JESUS AT THE CENTER

At the heart of the process of discernment in the context of seminary formation is neither a program nor a plan, no matter how well-crafted. At the heart of seminary formation is, instead, a person, and his name is Jesus.

JOURNEY INTO THE HEART OF CHRIST
Letters to Seminarians on Faith, Life,
and Formation

Published in 2003 by Claretian Publications, these letters were written to students I taught at the major seminary in Manila from 1998 to 2003.

INTRODUCTION

Two of the very first books my spiritual director made me read as a new seminary student were Andrew Greeley’s book “And Young Men Shall See Visions”, and the Jesuit, Jose Fernandez’s “Becoming Christ”. “Young Men Shall See Visions” was one of Fr. Greeley’s earlier works—written before he started writing his novels which became bestsellers. The book consisted of a series of “letters” written to a young man named “John”, discussing his experiences and giving guidelines and wise admonitions about life and faith. I enjoyed reading the book so much because it spoke to my experiences as a neophyte in formation and gave me much encouragement in the struggles I encountered as a young man trying to live his faith and vocation.

Fr. Fernandez’s “Becoming Christ”, which is now out-of-print, but as I understand is still being read by some seminary students (I was recently given an old copy by one of the Belgian priests still residing at San Carlos Seminary in Makati) proved to be a treasure trove of advice, encouragement, guidelines, and directions for a beginner in formation. I was delighted to receive the book and as I leafed through its pages, I couldn’t help but feel thrown back to my early days in seminary, when everything seemed new and fresh and the sense of adventure of the ‘new life’ I was entering so alive and exciting.

I was to read many more books on the spiritual life and formation throughout my eleven years as a seminarian, five of them spent in the seminary in Makati, and six in Louvain, Belgium. But these two books served in many ways to introduce me to the peculiar kind of life one discerning for the priesthood was getting into. And while my knowledge and appreciation of formation and discernment were deepened by subsequent readings of ‘heavier’ manuals on the spiritual life, I never quite forgot the initial appeal of Greeley’s and Fernandez’s works. So much so that when I myself later got assigned to formation work, I wanted to give my seminarians something that would bring together the thoughts of these authors while at the same time allowing my own experience as a student to shed new light and understanding on their ideas as these are lived in the context of seminary formation today.

I made a number of attempts to do just that while I was still assigned in the seminary. But given the different posts I had to handle, sitting down and writing this book proved almost impossible. And I didn’t want to give my students something that was done haphazardly or in haste; I wanted something substantial and meaningful for them, just as Greeley and Fernandez’s works had been for me as a student. Thankfully, my new assignment as Catholic chaplain at the University of the Philippines freed me a bit to collect my thoughts and put some order into the materials I’ve gathered over the last four and a half years. This book was given its final form during a month-long break I had from university work and teaching. I visited a classmate in Washington DC and during my free time, decided to sit down and put the finishing touches to the book I’ve wanted so badly to write all this time.

What follows then is a collection of “letters” I’ve written—following the style of Fr. Greeley’s book—to students on various occasions during my stint as seminary formator. Some were given to individuals or groups. Others were written but were simply never sent as I no longer felt it necessary. Others still are reflections given during talks or retreats. Finally, some are recollections of what at times seemed “useless” conversations with students but which I eventually found meaningful, wrote down, and refashioned as “letters”. The addressees’ names are those of my actual students during my time as seminary formator. It’s my way of saying “thank you” to all of them.

FIRST LETTER

We walk by faith, only hindsight is 20-20

It wasn’t easy putting the material for this book together. Every time I sat down and tried to write, there was always something else that needed attention: a student needing to be taken to the hospital, a problem at the library, evaluations needing to be finished, course material and grades that needed to be completed. The litany seemed endless at times. Add to that the fact that in the last four and half years I was with you, I kept getting moved from one post to another: spiritual director, human formation director, pastoral director, librarian, vocations director, prefect of discipline. At one point I was even the moderator of the seminary newsletter. At certain moments it just felt like I was all over the place, spreading myself out too thinly, especially since I was also teaching philosophy and theology classes, not only at the seminary but at several other universities as well.

Thankfully my seminary assignment finally ended (or at least the active involvement in formation work), since we’re still together in our philosophy and theology classes. And while I’ve had to deal with the inevitable transition—one always has mixed feelings about endings, you know—I’ve also found myself having more time to write. While I miss being more actively involved in seminary formation, I’m also happy to have more time to do something I thoroughly enjoy—writing. All that hard work in seminary is also paying off since it didn’t only prepare me to work with our young people at the university, it also enabled me to understand seminary life and formation more. It exposed me to different areas of formation that would’ve been completely alien territory had I not been assigned to them. I learned much in doing those jobs that I can now look to as additional sources of reflection.

I saw seminary life from a different angle—that is, from the ‘other side of the fence’. The view was definitely different from when I was on the student’s side. As a seminarian there were always things that were inaccessible to me—and understandably so. Being on the ‘receiving end’, so to speak, of the formation process, there were many goings-on in the seminary which I could not be privy to, such as what transpired in that room where evaluations happened at the end of each term, what the community life of seminary priests was like, what the principles were behind the different formation programs, what went on in the process of accepting applicants to the seminary, etc.

Even as a student though, I’ve always believed that seminary formation would benefit from more—not less—transparency, i.e., from a student’s knowing more about the intricacies of seminary life than merely waiting for the end-of-the-semester appointment with the rector when he would receive a piece of paper telling him what the formation staff thought of him—despite the fact that most of them don’t even know his name. That was one of those things I found quite disconcerting as a student. I guess I could understand the challenge of knowing a hundred or more students well, or of bridging the ‘age gap’ as some would call it. But I never really liked the ‘aloofness’ of some of our superiors. Professional distance was one thing, disinterestedness in who we were was another. Besides, I could never figure out how a good judgment could be made about our fitness to continue in formation by persons who seemed scarcely interested in getting to know us well.

Still I suppose it is often easier for seminarians, just like students in any college or university, to draw up ‘wish lists’ about how they think the institution should be run. Seminary students especially, have a penchant for offering unsolicited advice and at times, stinging criticisms of those they live with. It certainly was the case when I was a student. And I could tell things haven’t changed much either when I became a formator, except I was now on the receiving end of the critiques. What goes around comes around I guess. (Although I must admit that you guys were very kind to me when I was at San Carlos; not always, but most of the time at least. And I should be thankful for that.)

It is in this regard that being assigned to the seminary immediately after ordination was providential, even if I wasn’t too happy about it then. The view was certainly different from the formator’s vantage point. Things that seemed so easy to say and do as a student, began appearing in a much more different and challenging light. Gradually, and not without difficulty, I came to understand and appreciate the immensity of the task faced by those charged with forming future ministers of the church. It’s a sacred task, and one that should not be taken lightly by those assigned to seminary work.

This is especially true since “forming” future priests is not at all like “producing” something on an assembly-line or conveyor-belt type mass-producing machine. It’s lives of individual persons that seminary priests are dealing with, and that always requires a lot of care. Life is fragile after all, in all its stages. And the stage most seminarians are in—the teenage and early adult years—is even more fragile and complex than others. This is one thing I am most grateful to God for having given me in Louvain—loving and caring formators who were really interested in my well-being as a student.

As my new understanding of formation work grew, so did my appreciation for the students I was forming and teaching. And as I moved from one seminary job to another, I came in contact with more and more seminarians, in different capacities. I began to know you personally, you hopes, dreams, fears, anxieties, and yes, your failures and weaknesses as well. And yet, far from harming that “professional distance” that should always be there between teacher and student, our interactions instead proved to be revelations for me. I began seeing none other than myself in those I was forming. The things you were expressing at conversations—those too were my hopes, dreams, fears, anxieties and weaknesses when I was on your side of the fence. Gradually, Greeley’s and Fernandez’s wise admonitions I read as a student were making a world of sense. Slowly but surely I came to understand things that I understood only in a limited way back when I was a seminarian.

Gradually too I felt as if two halves of my life were coming together: that half that sought guidance and direction, and that half that sought to give it. By the time I was given a new assignment at the University of the Philippines, and thus had to bid farewell to seminary work, I knew my understanding of formation had arrived at a new, deeper, and more meaningful level. By the time I was leaving seminary, all my regrets about not having had enough time to write because of too many activities with the students had all but vanished. I came to see all those seemingly “useless” moments when I felt I was just “wasting” my time being present to them, as invaluable in my own continuing formation.

The thing is, that’s usually how it is for a seminarian or priest. In fact, its’ not just for us; the case is true for everybody. It’s only from hindsight that one can see patterns emerging. Hindsight is often 20-20. And from one’s present vantage point, the road ahead is rarely clear and the direction one would like his life to take is usually uncertain. With enough faith and trust, however, the vagueness of one’s starting point as well the often overwhelming darkness of the path ahead can not only be borne with courage, but actually overcome and transformed into a source of great personal improvement. One then not only survives the uncertainty, he can even thrive on account of it.

This is all the more true of one who seeks to minister to God’s people by following closely in the footsteps of Christ. He needs to be both active and patient in living the challenges and difficulties of his calling, whatever shape or form these may take in daily life. He must be an “active” participant, because discerning the will of God does not amount to passively waiting for things to unfold or to merely react when they do. And yet he should also be “patient”, because the process of discernment moves not only from darkness into light, but from clarity to greater clarity as well. This reminds me of a hymn we used to sing at evening prayer at the seminary in Louvain, part of it goes:

“We walk by faith and not by sight, no gracious words we hear

of him who spoke as none e’er spoke. But we believe him near.

We may not touch his hands or side, nor follow where he trod,

but in his promise we rejoice, and cry ‘My Lord and God’.”

Things will not always be clear, especially at the beginning of our adventure into the heart of Christ. In fact for some, there is much in the entire journey that would seem dark, difficult, and at certain moments, even impossible. We only have to recall God’s call to Abraham who was well-established and doing well in his homeland when God called him and promised to make him the father of many nations (Gen 12:1-3). Not only was the invitation difficult as it meant going into completely unknown territory, but to compound matters, many years later, we find Abraham still childless and wondering out loud how he could possibly be the “Father of many nations” when he remained without even one heir: “O Lord God, what good will your gifts be, if I keep on being childless?” (Gen 15: 2)

In God’s own time, however, Abraham did have a child, two of them in fact. And the rest of course is history. For those of us who wish to follow Christ, the lesson of Abraham’s call and his adventure from terra firma into terra incognita serves as a reminder that challenging, difficult, and sometimes gut-wrenching as the needed response to God’s invitation might be, there is always joy and gladness that awaits those who put their trust in a God who keeps his promises, however long it sometimes seems to take him. Of the faith, hope, and trust that a follower of Christ needs to have, no truer words were spoken than those of St. Paul:

“Eye has not seen, nor ear heard…the things which God has prepared for those who love him”. (I Cor 2:9)

SECOND LETTER

Good awaits those who make it

through tough beginnings

Human nature is a wonderful mix of two tendencies that are in constant tension with one another: the sense of adventure on the one hand, and a desire for stability and security on the other. The first is that which pushes us to launch, like Abraham, into unknown territory, blazing new trails, discovering new and wonderful things about life, learning new things and growing on account of them. The second is that which keeps us safe and reminds us to be wise in our ways, it prevents us from being too hurt and wounded by the many uncertainties of life. It also enables us to take stock of what we’ve learned in our adventures, remember them, and even share them by handing them down to others. The first is an invitation to courage, the second a reminder to be cautious. Both are needed in life, both are needed by someone who wishes to follow in the footsteps of Christ.

The healthy tension that characterizes the relationship between these two tendencies, however, must always be maintained. To simply allow one to dominate while forgetting the other is to allow oneself to be carried into either of two extremes: throwing all caution to the wind on the one hand, or an inordinate desire to maintain the status quo on the other. Of the two however, it is usually the latter one that often gets the better of us. It’s safe, its convenient, it’s comfortable, and one who chooses it is less likely to be hurt or wounded in the process. This is why many choose to remain in their so-called “comfort zones”. It is the path of least resistance, you see. Unfortunately it’s also the path of least learning and growth as a person.

The Greek author Nikos Kazantzakis has a very interesting little story in his work Report to Greco. It illustrates very well the difficulty one experiences when faced with the challenge of having to move out of his “comfort zone”—one’s terra firma, into terra incognita—the promised land of growth and newness of life:

Blowing through heaven and earth, and in our hearts and the heart of every living thing, is a gigantic breath—a great Cry—which we call God. Plant life wished to continue its motionless sleep next to stagnant waters, but the Cry leaped up within it and violently shook its roots: “Away, let go of the earth, walk!” Had the tree been able to think and judge, it would have cried, “I don’t want to. What are you urging me to do? You are demanding the impossible!” But the Cry, without pity, kept shaking its roots and shouting, “Away, let go of the earth, walk!”

It shouted in this way for thousands of eons; and lo! As a result of desire and struggle, life escaped the motionless tree and was liberated.

Animals appeared—worms—making themselves at home in water and mud. “We’re just fine”, they said. “We have peace and security; we’re not budging!”

But the terrible Cry hammered itself pitilessly into their loins. “Leave the mud, stand up, give birth to your betters!”

“We don’t want to! We can’t”

“You can’t, but I can. Stand up!”

And lo! After thousands of eons, man emerged, trembling on his still unsolid legs.

The human being is a centaur; his equine hoofs are planted in the ground, but his body from breast to head is worked on and tormented by the merciless Cry. He has been fighting, again for thousands of eons, to draw himself, like a sword, out of his animalistic scabbard. He is also fighting—this is his new struggle—to draw himself out of his human scabbard. Man calls in despair. “Where can I go? I have reached the pinnacle, beyond is the abyss”. And the Cry answers, “I am beyond. Stand up!”

Two thousand years ago, Jesus presented a child to his disciples as a model for all those who wished to follow him. “Unless you acquire the heart of a child you cannot enter the kingdom of God”, he said. (Mt 18:3) A child is someone who has not yet closed himself to the many possibilities that the great adventure of life presents. In many ways, our lives approximate the reality of being a child. It’s always in the process of growing and maturing, of developing and enriching itself. However, while this process involves a great deal of “trial-and-error” as well as “wrong turns” and “dead ends”, one really has no alternative but to allow himself to be carried by the flow, and to make the most of every experience he encounters along the way.

For a seminarian—one who wishes to follow Christ more closely—this means developing a greater openness to the many wonderful—and, at times difficult—experiences to be met along the way of formation. Beginnings are especially tough, but if you are willing to “stick to it” till you gets the knack of things, any new experience eventually becomes not only bearable but can actually be enjoyable. New things are experienced that way, and seminary life is no different. I’m sure you remember your yearly summer pastoral assignments, and how before you actually get to your posting you feel a great deal of anxiety that lasts pretty much until a few days after you get there.

I know some students who get ‘stomach butterflies’ as they await the day when they leave for their assignment. I guess what is anticipated is really much more anxiety-inducing and fearful than when what is awaited for actually arrives. And it’s always interesting to see how after a few days, you start adjusting to the new place; and a few weeks into the assignment, you get really involved and start really having fun with your work. I know students who by the time they have to leave their summer pastoral, actually feel they’d like to stay longer or that they’d at least like to return. And they do return, having made a connection especially with the people they’ve met and made friends with. They build new relationships and discover that their original fears and anxieties before the assignment were really unfounded.

We eventually “get the hang of things” and enjoy our work. It’s the same with seminary formation. You will start losing your fears and anxieties after a while, you just have to be patient. Just remember to keep your sight on God’s promise of something great and wonderful awaiting you if you are willing to leave behind your “comfort zone” for something new, exciting and worthwhile. Like every great adventure, seminary life can be tough at the outset, but if you just “hang in”—“persevere” as they used to say—you’ll eventually discover that it can be the greatest adventure and journey of your life, one that will challenge you, stretch you to your limits, and make you discover new and wonderful things about yourself, God, and others. And you will gradually learn to set your sight firmly on your goal as you put your trust in God who will always be there for you.

A PRAYER TO GOD

FOR THE GRACE OF LETTING - GO

Loving God, I give you thanks for having called

me to this great and wonderful adventure called seminary life.

While my heart is filled with joy and my spirit with great excitement

I am slowly discovering that this path I have chosen

asks that I give up many things which have already become part of my life.

And let me be honest with you, I’m not finding it easy at all.

It is not always easy to let go of what I’ve gotten used to, Lord.

It’s difficult to let go of late night outings with my friends instead of studying.

It’s difficult to let go of mornings when I can stay in bed instead of going to prayer.

It’s difficult to let go of the good food that I’ve enjoyed at home.

It’s difficult to let go of the freedom to go wherever and do whatever I please on weekends.

It’s difficult to let go of my friends, especially that girl whom I like so much.

It’s difficult to let go of those moments when I choose to be by myself

instead of having to deal with members of the seminary community

some of whom I don’t like, and who do not like me.

It’s difficult to let go of many more things, old habits really die hard.

This new life scares me at times too.

How do I know all this letting-go will bear fruit?

How do I know that giving up all these things

will result in my becoming happy with the path I have chosen?

How do I know that letting go of my ambitions to become a doctor or lawyer

will really enable me to give my entire life to you alone?

How do I know that all the sacrifices being asked of me will really make me a good priest?

How do I know that I will not fall later on and cause pain and sorrow to your church?

How do I know that this is your will for me and how do I know

that I am not making a mistake when I try

to overcome my anxiety that it might not be?

Speak, Lord, your servant listens.

Let me put my trust completely in you.

Allow me to see that though the initial stage of my journey

be dark, difficult, and uncertain,

your presence is more than enough to calm my fears,

to lighten my burden, and to give me the strength and courage

to stick to this path that I have chosen,

in the firm conviction that you who have asked me

to let-go of many things that have so given comfort and consolation to my life

will give me in their stead, the greatest consolation there can be,

the knowledge that wherever I go, whatever happens, whomever I become,

you will always be there to love, guide, and protect me.

Amen.

THIRD LETTER

PRAYER, PASTORAL WORK, AND A FEW THOUGHTS

AT THE END OF A MINISTERIAL ASSIGNMENT

It is with no small amount of gratitude that I write you this letter. We have been together for a number of years now, and in that brief period of time, I have seen you grow and mature into the good Christian gentleman that you are today. I have also learned much from you, and have matured because of the interactions we’ve had. You have taught me more than you can imagine, and have formed me in more ways than I had first anticipated.

Believe it or not, our often seemingly insignificant conversations have fueled in my heart a burning desire to keep myself firmly anchored onto the roots of my vocation, and the reasons for wanting to be a priest in the first place. I have drawn much strength from you; I only hope, in the same amount as you have managed to gain from me. And so I feel blessed to have been given the chance to serve you, for in doing so, you have transformed me.

Formation is truly a two-way street. The ‘formator’ learns as much from those he forms as the latter do from him. One is neither too wise nor intelligent that he has nothing more to learn from others. That’s a fundamental principle required of anyone who does not want to stagnate in life. A teacher learns from his student, a priest from his flock, the church from the world. I am happy God has taught me this valuable lesson through you. And so at the beginning of this letter, I extend to you my sincerest thanks. You have been wonderful instruments of God in my life as a man and as a priest.

I write you as I take leave of seminary work and continue once more the process of discerning God’s call in my life. Yes, discernment does not end with ordination. As a matter of fact, on the day your bishop lays his hands on you, your process of discernment enters an even more earnest phase, only this time, it is the expectation of your formators that the scaffolds of seminary life which once supported you have been internalized and integrated into your very self, transformed from external structures into an inner way of being that mirrors the mind and life of Christ.

What are these ‘scaffolds’, these sources of ‘support’ and ‘nourishment’ that the seminary gives you? The chief one of course is your interior life, your life of prayer and communion with God. It is never a cliché to say that our spiritual life is the anchor of our entire existence as Christians and as priests. It ‘cements’, as it were, everything we do, binding together into a coherent whole, all the other dimensions of our life: community, studies, human and social development, and pastoral work.

Without a firm anchoring onto a solid life of prayer and communion with God, much of what we do loses substance and depth. Our relationships become superficial and functional; our desire for learning and education is made an end in itself, or worse, a way to put others down in our belief that we are superior to everyone else; our pursuit of self-knowledge degenerates into narcissistic self-absorption, and our pastoral ministry starts to be defined in terms of the ‘work’ we do—the ‘success’ or ‘failure’ of which is determined by the number of ‘activities’ we line up. This last one is especially important to bear in mind, as it sometimes is the view of many that ‘being pastoral’ means drawing up as many programs or accomplishing as many activities as one can, wherever one is assigned.

‘Being pastoral’ is an attitude before anything else. ‘Pastoral work’ without the proper ‘pastoral attitudes’ of tolerance, understanding, openness, acceptance of others, but also of critical and deliberative thinking, deteriorates into a catalogue of ‘things to do’ or ‘activities to undertake’—at whatever cost. Detached from the ‘atttitude’, ‘being pastoral’ can become an area whereby the centrality of the self, it’s ambitions and goals, is made the priority, over and above the ‘reason’ behind the attitude—which is to serve the needs of God’s people, and not the requirements of the our ego.

Knowing what is really behind our motives for our many undertakings is never an easy task—and that is why discernment is never a finished process. I’ve learned that from my seminary formators years ago. But many of the experiences I’ve had over the four and a half years we’ve been together in the seminary have made me even more aware of its reality. And as I bid formation work goodbye, at least for now, I am only too keen on renewing a commitment to develop that pastoral ‘attitude’ further. Education is an open-ended process, and there is much for all of us to learn.

I will certainly miss many of the things I’ve gotten used to in the past few years: hearing your laughter in the corridors, presiding at Eucharist and listening to you at community prayers, teaching you in class, watching you study and work in the library, hearing your confessions, guiding you in spiritual direction, and perhaps, the activity I enjoyed the most, just hanging around you and chatting, sometimes for hours on end, sharing my life, my stories, my experiences and jokes with you, hearing your own stories, and telling myself, “there’s really not much difference between us, I just happened to get to where I am a little earlier than they”. There is much still for all of us to learn.

FOURTH LETTER

Only Christ deserves a ‘fan club’

Allow me to share with you some thoughts on our calling as ministers and messengers of the gospel. I chose to become a priest because I wanted to live a life that would bring me closer to God and to people, and I believed that that life was one lived in simplicity, faithfulness, and brotherhood with everyone. As a young boy I also did think of being something else: a lawyer or a doctor perhaps. I did, after all, have the intelligence and commitment to be whatever I wanted to be. But I decided I wanted a simpler life, a kinder, gentler life that would bring me peace and communion with God and my neighbor. And so I chose the seminary over the university, and put my whole being into responding to God’s invitation. San Carlos was my home for five years before I left and ‘complicated’ my life with the study of philosophy and theology.

When our formators sent me to study in Louvain ten years ago, I found myself both excited and anxious. I was excited because I knew I was looking forward to more adventures, and anxious, because I thought that leaving for further studies would move me farther away from the simple and ideal life I had so earnestly wanted for myself. The thing is, by the time I was in fourth year philosophy, much of my earlier interest in living a simple life had slowly ebbed away. There’s a lot of unnecessary power-play in the church; and one of the things I had to recognize quickly and guard against, even in seminary, was the fact that power, prestige, and authority are sometimes too attractive to pass by.

I still remember some of my contemporaries who even as seminarians would talk about wanting to become monsignors or bishops one day, of holding such and such position in the church, or of being assigned to this or that parish because it was big and so on. I remember one guy who spent most of our class hours doodling miters and crosiers and drawing episcopal coats of arms. Granted these are the products of still-childish minds which have not yet fully grasped the enormity of responsibility in the church—much like James and John perhaps, wanting to sit at Jesus’ right and left—still, we would be hard pressed to deny that such actions and others similar to them, speak of a manner by which some students, as early as seminary, regard ministry in the church. It is, for some, a means of upward mobility.

Even then, I used to constantly remind myself that if that were what I really wanted, if power, authority, wealth, and fame, were what I earnestly desired, I should leave the seminary and choose a profession in which my ambition would not be hindered at all by any admonition to “carry no extra shirt, no belt, no purse”. It just seemed hypocritical to profess that one were following Christ’s command to live in simplicity and trust in God’s providence when one’s life was lived in pursuit of their very antitheses.

But I cannot deny that when I left for further studies, at the back of my mind was that nagging thought that here was an opportunity for me to add a feather to my cap, a few more letters after my name, a couple of degrees to be proud of and show off—perhaps to make me feel that I was better than most. Was my going abroad going to be my ticket to upward mobility in the church? Back in 1992, at least, it was a question that seemed to get an affirmative answer.

The surprising thing, of course, is that instead of turning out to be that way, my six years away from home turned out to be an unusual ‘purification’ of sorts. For it was at the university in Belgium that I met truly great and noble people, mostly professors, theologians, philosophers, who have spent their lives in utter anonymity, and yet whose works influence the very thought, not only of the church, but of society as well. And yet these were men and women who willingly shunned the spotlight, who refused to make their lives the focus of attention, and who chose to efface themselves and “decrease, so that [Christ alone] might increase”. They were human beings who, in my mind, were of exceptional character and nobility; and they formed and solidified the core of how I have come to define myself and my ministry.

In grade school and high school with the Franciscans who educated me, I grew up singing, “Make me an instrument of your peace”. An “instrument”—it was an idea that embedded itself so deeply in my young mind. I am an instrument, nothing more, but nothing less either. For in my very being one, I share in the work of Christ who is in the end, the sole point and reference of everything I am and do. A poet once said that all we really do in this life is “contribute one verse to the everlasting poem written by the hand of God himself”. Just one verse—just one—but a verse nevertheless. As such, no less important than the entire poem, for without it, the poem would hardly be complete.

This is why even as a seminary student like yourself, I promised myself one thing—and it’s a promise I hope I can keep for as long as I live, and that is to remain as far away as I can from the trappings of power, wealth, prestige, and honor that so profoundly characterize many, even in the church. But that’s me; it doesn’t make me any better than anyone. Just different perhaps.

The Franciscan priests who taught and molded me in my early years drilled into my consciousness the value of a simple and carefree life that was the inspiration of one of the greatest and most noble human beings who has ever lived, Francis of Assisi. It is strange—though not completely incomprehensible—that at this particular juncture in my life, the inspiration that first brought me to seriously consider becoming a priest, has found itself enkindled once again. I say it is strange because I never imagined that living and working with seminary students would become for me an almost daily reminder of the anonymity of the life of a disciple, the hiddenness of the life of one who seeks to be no more than the moon to Christ who must always be the sun.

This is also why I kept telling you while we were together, that only Christ deserves to have a ‘fans club’. People will naturally find us ‘attractive’ in many different ways. Many priests and seminarians after all are kind, gentle, and caring. Many of us are good speakers, and not a few are actually good looking. People like those qualities. The thing is, while there’s nothing wrong in receiving their praise and admiration (and we should learn to say “thank you” sincerely, by the way, whenever we are appreciated), we also shouldn’t forget that those words of praise do not primarily belong to us. They are first and foremost directed to Christ, not to ourselves. Granted that doesn’t always happen, it still doesn’t change the equation.

They’re Jesus’ fans, not ours. And we shouldn’t be going around trying to form our own groupies. One who does so completely misses the point of the whole situation. We are meant to be ‘attractive’ to people, that is true. Adrian Van Kaam the author of “Religion and Personality” suggests that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being “a little vain”, meaning keeping oneself well kempt so as not to turn people off. But neither should we forget that looking good, speaking and acting well, are not meant to draw people to ourselves. That will naturally happen. What we’re really supposed to do is to lead them—when they do come to us—to Christ. He is the chief shepherd, remember. We aren’t the point. He is.