drenched popcorn, or what-have-you brings that sought after consolation to the breaking heart and satisfaction to the empty stomach, and somehow it makes an unbearable day a lot more bearable.

I suppose it is part of our make-up as human beings. The food that we crave when we are hungry not only satisfies the emptiness in our bellies, it also can console us in our miseries, albeit for a short while. Food has the ability of captivating us by heightening our senses; it makes our mouths water, it thrills our sense of smell, it captivates our eyes with its colors, it can give us a brain-freeze. Food, good food is good, and some of it that can be bad for you—fried twinkies, Doritos, and DQ blizzards—also has the ability to make you feel better.

No one else understands this more than the God who made us. A quick glance at the Sacred Scriptures will remind us of how concerned God has been throughout salvation history about the diet of His people. Don’t eat the fruit of that tree, He told Adam and Eve. Prepare unleavened bread and roast lamb for your Passover, He ordered the Israelites in Egypt. In the desert, He gave His people manna and quail from Heaven and water from the rock to sustain them in their journey to the Promised Land. He sent an angel to take Habakkuk by the hair so that the prophet could share his bread and stew with the starving Daniel in the den of lions. And don’t even get me started with the God-given dietary laws in the Book of Leviticus. The history of our salvation bears witness to our Lord who nourishes the hungers of our bodies and feeds our starving hearts and souls.

It should not come as a surprise then that our Lord chose food—bread and wine consecrated by His words—to be the sacrament of His real presence to His people. The Eucharist is food; it retains the appearance, the smell, the taste, the feel of food that sustains an empty stomach. But more so this food is the Body and Blood of Christ, the foretaste and promise of everlasting joy. Our Lord is profoundly sensitive to our human sensibilities that He deemed to give Himself to us in so tangible a manner such that our salvation is now something we can see, smell, taste, touch, eat. But this is also the Paschal Lamb that the Church in the East proclaims is ever eaten but is never consumed. Manna and quail, the forbidden fruit of the tree and the water from the rock, all of these that once fed our ancestors in faith eventually went stale and old. But the Bread of Life is non-perishable: it endures for eternal life.

This is the Bread of Life; whoever partakes of Him will never hunger, and whoever believes in Him will never thirst. This is the ultimate comfort food, that which not only gives us the consolation of God but more so unites us with the God of consolation. There is no other food on earth that the very sight of it can nurture many a famished soul. For indeed, whatever pain and drudgery is there in our lives, we know that in this Blessed Sacrament we can find our viaticum, the comfort and the strength we need in our pilgrim way.

Stay then with Him and let your hunger be fed, your thirst slaked, your burdens lifted, your heart comforted, your life filled with grace upon grace.

The Beloved Disciple(s) at the Foot of the Cross

2007-04-06T19:46:00.000-04:00

I preached the homily at this afternoon's celebration of the Lord's Passion at St. William Catholic Church in London Kentucky. These were the readings for Good Friday: Is 52:13-52:12; Ps 31:2, 12-13, 15-17, 25; Heb 4:14-16; 5:7-9; Jn 18:1-19:42

We know their names, all of those whom Jesus called to be His disciples. We know where they’re from. We know their stories. We know which one had trouble handling money, which one was a religious fanatic, who were the fishermen, which ones were the mama’s boys. We know of their efforts to follow Jesus and we also know how they fared on these three days. One betrayed Jesus and sold Him off for thirty pieces of silver. The others snoozed through the night of prayer and later abandoned the Master. Another denied ever knowing Him. The rest stood by in silence as injustice was carried out according to the demands of the crowd: to have Him who is most innocent be crucified. Yes, we know who the disciples of Jesus are, and we also know what they have done and what they have failed to do.

We know their names because they are our names. We are the disciples of Jesus. And, in our lives, we too have betrayed Jesus for a whole lot less than thirty silver coins. We call such betrayal ‘sin.’ The Lord knows that we have snoozed through many a moment of prayer. We may not have denied knowing Jesus, but we fail miserably every day to share with others what we know of Him. We have stood by in silence as small acts of injustice are carried out. Indeed, we the modern-day disciples of Jesus are no different from the Twelve who came before us. Look at the cross; look at the bloody and broken body of our naked Savior. This happened because of what we His disciples have done, but most of all because of what we have failed to do.

Yet despite all this, the final word is not sin and death; it is mercy and eternal life. That is what we have gathered here today to remember. Here and now the Lord offers us another chance, the chance to be that other disciple, the disciple whom Jesus loved, that one who stood at the foot of the cross throughout the ordeal of Good Friday. In our sinful lives, we have failed the Lord in the same way as those other disciples did. But right here and right now, we are no longer those disciples. Instead, we are all called to be the beloved disciple of Christ; we are called to stand at the foot of His cross.

In a few moments that cross will be brought into this church and raised up for our eyes to see. Then we will have the opportunity to approach and to venerate the wood of the cross on which hung the Savior of the world. The Jews look at the cross and call it a scandal; the Gentiles call it madness. But we bow down in worship to the cross because it is not a scandal. It is salvation for the whole world. It is not madness; it is the wisdom of God. It is not defeat; it is victory. It is not the finality of death; it is the key to eternal life.

Behold, then, the wood of the cross, on which hung the Savior of the world. Come, all of you, beloved disciples of Christ; let us worship.

Season of the Superlative

2007-02-20T14:23:00.000-05:00

I preached the homily today, the Tuesday of the Seventh Week in Ordinary Time (also known as Mardi Gras, the eve of Ash Wednesday), at the St. Thomas Aquinas Chapel of the Saint Meinrad School of Theology. These were the readings of the day: Sir 2:1-11; Ps 37:3-4, 18-19, 27-28, 39-40; Mk 9:30-37.

So, here we are again in the season of superlatives, that time of the year when we hear a lot of talk about who and what is the best, the most outstanding, the most valuable, the greatest. It’s the awards season. Here we are a week and a half after the Grammys honored the best in music and a mere five days before movie buffs fulfill their annual Oscar obligation. But, lest we forget, we are also only a week away from every sports fans’ favorite month, the madness that is March. Indeed, it is the season of superlatives: of best picture, best actor, best actress, best director, of most valuable player, most outstanding player, of record and album of the year. It’s also the season of office pools and Vegas high stakes, the season when every score and point counts, when every vote matters, when all bets are on: which teams will make the Sweet Sixteen, which ones will move on to the Elite Eight, who are going to duke it out in the Final Four. Or, in my world, the question is: will Martin Scorsese, on this his sixth nomination as Best Director, finally win his first Oscar?

Who is the best, the most outstanding, the most valuable, the greatest? The Gospel tells us that even the disciples were keenly interested in that question. I’m sure that the Twelve were probably keeping score among themselves: how many evil spirits did one drive away, what’s their personal best for conversions in a day, which one got the most me-and-Jesus time. It’s just what people do when they get together; they compare their achievements and talk about their success stories. Of course, what fool would risk being vulnerable in a group of twelve men and share his disappointments and failures? The disciples were having a session on superlatives, not an IPR meeting at their ministry assignment. It was all fun until, Jesus, like a CPE supervisor who bursts everyone’s bubble, confronts them, and soon it became clear to all how childish it was to argue among themselves who is the greatest. It was childish because they were arguing about this right after Jesus speaks to them about His passion, death, and resurrection. Indeed, the self-interest of the disciples pales in comparison to Jesus’ self-sacrifice.

In the end, it doesn’t matter who is the best, the most outstanding, the most valuable, the greatest among us. Indeed, all of us will be told tomorrow to remember that we are but dust and unto dust we shall return. It doesn’t matter what we have—Grammy awards, Oscar statuettes, NCAA titles; all signs and symbols of our superlative achievements eventually tarnish and break, are forgotten and get lost. Only one sign of superlative achievement has endured throughout human history: the cross of One who humbled Himself to become man and suffered and died for the sins of the world, Him who is always the first and the greatest yet chose to be the last and the servant of all. Only He has made a victory out of what seems to be a defeat. Only He has given life out of His death. Only He has brought redemption out of His condemnation.

So, we gather here in this eve of the season of Lent, the season of Him who alone is the superlative, and we do so beneath the shadow of His cross and before the altar of His sacrifice. Happy are we to be in His company. Grateful are we to be His friends. Humbled are we to be called to His supper.

Diaconate Ordination in Sioux City IA

2006-12-15T23:58:00.000-05:00

By the end of the Fall Semester, only two of our classmates had yet to be ordained to the Diaconate: Brent Lingle and Bao Vo, both of the Diocese of Sioux City IA. Their Ordination was scheduled for today, Friday, at six in the early evening at the Cathedral of the Epiphany in Sioux City. Only five members of our nineteen-strong Deacon Class were not able to make it. Those who were from neighboring dioceses and states drove up to Sioux City; the rest of us flew in to the airport in Omaha NE and then drove up to southwestern Iowa.

Deacon Chris and I were among those who flew in. We left the Bluegrass Airport in Lexington on Thursday afternoon and arrived at around 9:30 at night in Omaha. It was already late and we still had an hour-and-a-half drive left before we would arrive at our hotel in North Sioux City in South Dakota. In those wee hours of the night, I drove through three states to get to the Comfort Inn in North Sioux City where the rest of our classmates were staying. (This was one of those tristate areas; in this case, these three states converge: Iowa, Nebraska, and South Dakota.) But here was the blessing: the northern lights were dancing in the evening sky while I was driving up to South Dakota. Much of this area remains rustic; thus, no other lights—incandescent and fluorescent—distracted us from the glorious aurora borealis that was guiding our northern drive.

The northern lights reminded me last night of the great blessing that our two brother-deacons received this evening. I have seen all but one of my classmates (Br. Cyril, OSB of St. Joseph Abbey in Louisiana) get ordained yet each time I do not cease to be amazed by the immensity of the grace that we have received through the Sacrament of Orders. I pray that all of us will be reminded constantly of the utter simplicity of having been called by God and of the glorious gift of having been chosen to serve Him and His Church.

Diaconate Ordination in Glennonville MO

2006-12-02T22:09:00.000-05:00

The entire Deacon Class (with the exception of Deacon Stern who stayed behind to preach the homily at the Sunday Eucharist at the St. Thomas Aquinas Chapel) braved the five hour road trip to southern Missouri so that we could all attend the Diaconate Ordination of our classmate, Joe Weidenbenner of the Diocese of Springfield-Cape Girardeau. Five vehicles left Saint Meinrad at different times on Friday, hoping all the while that we would avoid the snowstorm that had ravaged a good part of the Midwest that day. The Ford van I was in arrived at around eight o’ clock Friday evening at the Holiday Inn in Poplar Bluff MO, but not before all six of us had a stopover in Sikeston to dine at the renowned Lambert’s Café, the “only home of throwed rolls.” Lambert’s was a great experience in southern dining, yet I wasn’t brave enough to catch any of the throwed rolls; I just asked my classmates to catch a couple for me.

After breakfast this morning, the class drove down to Joe’s hometown, Glennonville, for the Ordination. The liturgy was celebrated at his home parish, St. Teresa of Avila. His bishop, the Most Rev. John J. Leibrecht, DD, ordained him there, in the presence of his family and many friends. The whole crowd at the church gathered afterwards for the reception at the Knights of Columbus Hall where the picture on the right above of me and Deacons Clay and Weidenbenner was taken. (NB: Joe had to take off his clerics after getting icing on his coat and getting his collar all mixed up; that's why he's dressed up the way he is above.)

St. Nicholas Banquet

2006-12-01T00:27:00.000-05:00

Tradition here at Saint Meinrad dictates that the Deacon Class hosts the St. Nicholas Banquet, a pre-Christmas party of sorts for the seminary community. This is the last big (that is, school-wide) formal party planned and hosted by the Deacon Class; it is usually our sort of thank you and good bye to the school, done—well—five months before we actually leave.

Last night, the Deacon Class hosted an ‘anticipated’ (anticipated by a week; the feast of St. Nicholas is not until Wednesday) St. Nick’s Banquet. Our theme was inspired by the movie Home Alone, which was particularly apt because the President-Rector is gone on sabbatical for the first semester.

As Class President, I asked Deacon Rick Nagel to serve as over-all chair of this Banquet. I helped mostly in the background; I was co-chair of the Decorations Committee and I also sang with the St. Nick’s mini-schola. For the décor, I decided on a red and green motif. Thus, the Christmas tree was decorated with mostly red balls, to specially highlight the table centerpiece that I designed (the lamp surrounded by a garland of pine accented by sprigs of holly). The schola sang spoofs of songs that we often hear on Friday liturgies and we also lead the whole crowd in singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” and “O Come All Ye Faithful.”

The celebration went exceedingly well. It started with Evening Prayer with Benediction at the St. Thomas Aquinas Chapel. We then had hors d’oeuvres and St. Nick’s gift-giving to the children at the Alumni Commons. It was then that we presented our St. Nick for the year, our very own Br. Cyril, OSB, with his red beard all whitened up for the occasion. Finally, we moved the crowd to the Newman Dining Room where we served French onion soup, the main course (mashed potatoes and carrots, and spiral cut glazed ham, or salmon for the vegetarians), and dessert (cookies and cheesecake). We interrupted the meal a couple of times with our very own Home Alone video. The video was a hit with its many hilarious moments. Hopefully, I can later post it on youtube and link it here.

To the right is the class photo of our Deacon Class, taken after the Banquet. We all wore the red Santa hats while serving in the celebration.

Diaconate Ordination in Belleville IL

2006-11-25T21:05:00.000-05:00

We left Saint Meinrad at seven in the morning for the three hour drive to Belleville IL. There were three of us in the car: Deacon Tom, Patrick, and I. We had planned this day trip to attend the Diaconate Ordination of our friend and classmate, Ben Stern of the Diocese of Belleville. Another classmate, Joe, had driven from his home in southern Missouri to the Ordination. We arrived an hour or so before the 11 AM Ordination at the Cathedral of St. Peter in downtown Belleville.

Ben was ordained there by his bishop, the Most Rev. Edward K. Braxton, DD, PhD, STD, along with his diocesan brother, Steven L. Beatty, who is studying at Mundelein Seminary. There were twelve of Steven’s classmates from Mundelein, transitional deacons all, who also had driven down for the Ordination. One of them, Deacon Ryan Larson of the Diocese of Joliet in Illinois (who knows my good friend, Fr. Sunny, from his diocese), vested Deacon Steven with the stole and dalmatic. I, on the other hand, vested Deacon Ben with the stole and dalmatic.

Above is a photo of Deacon Tom and I with our newly ordained brother-deacon.

Thanksgiving 2006

2006-11-23T14:54:00.000-05:00

I wanted a hassle-free Thanksgiving Dinner this year. (Translation: I didn’t want to bother driving or flying; I just wanted to eat and, then, take a nap.) So, I decided to opt for what I did two years ago: stay here at Saint Meinrad and join the monks for their Thanksgiving festivities.

We all went to the Archabbey Church for Mass at 9:30 AM; after the Noon Office, we gathered at the Newman Dining Room for the Thanksgiving Dinner. For the Dinner, I joined two other seminarians, Deacon Tom Galarneault of the Diocese of Duluth and Matt Crane of the Diocese of St. Cloud, at the Prior’s table. There were ten of us at the table; with us and Fr. Prior Tobias were his mother, Mrs. Colgan (still pretty strong at the age of 90), Fr. Abbot Bonaventure, and Brothers Flavian, Mukasa, Cyril, and François. None of us at the table ever carved a turkey before. Br. Flavian tried his hand on it and did a pretty decent job. We shared a traditional Thanksgiving Dinner: turkey and stuffing, cranberries, sweet potatoes, and green beans, plus a pumpkin-carrot cake.

I had a good Thanksgiving this year. The best part, of course, was that it was hassle-free!

Love Stories

2006-11-21T14:42:00.000-05:00

On this Memorial of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, I preached the homily for the School Mass at the Saint Thomas Aquinas Chapel of the Saint Meinrad School of Theology. More than half of the community had already left for the Thanksgiving break, so it was a much slimmer crowd than usual. These were the readings for the day: Rev 3:1-6, 14-22; Ps 15:2-3a, 3bc-4ab, 5; Lk 19:1-10.

If chick flicks and romance novels are to be believed, all love stories basically fall into two categories: stories of love at first sight, and stories of love in hindsight.

Stories of love at first sight—we’re all familiar with how that plot goes. A man and a woman, strangers to one another, find themselves in the midst of a crowd. And then, there is that moment—when one sees the other across the crowded room, or she bumps into him, or he helps her pick up her books that have fallen on the floor—that one moment when their eyes meet, when one soul finally finds its mate, when both are bitten by the love bug and are overcome by a fever for which no doctor has a cure. Yup, that’s love at first sight.

Stories of love in hindsight, on the other hand, do not involve those sorts of fireworks. They are stories of the boy and the girl next door, of childhood friends and playmates that have always been there for each other. The story ends with both of them realizing that their one true love has always been their first love: one another. That’s love in hindsight for you.

Love stories: they’re either about love at first sight or love in hindsight. And experience tells us that our vocation stories are no different. Let’s face it: vocation stories are love stories; they tell of how we got to where we are now: deeply in love with Christ. And because vocation stories are love stories, they also fall into the same two categories: stories of love at first sight, and stories of love in hindsight.

Stories of love at first sight are those stories of conversion, stories of former sinners who reformed their ways when they finally encountered Christ in their lives. Stories like that of Zacchaeus, Jericho’s own corrupt tax-collector. He was a short gawker who climbed up a sycamore tree to get a better view of the celebrity passing by. Yet, Jesus looked up at that gawker and looked him in the eye. For Zacchaeus, it was love at first sight; it was love for Love Himself at first sight. Zacchaeus was not bitten by any love bug yet he caught a feverish zeal for the Lord, turned his back on his life of sin, and followed Jesus. And so it is for some of us here today: there was that one moment when God touched us and we followed Him and we never looked back. And it’s all because we fell in love with Christ at first sight.

For the rest of us, it was love in hindsight. It’s about a lifetime of being in Church, going to Church, doing Churchy things. God always has been there for us, waiting for us to keep saying yes at every turn. It’s a story not unlike that of the Blessed Virgin Mary whose life was dedicated to the service of the Lord from the very beginning. Today, we celebrate the memorial of her Presentation in the Temple. She was then but a girl of three. Little did she know that as she climbed up those 15 steps to the Temple, she was already taking the first steps of a journey that would find her climbing up a hill called Calvary. Hers was a lifetime of saying fiat at every turn, not just at the Annunciation. It’s no different from the stories of some of us who kept on saying yes to God at every turn, culminating in entering seminary or a religious order or perhaps deciding to raise a family. Ours is a story of God’s immense love that only makes perfect sense in hindsight.

And now we find ourselves here in this chapel, gathered around the table of the Lord: those who loved Him at first sight and those who loved Him in hindsight. Here we are at the banquet of His love to receive His Body and Blood, the gift of His love and the sustenance of our lives. Yet, even as He calls us to this table, so also He sends us forth from this table to be His instruments in the world, so that others out there might also fall in love with Him. He sends us forth to witness by our words and works, by our very lives, so that those who have yet to meet Him might come to know Him and be touched by Him and fall in love with Him at first sight. He sends us forth to nurture those who already know Him and serve Him so that when they are called to say yes again and again to His call, they will realize also His constant love in hindsight.

So shall it be until the end of days when finally all our love stories will find their one happy ending, when all of us, lovers of the God who first loved us, will delight in the blessed sight of Life eternal, of Joy eternal, of Love eternal.

Requiem

2006-11-02T23:30:00.000-05:00

On this Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed, I read these last lines in George Eliot’s novel Middlemarch:

“…for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.”

I had heard these words earlier in the day, in the homily preached by Fr. Denis, OSB, at the St. Thomas Aquinas Chapel. They echoed in my ear as I remembered the names of those family members and friends who have died since the last Feast of All Souls: Gregorio Antonio Soriano and Ofelia Suing-Soriano (my great uncle and great aunt), Virginia Torres viuda de Dizon (my paternal grandfather’s first cousin), Genoveva S. Tinio viuda de Galang (my cousin-in-law’s mother), Eduardo Torres Nunag (another cousin-in-law’s father), Jesus Lacson Simbillo (my Mom’s third cousin and also my Dad’s fourth cousin) and his firstborn son Manolito Simbillo, Nancy H. Fister (widow of Deacon Louis Fister of the Diocese of Lexington; Nancy and Spanky had always sent me a card at Christmas since I came into the Diocese), and Eugene Rodney Hutchinson (from my home parish of St. Martha’s in Prestonsburg; a retired officer of the Kentucky State Police, he had taught me how to parallel park when I first arrived in the United States).

I owe a lot of who I am now from the unhistoric acts of these men and women of happy memory. I have learned much from Ingcung Goyu’s piety, Apung Peleng’s humility, Apung Viring’s industry, Apung Beba’s devotion, Apung Eddie’s joie de vivre, Bapang Situk’s confidence, Cong Lito’s forgiveness, Nancy’s thoughtfulness, and Rodney’s patience. Indeed, things are not so ill with me partly because I have met and known these unhistoric men and women, but most of all because they have allowed me to know how it is like to be loved on this earth. Today, even when I am unable to visit their tombs, I name them in my prayers and implore our everloving God to keep them in His eternal embrace.

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

2006-10-19T00:30:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-15T19:46:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-12T23:06:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-10T20:30:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-09T07:47:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-08T15:07:00.000-04:00

The Rosary as the Epic of Our Salvation

2006-10-07T14:47:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-07T14:44:00.000-04:00

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.