"The Cassock, the patches, and the donkey"

 I have always had a great fondness of the black cassock. It fascinated me as a little kid, and I remember asking my grandmother why priests wore black cassocks. She told me that, “The black color signifies death. The priest wears a black cassock because he is ‘dead’ to worldly things.”

As a young teen, when I took the first few steps of discernment, I saw my Godfather, who has been a priest for 52 years, put on his cassock to hear my confessions and I longed for the day that I, too, could wear one like that.

Entering St. John Vianney College Seminary, I could still remember how happy I was putting on my cassock for the first time. I can’t truly explain why, but I found it to be so special.

Today, I sat in the National Shrine of Immaculate Conception for a Priest Ordination. As I was praying the Office, a small group of seminarians passed by. I had known that seminarians of the Northern dioceses are allowed to wear clerics and cassocks. However, the first time witnessing it left a deep impression on me.

 There they were, in their very expensive Italian-made cassocks, their spotless white collars, and their fancy French cuffs, standing off to the side talking. A strange feeling took over me. The cassocks which I was seeing seem so foreign and other-worldly. I didn’t feel the fondness that I always have had. I felt repulsed.

 It seems to be a rather strong word choice, but that was exactly how I felt. Admittedly, I thought to myself, “I am not sure am deemed worthy to sit with them for Mass.”

Perhaps, you probably are thinking, “Oh my gosh, he is in a vocation crisis.”

 No, not at all.

It is just that when I saw how fancy and expensive the stuff they were wearing, the beautiful image of the black cassock seemed to have lost its true meaning.

I don’t know if you have ever seen the movie St. John Bosco – A Mission to Love. In one part of the movie, Pope Pius IX expressed his desire to make Don Bosco a monsignor. The kind priest smiled and responded, “Holy Father, my kids are so used to see me in my old black cassock. I am sure they would recognize me in the fancy garment of a monsignor.” Indeed, Don Bosco’s cassock was distinguished by the countless patches that his mother, Mamma Margarita, had to put on, partly because it was so old, but more because her son spent all day playing with the rough teenage kids. The patches became the mark of John Bosco’s dedication to the young.

Another person came to my mind, the Cure D’Ars, St. John Vianney, Patron Saint of all priests. If you get a chance to look at his clothing, you will see how worn and patched the holy priest’s cassocks were, especially from behind because of the 17 hours he sat in the confessional hearing confessions every day.

Please don’t get me wrong. By no means am I saying that we should wear clerical attires with patches and tears, nor am I undermining or being condescending towards group of seminarians I saw. Neither am I criticizing the use of clerical dress. I have always loved the black cassock and will always be for the use of it.

The black cassock, as my grandmother wisely explained, set the priests (and seminarians) apart. It reminds us that we no longer of the world but belong to God, and our aim is to die to worldly allurements.

However, the temptation is to see it as a symbol of prestige and self-importance.

We can so easily fall into the pit of thinking too highly of ourselves and making it all about us rather than about our Master, the Lord Jesus. We can become forgetful of our roles as mere servants.

Fr. Joseph, my dear old spiritual director, taught me a great lesson about the donkey. He told me that he often reflected on the image of the donkey that carried the Lord into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. He said it would be really sad if the donkey thought that all the praises and flowers thrown at his feet by the people were meant for him, rather than the one he was carrying. We are donkeys of the Lord. Our role is to carry him to the people. It is not to us, but to Him, the praises are due, and most definitely it is not for our honor but for the sake of God’s kingdom that we don our attires.

O dearest Jesus, Lord and Master of my life, please let me not ever forget that!

"Set Free" - Reflection for the 7th Sunday of Ordinary Time - Year B

Perhaps one of my most favorite scenes from the movie the Passion of the Christ by Mel Gibson is that where Jesus fell under the burden of the cross. His mother immediately rushed to his side. Edified by her presence, Christ picked up the cross and continued on while saying to her the words from the first reading we hear today, “Behold, I am making all things new.”

“Behold I am making all things new.” – This phrase can effectively summarize the entire mission that God the Father has entrusted to his Son.

Yet, Christ has carried out this mission not by snapping his fingers, as we would imagine, and creating a new human race – one that is more perfect and not prone to sins. No, our Lord and Savior has made all things new by taking upon himself the burden of human offenses; he carried them and had them crucified with him on the cross upon the hill of Calvary.

Jesus Christ has made all things new not by showing his omnipotent power, but by displaying the power of love and forgiveness.

The theme of forgiveness underlines today’s Scriptures readings.

St. Mark related the healing of the paralytic whose friends brought him to the Lord by opening up the roof and lowering him down in the midst of a very crowded gathering.

 Such admirable determination!

Interestingly, we find that Christ did not heal him of his physical illness at once. Instead, he said to the man, “Child, your sins are forgiven.”

Imagine, for a moment, the reactions of everyone who was present there. Imagine the crowd turned speechlessly puzzled. Imagine the scribes became indescribably scandalized and furious. And finally, imagine the paralytic himself, who had come in the hope of being healed, rendered utterly crestfallen.

Why not heal but forgive?

It is needless to say the desire for Christ to heal the man’s physical infirmity. The Lord, however, saw beyond what the eyes perceived. He saw in the man a greater need than that of physical healing. He saw the need to be healed first of his spiritual paralysis.

For Christ, a heart that needs healing is so much more important. Because a person who is trapped under the burden of sins, anger, shame, and guilt is paralyzed and wounded in ways that are worse than any bodily sickness.

Therefore, Christ offered the man, first and above all else, God’s loving forgiveness.

Christ forgives before he heals because without forgiveness, no healing can take place.

While preparing this reflection, I find it rather intriguing that the editor of the Roman Missal, from which I got the readings, inserted a paragraph from the Catechism which stated,

Christian prayer extends to the forgiveness of enemies transfiguring the disciple by configuring him to his Master. Forgiveness is a high-point of Christian prayer; only hearts attuned to God’s compassion can receive the gift of prayer. Forgiveness also bears witness that, in our world today, love is stronger than sin. (CCC, 2844).

Why reminding us to forgive others when our focus this Sunday is on the forgiveness of God?

It is because the two goes hand in hand. In forgiving others, that we enlarge our capacity to experience God’s loving and merciful forgiveness, as Christ himself had taught us to pray to the Father, “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

A heart imprisoned and paralyzed by the unwillingness to forgive is incapable of fully experience God’s love.

Listen to this beautiful story of a seminarian named Eddie.

Eddie was six years old when his mother, a very confused young woman, left him at an orphanage. Standing on the steps of the building, he watched his tearful mother wave goodbye through the back window of a taxi. Eddie was stricken by fear, anger, and rejection. Suddenly, he wrestled free from the stern-looking woman gripping his hand, and he ran after the cab shouting at the top of his lungs, “Mommy, mommy, I hate you! I hate you! I’ll never forgive you!”

He wasn’t to see his mother again for years. Despite the lack of close family ties, he never adopted a defeatist attitude. Eddie became one of those remarkable human beings who waltz through stumbling blocks as if they were stepping stones. He became very successful.

After some highly productive years, he became aware of a need within himself to serve others in a different capacity. He joined the seminary and the priesthood – a very wonderful priesthood.

Immediately before he was ordained, Eddie performed a remarkable deed in preparation for his ministry. Eddie picked up the phone and called his mother and said, “Mom, I love you and I forgive you.” After a long sobbing phone conversation, the longest chase in years was ended. For forty years, Eddie had been chasing that taxi in his mind. Now it was over.

It is so fitting that we have these readings before we officially begin the season of Lent in which we journey to rediscover God’s love and forgiveness. Let’s wrestle to find that which prevents us from receiving his love – perhaps it is a person or persons who have hurt us deeply and we find ourselves unwilling to forgive. If so, may we ask for the grace to forgive and thus open our heart to the love of God which seeks to set us free.

"Bums" - Reflection for Christmas Eve

            It is human nature to be forgetful. We can become increasingly forgetful in the excitement of the Holidays. Children, while composing their wish-list, can be forgetful of their parents’ financial capacity. Women, in doing their Christmas shopping, can be forgetful of their credit card limits. Men can be forgetful merely because they have a bit too much of homemade “eggnog” which has in it so little eggnog, but plenty of other “drinks.”

            In the excitement of the festivities, we all can become forgetful of the true meaning of Christmas. We can run the risk of reducing it to an occasion for decorating competition between houses, for mad parties, for Christmas shopping deals, for gift-exchanging, and thus forgetting the reason why we celebrate Christmas in the first place.

            Perhaps this little story can serve well as a reminder,

            It was Sunday, Christmas Day. Our family had spent the holiday in San Francisco with my husband’s parents, but in order for us to get back at work on Monday, we found ourselves driving the 400 miles back home to Los Angeles on Christmas Day. We stopped for lunch in King City. The restaurant was nearly empty. We were the only family, and ours were the only children.

            I heard Erik, my one-year-old, squeal with glee. “Hithere,” the two words he always thought were one. “Hithere,” and he pounded his fat baby hands –whack, whack, whack – on the metal high chair. His face was alive with excitement, his eyes were wide, gum bared in a toothless grin. He wriggled and giggled, and then I saw the source of his merriment. And my eyes could not take it in all at once.

            A tattered rag of a coat, obviously bought by someone else eons ago, dirty, greasy, and worn; baggy pants; spindly body; toes that poked out of would-be shoes; a shirt that had ring-around-the-collar all over; and a face like none other – gums as bare as Erik’s. “Hi there, baby. Hi there, big boy, I see ya, Buster.” My husband and I exchanged a look that was a cross between “What do we do?” and “Poor devil.”

            Our meal came, and the banging and noise continued. Now the old bum was shouting across the room, “Do you know patty cake? Atta boy. Do you know peek a-boo? Hey, look! He knows peek-a-boo!”

            Erik continued to laugh and answer, “Hithere.” Every call was echoed. Nobody thought it was cute. The guy was a drunk and a disturbance. I was embarrassed. My husband, Dennis, was humiliated.  Even our six-year-old said, “Why is that old man talking so loud?”

            Dennis went to pay the check, imploring me to get Erik and meet him in the parking lot. “Lord, just let me get out of here before he speaks to me or Erik,” and I bolted for the door. It soon was obvious that both the Lord and Erik had other plans.

            As I drew closer to the man, I turned my back, walking to sidestep him and any air that he might be breathing. As I did so, Erik, all the while with his eyes riveted to his best friend, leaned over my arm, reaching up with both arms in a baby’s pick-me-up position. In split-second of balancing my baby and turning to counter his weight, I came eye-to-eye with the old man.

            Erik was lunging for him, arms spread wide. The bum’s eyes both asked and implored, “Would you let me hold your baby?” There was no need for me to answer since Erik propelled himself from my arms to the man.  Suddenly a very old man and a very young baby consummated their love relationship.

            Erik laid his tiny head upon the man’s ragged shoulder. The man’s eyes closed, and I saw tears hover beneath the lashes. His aged hands, full of grime and pain and hard labor, gently, so gently cradled my baby’s bottom and stroke his back. I stood awestruck.

            The old man rocked and cradled Erik in his arms for a moment, and then his eyes opened and set squarely on mine. He said in a firm, commanding voice, “You take care of this baby.” And somehow I managed, “I will,” from a throat that contained a stone.

            He pried Erik from his chest, unwillingly, longingly, as though he was in pain. I held my arms open to receive my baby, and again the gentleman addressed me: “God bless you, Ma’am. You’ve given me my Christmas gift.” I said nothing more than a mutter “thanks.”

            With Erik in my arms, I ran for the car. Dennis wondered why I was crying and holding Erik so tightly. And why I was saying, “My God, forgive me. Forgive me.”

            What do we celebrate during Christmas?

            We celebrate the mystery of a babe, born in a manger to reach out to bums like us. We are bums in the sense that we, in our own ways, carry within ourselves the tattered rag of imperfections, the stain and dirt of sins, the pain of sadness, of wounds so deeply scarred in our hearts, and the burden of struggles and difficulties which weigh heavily down on our minds and spirits. We celebrate the mystery of a loving God who became man in the form of a baby, innocent and fragile, so that he could reach out and touch the wounds that so long have pained us. We celebrate the mystery of God became man so that man can become God (St. Augustine).

            Recall those who were first announced the birth of the Savior. They were a group of shepherds. These were men who were looked down and despised by their society. These were men who were rough and hardened with struggles of life. Lowly and bum-like as they were, they were the first to whom the Word-made-flesh reached out to. He did so to show them that there is no pit so deep that his love could not reach deeper. He did so to show them that God, indeed, is with them in their most deriding conditions.

            This is the joy and hope that we celebrate at Christmas: the joy of receiving such an undeserving gift of God’s love; the hope of knowing that God is with us in our struggles, our burdens, and our pains.

            Perhaps, on this Christmas Eve, we should take a moment before the manger of our Lord to thank him for such amazing love he has for us. Perhaps, we should take a moment to let him reach out and touch what is so deeply hidden in our hearts. Perhaps, we should take a moment to let him embrace us, love us, and forgive us.

            We rejoice; we celebrate, but, not in a shallow way of the world, rather, in knowing that a child has been born for us. He is the Emmanuel. He is God-among-man.

            Merry Christmas!!!

"Whose Goodness was Never Made Known" - Reflection of Thanksgiving

Let me tell you of my great-aunt.

Everyone in our family had always thought of her as a very greedy person. She was considered as a money-lover. One of the reasons for such a thought was that whenever we asked her if we could give her any gift, she would respond, “Just give me some money.” Not just that, sometimes she didn’t even wait for us to ask, she would go to several houses of her relatives and friends, and ask herself, “Do you have any money for this old lady?”

Her children were embarrassed of her, and we, her relatives, were hesitant whenever she came around, because we know she would ask for money.

What was this 98 year-old lady doing with all the money that she got?

No one ever knew until after her death.

At the funeral, the parish priest began to tell the family how our great aunt used to walk to the rectory, old as she was with her little cane, and give him a bundle of money wrapped in several layers of paper. As it turned out, she went about asking us for money so that she could help out the parish to fix up the church building which was running down. Whatever she got from us, she gave it all to the parish while she herself lived in complete poverty.

Everyone in our family was stunned to hear the story. We had told her straight in the face several times that she was so greedy. She endured it all without a word of complain or explanation. The only person who knew the whole story was the parish priest.

Why telling this story on Thanksgiving Day?

 Truly it is the day when we all are called to give thanks. We are called to acknowledge the blessings and gifts we have received.

Let us not forget, however, the many blessings that we have not yet become aware of, because those who perform such goodness are too generous to make themselves known:

-          Mothers who sit through the night next to her sick children.

-          Fathers, who work long hours, even several different jobs, to make sure there is food on the table for the family.

-          Teachers who spend great energy trying to prepare to a good lesson.

-          The garbage men who pick up the trash for us two times a week to make sure we won’t be drowned in our own garbage.

-          The mailmen who always come despite the weather to make sure we get our mail in time.

-          Most importantly, let us be mindful of the thousands men and women in the arm forces whose faces and names we do not know. These are the people whose sacrifices make it possible for us to live in peace and security. Let us also not forget their families, their spouses, their children, their parents.

There are many, many more!

Today the Vietnamese Church celebrates her 118 Holy Martyrs among thousands and thousands of people who had given up their lives for their faith. I am myself reminded of the gift of faith that these witnesses have given to our people. As Tertullian once said, “the blood of the Martyrs is the seed of Christians.”

 
Faith itself is a gift – a gift from God who works in silence.

We should be grateful to him!

As we gather today at the Table of the Eucharist which itself means Thanksgiving, let’s offer God our gratitude to the people whose sacrifices have become our blessings. Let’s offer God, from whom all good things come, our gratitude as well – the gratitude for our life, our family, our friends, our jobs, our faith, our everything.

As it is said, “A grateful heart is a joyful heart, and a joyful heart is a saintly heart.”

Happy Thanksgiving!

"Why?" Reflection on the 33rd Sunday of Ordinary Time - Year A

Alright, it is time for a little confession.

 I hate studying.

 People often thought my “geeky” Asian look meant that I am a book-worm. The truth is, however, I have never been very fond of academic pursuit. My reason often is that I have a practical mind. I would much prefer being out there doing something useful, rather than sitting in a classroom studying abstract ideas.

It stroke as a big blow after I entered the seminary where my fundamental responsibility, of course, is to study. Not only to study, I was asked to study Philosophy. In other words, I was to study thoughts and abstract ideas. Ironic enough, isn’t it?

Needless to say how much I struggled trying to find meaning and the will to sit through classes of Metaphysics, Epistemology, Anthropology, the Philosophical sequence, in which we learned about the thoughts of Ancient Greeks to Contemporary thinkers, such as Nietzsche, Heidegger, Hegel, etc.

I remember telling Fr. Ferdinand Santos, one of my professors, how much I hated almost all of my philosophy classes. I didn’t know why I had to do it. And, above all, I found them utterly useless.

The wise priest looked at me and began to tell me that he too hated Philosophy with all his passion as a young seminarian. Then, his bishop decided to send to Belgium to attain a degree in Philosophy. He, too, struggled to find meaning for what he was asked to do. His spiritual director, at that time, challenged him with these words, which he, in turn, challenged me,

“For one to whom much has been given, much will be expected. God has given you a good brain; he is going to expect much from you.”

Well, you can’t really argue with that, can you?

Today’s Gospel recounted the parable of the Master and his servants to whom he entrusted a certain amount of talents. Two of them invested the talents and brought about interests, while the third buried it. The Master, after he returned, commented the two faithful and wise servants, and sent the other one away “into the darkness outside.”

The Gospel challenges us to ask ourselves, “What talents have I received from God? What have I done with them? Have I make use of them wisely?”

To students like me, have we made us of our privilege to have a good education? Have we “invested” our intelligence and our capacity to learn and to gain knowledge?

To workers, have we given our utmost abilities and skills to our work fields?

To husbands and wives, have we given ourselves completely to our spouses, and ultimately to our children who are both gifts and talents entrusted to us?

Most importantly, we also ought to ask ourselves, “Have we done everything out of love, or merely out of no-other-choice grudging duties?”

As Mother Teresa wisely put it, “The important thing isn’t how many actions one carries out, but the amount of love one carries in each action.”

After all, it is not what we do, but why we do what we do is what matters.

Hopefully, for all of us, Christians, the reason would be for the love of God and of our neighbors. So that, one day, when our Master truly return, we humbly hear him say,

'Well done, my good and faithful servant.
Since you were faithful in small matters,
I will give you great responsibilities.
Come, share your master's joy.'