22nd Sunday, OT-A: Mt.16,21-17, "To Suffer Is To Live"

The world today reckons suffering as a non-value. Look at our lifestyle: There is instant coffee, instant pancit canton or sotanghon or batchoy, instant juice drink, instant you-name-it. “Instantism” has so developed in us that we already tend to see the virtues of patience, perseverance and endurance as unappealing. We squirm at the slightest inconvenience. We don’t want to carry crosses in our lives. For many of us, to be in the world is to enjoy all the pleasures, all the comforts and all the luxuries life can offer. And if the meaning and intention of life is to be happy, certainly suffering would be out of place. To suffer is to waste one’s life. To desire to suffer is insanity.

But we must remember that suffering is God’s way of bringing life into the world, of breathing out a new spirit into the world. We are in the world, yes. But we are not of the world. For us who wish to reach the end which is eternal life, for us who see beyond this world, for us who believe that there is life after death, suffering is the way to life.

Peter did not understand the whole import why Jesus had to suffer. He was unable to grasp that the Lord’s suffering was the only way to life. The Lord could not fulfill his messianic mission unless he humbled himself, suffered rejection and was put to death. His death was to be the spring from which would flow new life for the world. Peter tried to talk the Lord out of it. Perhaps, he meant well; we would not want a family member or a friend to suffer. But the Lord told him sternly: “Get behind me, Enemy! You are not judging by God’s standards but by man’s!”

It was through suffering that the world was saved in the Lord Jesus. Suffering, then, is a value. To this truth Peter was blind. If he were only able to see beyond suffering, he, at that moment, would have reckoned it sweetest. For after the Lord’s suffering, man was given new life.

Do you realize that people who have patiently gone through a lot of trials, people who have carried their crosses with faith in God, are the strong and tough ones? Who do you think are the people who surrender easily and even resort to committing suicide to end their suffering? They are the ones whose faith has not been edified because they would not take up their daily crosses. I do not think though that God wants us to suffer. God loves us so much that all he wants is our happiness. But while it is true that God wants all to be happy, he also chastises those whom he loves. So when difficulties and hardships abound, His grace abounds all the more. Didn’t Jesus say, “Blessed are they who suffer, for theirs is the kingdom of God?” Let us not be afraid even when problems and difficulties flood around us. He who suffered much will come to our aid. Let us “rejoice in hope, be patient under trial, persevere in prayer.”

Being man (part 9)

I don’t exactly remember how my senses roused from the shock. Nonetheless, I do remember staring at him while unreeling the utterances about the truth, but a while after, the stern gaze I was throwing on him did not reveal him anymore. The next time I was back on myself, he was already back on the sand, lying still. It did not take stock in me how long it took him to leave the water. I guess, I was too engrossed in figuring out what really was from what only seemed because until then I still couldn’t believe that the being I knew he was, was a mere belief, a deliverance of what appears to be. After all, Mark was not Mark. That directly violated the principle of non-contradiction. And that should be intellectually painful.

When my good sense returned, I felt obliged to near him. I folded my knees to a squat, and so I noticed that his eyes were shut off from the world. I fondly held his shoulder to demonstrate a special concern for him, to let him know that whenever he got entangled in brambles against forces unseen, unknown and unavoidable, I’d keep standing by him to brave him, to evidence it was no mistake when he reckoned me one true friend.

I was certain though that everything would not be the same again. (February, 1998)

To be continued...

Being man (part 8)

I don’t exactly remember how my senses roused from the shock. Nonetheless, I do remember staring at him while unreeling the utterances about the truth, but a while after, the stern gaze I was throwing on him did not reveal him anymore. The next time I was back on myself, he was already back on the sand, lying still. It did not take stock in me how long it took him to leave the water. I guess, I was too engrossed in figuring out what really was from what only seemed because until then I still couldn’t believe that the being I knew he was, was a mere belief, a deliverance of what appears to be. After all, Mark was not Mark. That directly violated the principle of non-contradiction. And that should be intellectually painful.

When my good sense returned, I felt obliged to near him. I folded my knees to a squat, and so I noticed that his eyes were shut off from the world. I fondly held his shoulder to demonstrate a special concern for him, to let him know that whenever he got entangled in brambles against forces unseen, unknown and unavoidable, I’d keep standing by him to brave him, to evidence it was no mistake when he reckoned me one true friend.

I was certain though that everything would not be the same again.

“Mark, I know how difficult all the confusion such as you suffer may get. I should remind you, however, that you did not cause yourself to be. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have elected to be the sort of being that you are now. You, all of us, had been thrown into this unfamiliar world without having been consulted about the sort of being you were to assume. You simply found yourself here and then you realized that you are who you are. How you are, how you feel, is beyond your responsibility. It is not your fault if you are naturally drawn to feel for one of your own kind. Don’t put the blame on you for this.”

“Do you like being Kenneth?”

I saw again those eyes that make me admire him. And I did not know what answer I would deliver to him. (February, 1998)

To be continued...

Being man (part 7)

Turning around, he thundered, “Did you hear that? I’m in love with another man!” He himself seemed surprised to hear the words slipping from his lips about his own self. “God, what have I gotten into?” His hands reached for his hips, then raised one, I don’t remember which, to his face, producing movements that expressed the confusion and the chaos and the agony that was he. Shaking his head vigorously, he said in escalating pitch, “This is crazy. I am crazy! Everything is! Oh, why did I ever have to feel this way? Why?”

That stark, unprecedented statement of Mark left me dumb. His confession became a lump on my throat so that not a word passed through it. I opened my mouth, but I just didn’t know what to say. My lips opened and closed like my sister Angela’s fish’s. For moments that seemed like eternity, I was not sure about my feeling about the issue. Would I be mad at him for making a fool out of me? Would I laugh at him, disdain him, for being the being that he is? But I did not have the right. Would I dump him because he was not the friend I thought he was? I treated him the way I did because he was who I thought him to be, didn’t I? I was not sure. But it would have been un-friendly of me. I supposed even my sense of feeling suffered numbness from the rush of words that escaped from his closet.

Faintly, I could hear him blaming his heart. “It’s all your fault. Lia was there, but you chose him.”

At that instant Mark let go of his 'little secret', everything looked different. The moon seemed to have lost its orbit. The stars, which were vibrantly lending themselves for a romantic setting, looked like they were starting to fall away, one after another. (February, 1998)

To be continued...

Friends burning for friends

Every year, the clergy of Laoag go on what we call Lakbay-Aral. Before I was ordained in 2003, the priests had already toured Northern Luzon, Bicol, Bohol-Cebu, and, Zambales-Bataan-Corregidor. On my first lakbay-aral in 2004, we enjoyed the sun and sand of Boracay before our pleasant intrusion of the Panay provinces (except Antique), and Guimaras. In 2005, we flew to Davao. Our destination the following year was CalaBaRZon. Then with our new bishop, we spent four days in Palawan last year. This February, we had a great vacation in Thailand, our first trip abroad as a clergy. Aside from the satisfaction of our need to relax and unwind, this annual trip aims at strengthening our brotherhood. The following was a brief reflection I wrote in a rush when I was compelled to give a homily in one of our masses during our Panay sojourn in 2004. There's some good in keeping old planners (smiles).

The years have taught me that God wants me to treat and approach him as my friend. One day, while on retreat, I was praying God to be always with me. It was a rather cloudy morning, but gradually, I began to see my shadow, myself, before me. The sun had finally victoriously wrestled itself out of the dark clouds. And then I felt tears welling in my eyes and then falling. I realized God will always be with me. I may not see him, but I know that He would continue to shine at my back even without my acknowledging him. When He shines thus, I see myself. As a friend, God will always - even eternally - burn for me.

But God wants to - in fact, does - burn for each one of you as well. It seems that this is how He wants to be identified: I am your friend. "I no longer call you slaves but friends because I have told you everything that I have learned from my Father."

We have been called to a special kind of friendship called the priesthood. As God's friend, I have been gifted with this special relation with him. And I behave as a friend as I fulfill my priestly responsibilities and obligations.

Since the priesthood is a gift we have received from one and the same Friend, we must also treat one another as friends. Don't friends love one another? "You are my friends if you do what I command you. Love one another as I have loved you." How did Jesus love us? He kept himself burning unto death for us.

Do we count every brother priest our friend?

Frederick Faust once said: "There's a giant asleep in every man. When that awakens, miracles happen." I'd like to think as one among this company of friends that that giant is the friend in us.

I have read of a man who got lost in the woods. He met a stranger and asked him, "Can you show me the way to the highway?" "No, I can't," said the stranger. "But if we walk together, we might just find it."

Wouldn't it be a big miracle if we walked the priestly stretch together without becoming a babel of voices against a brother priest or anyone? I believe we would become more credible as friends to the people we serve if they see us priests behaving as friends to one another.

If they ask us, "Who do you say that Jesus is?" and we tell them, "He is my friend, our friend," we would make sense.

May this get-together make us grow in our friendship.

Being man (part 6)

I blurted out laughing. “For God’s sake, Mark! A seminarian falling in love with a girl does not sound like a real problem to me, in the least. Why, are you nuts?” my voice almost squeaked. “It’s absolutely and humanly normal to fall in love. It’s perfectly sane for a young man to be emotionally involved with a young woman. Seminarians are still human beings who have hearts, you know, and therefore are capable of loving, or if you please, have the right to love,” I pointed out.

“I do understand every bit you squeaked.” A pale try at humor.

“Sorry. But I don’t think you do. You’re being too scrupulous. What I do think is, it is inexplicable that you are bothered by such issue as being in love at all. Unless, of course, if you’re already one of them. I mean, a priest.” Wrong, I heard myself challenged me. “Oh, but even priests may still fall in love, you see. So stop worrying.”

“No, you don’t understand, Ken. And I do have all the reasons to worry.”

“Mark, listen. Call this a test, all right? Just get a feel of everything that’s going on in your heart. It will do you some good. Being at it will help you clarify the reasons why seminary structure and routine still do mean a lot to you. You’ll be able to see more clearly where you really belong. Look at me. I tried St. Patrick, well, not only because you would be there but also because I wanted to see if it just might be my life. I realized it was not, so I left. What you feel right now may help you choose the way to go. College will be over, Mark, and you’ll have to choose, theologate or what? ”

“You don’t know a bit of what’s making me down and out because you haven’t heard a single thing from me yet.”

That kicked the hell out of me. Whatever I still had in my mind was left lodged in my throat. I was surprised to realize that I hadn’t actually given him a chance to really talk, and he had already been beating his third beer to his belly.

“Ken, yours were well-meant, I know. And thanks,” he went on, “but it’s not what you think that is pulling me to only hell knows where . . . I can’t keep it any longer. It’s tearing me.” He ran his left hand across his face as though drying it up. An air of gloom hung around where a romantic one once was. His sighs and deep breaths became more frequent, as I drank from my bottle. He rose to his feet and began to pace toward the water. He paused where the water was almost halfway to the knee. He ran his fingers through his black hair, which shone in the moonlight, and drank down his beer in several swift gulps.

“Ken,” he pronounced, his back toward me, “I’ve fallen for a guy.” (January, 1998)

To be continued...

Photographs on the wall

As the secretary of the Priests’ Assembly of the diocese, I went to the bishop’s residence to have the minutes of the last meeting photocopied. Passing by the dining room, I took glimpses, as I usually do every time my feet take me there, of the laminated pictures of our venerable priests who, we pray, are already enjoying the beatific vision. Under their names are written the date of their ordination and the date of their earthly departure. And I was drawn to the invisible reality between those dates, an unwritten history - that which really matters. Going back to the car, I could hardly shake myself from these thoughts.

These great men, whose memory is perpetuated in those pictures, exude an air like they had never seen years of discontent. What could have their years been like? How am I to see those hidden years? The days of glory are come, but I am drawn to the days leading to the laurels. For to me, what matters is not so much what challenges laid on their way as how they responded to those challenges. And I can see their chasubles yellowed with overuse, the stoles gradually losing their colors, their chalices enduring the elements, their breviaries worn and torn. I can hear their strong words to parishioners who force their devious thoughts and opinions, and yet I can also hear their hearts throbbing with compassion. I can hear the sound of their vehicles braving mud in the barrios. Cups of coffee, perhaps a few sticks of cigarette, alerted them at their tables as they prepared their sermons, conferences and other talks in the late of night. The dining tables might have given up on them several times. Some ingrates might have pierced their ears and caused them pain. Others might have been indifferent to their labors and blind to and perhaps even frowned upon their sacrifices. But through all this, they remained faithful. And then there I was standing before their photographs on the wall. I get to ask myself: will people be enriched by my own years in between?

This is only my first sacerdotal anniversary. The words of the Lord, “Feed my sheep,” encapsulated the vision of my life as priest. As I celebrate my first year anniversary as a priest, I feel summoned to confront myself in regard to my priestly motto. Have I concretely been a shepherd after the heart of the Lord? How close have I approximated the Lord’s model? Have I been a compassionate priest? Could have I shooed some sheep away instead of leading them into the stalls? I realize I need to forgive myself.

But remembering that great day when I solemnly said ‘yes’ to the Lord, uplifts me as well. That special memory has a mysterious way of building up my spirit. It renews and reenergizes. It further gears me up for the ministry. I won’t enumerate the very little things I have done thus far. Or have I done anything? But I hope to make each day of my priestly life count.

It’s amazing how the dead can still instruct the living about living, and how dead priests continue to teach and edify me in my own ministry. The time will come when my photograph, too, will hang on that cold wall near the dining room of the bishop’s residence. May my priestly passion never die while I live. (November, 2004)

Being man (part 5)

Facing me, he confessed, “Ken, I feel like I’m closed up in a dark dungeon right now. I’m so lost.” His face was a picture of sadness and confusion. Turning away, he began drinking a second bottle, and he drank straight until it was half-full. Wow, I couldn’t believe my eyes! Teacher’s success? It became definite to me that somehow I miscalculated the gravity of his burden, whatever that might be. Onerous might have been the right word to describe his yoke.

“You have me. I can very well be someone to whom you can unload. Let me guess... Jesus, you’ve been caught cheating and you’re not going to march! No, by now you have perfected the art. Your name’s taken out from the dean’s list or you’re not graduating with honors? How could you be so dumb to allow it? Negative. Heart-broken? What?”

I waited forever for an answer. By the look in his eyes as he looked my way only to look away almost immediately, it seemed that it was not in his proximate volition to spill his heart and his mind as yet. Not that he did not trust me, I believe. Maybe, he was just not ready to talk about it to me then or to anyone else. And I knew I had, and was ready, to respect him and understand the pace with which he could make any pronouncement. With which he revealed the Mark he kept inside.

Then, I caught him saying, “God must have let things happen as they did to let me know that I have forgotten to love him as he deserved to be loved.” These words struck me as vague naturally.

“Just what exactly do you mean?”

“I’m so sorry for not being very honest about myself with you. There were hundreds of things that you should have known or I should have confided in you, as a very dear friend to me. But I simply decided to keep them all to myself. Times came when I thought it was better to write to you to tell you my things. And then again, I had the unlucky fate of being unable to do it. Any desire to do it was swept out of my will before I could ever say or write a word.”

“Don’t be, pretty boy. I perfectly understand that. Every one of us has his own secret place. A sacred place, a sanctuary where only we can go to,” I said, emphasis put. “I don’t know how any man alive can go on living without it. It is, indeed, necessary in order to maintain his well-being. I don’t see any reason that it should be wrong that you keep some of your things from me. Total transparency is not indispensable for relations such as ours to thrive. I don’t think that is ever possible, either.”

“Thanks,” he said, softly but appreciatively. I heard another sigh slip out from deep within him. “If you only knew . . .” His voice trailed off.

“So let me,” I almost found myself say when the idea that it was better if he himself spelled out what bothered him to death, disallowed me.

“I have been investing my time, love and tenderness on one person. It was a dangerous love because I was loving the person in such a way that I shouldn’t have had. It was wrong. Forbidden. I was certain God did not approve of it.”

“So I was right. My friend is a heart-broken man. Hey, take it easy.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“You fell in love, right?”

He nodded. “And it’s still there.”

“And that’s what’s wrecking your head?”

Another nod. (January, 1998)

To be continued...