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Homilies, Soul Food

Third Sunday of Lent: “The God of Extravagant Tenderness”

Fr Greg Boyle, an American Jesuit, is the founding director of Homeboy Industries in LA, the world’s largest gang-intervention and rehab center for inmates and gangsters.  He started working with them in the mid-1980s.  His latest book titled, “The Whole Language: the Power of Extravagant Tenderness” has an insightful reflection about who God is.  Greg writes:  A homie says to me: “I see now that I never made it easy for my parents to love me, and yet, they never stopped loving me.”  The God who never stops.  So, God, in this same way, has a limited vocabulary.  God never knows what we’re talking about when we judge our own worthiness or let ourselves get fixated on God’s ‘deep disappointment.’  Often when we think God is silent, this Tender One is just nearly speechless. God is monosyllabic. Love. I’m afraid that’s it.  Never stopping.  Many a time in our lives we are so focused on what appears to be God’s “deep disappointment,” disappointment perhaps of a failed marriage, an unsuccessful career, a dysfunctional family.  Disappointment in bad decisions we made, stupidities we did, lack of compassion, failures, fears, inadequacies, unworthiness, sinfulness, name it.  One priest told me that he could never forgive himself for what he did in the past – again an indication of our perception that God is so deeply disappointed with us. Our readings today turn this “deep disappointment” narrative upside down.  The call of Moses is a great revelation of who God is, one who rescues God’s suffering people.  In the burning bush, God says “I am who am.”  This does not have a philosophical or existential meaning.  It means: “I am actively involved.  I am acting. I am liberating my people.”  Even if God’s people would turn away from him, worship other gods; yes, even they are so stubborn and sinful, God’s fidelity is constant, never quick to give up.  This is very different from the prevailing idea of God as somebody who rewards the good and punishes the evil. We hear a similar tone in the Gospel. The suffering of the Galileans was not because they were more sinful than others, nor was the death of 18 people when the tower at Siloam fell on them an indication that they were more guilty than others in Jerusalem. Rather we see an image of God who gives us time to yield and produce a good fruit.  Jesus is like the gardener in the parable, always ready to push the boundaries of possibilities rather than making judgements or assessing our worthiness.  Our God does not get tired of expanding his patience threshold: “Sir, leave it for this year also, and I shall cultivate the ground around it and fertilize it; it may bear fruit in the future.”  God does not easily give up on us!  We may easily give up on ourselves, but this is not our God.  The subtitle of Fr Greg Boyle’s book says it all: God has “the power of extravagant tenderness.”   In his TED talk in 2017, Pope Francis called for a “revolution of tenderness” amid so much violence and intolerance we find in our world. He says: “Tenderness is not weakness; it is fortitude.  It is the path of solidarity, the path of humility.  Please, allow me to say it loud and clear: The more powerful you are, the more your actions will have an impact on people, the more responsible you are to act humbly.  If you don’t your power will ruin you, and you will ruin the other.”  In this season of Lent, we can never go wrong if we stay and relish in God’s extravagant tenderness, if we simply allow God to be God who is all-loving, never judgmental, never impatient with us.  If we can’t change our lives, however much we try and try, let us turn to the God of mercy and allow the Lord’s power of tenderness to take possession of our lives. Tony Moreno SJ 19 March 2022

Homilies

Fourth Sunday of Lent: “The Elder Son”

Whenever we hear this parable of the prodigal son, we would often think about the sinful behavior of the younger son and how he had to go through an experience of degradation before he realized that his proper place was to be at his father’s home. We are often moved by the touching encounter between the father and the younger son, where the sinful son receives the unconditional love and mercy of his father. It seemed like a story with a happy ending. But it is not the end of the story. In fact the real focus of the story is the elder son. We must remember that Jesus was telling this story to the scribes and Pharisees who are self-righteous and lacked compassion for sinners. Jesus wanted the scribes and Pharisees to see themselves as the elder son, and Jesus wanted to touch their hearts and make them realize that they are being called to forgive those who have committed great sins. The whole story is not really about asking forgiveness but it is a story that challenges us to forgive like the Father. It is easier to imagine ourselves to be like the younger son. We all had our experiences of sinfulness and the need to repent before the Lord. But we know that the Father will forgive us because we believe in his love for us. It is harder to place ourselves in the place of the elder son. It is so hard to forgive others who have sinned especially if we have tried very hard to be good. Like the Pharisees, we sometimes think that we have to earn the love of God and so we believe that if you work hard at being good God will love you more. If you are careless with your life, then you should receive less love and maybe even be punished. Shouldn’t the younger son repay the property that he had wasted? What guarantee do we have that the younger son will not sin again? Isn’t this they way we sometimes judge others? Isn’t this the way we often withhold our forgiveness from those who are sinful in our eyes. Like the elder son, we sometimes we think it is unfair for the Father to give the same love to a good person and a bad person. The parable does not tell us what the elder son did after his father asked him to accept his younger brother. Did the elder son join the family to welcome his brother? Did he stay with his anger and cut himself off from both his brother and his father? The ending is ours to make. Jesus did not put an easy ending to the parable because trying to forgive is not easy. It is something we ask the Lord to help us with. Just as Jesus appealed to the Pharisees and scribes to put away their self-righteousness, we are also being asked by the Lord, especially during this Lenten season, to allow compassion and reconciliation overcome any anger or judgment of others. Whenever we find ourselves in the place of the elder son, and are called to forgive a frequent or serious sinner, let us not forget that we too were treated with mercy and compassion by God. Just as God has loved us not according to what we deserve but according to what we need, let us also love others not according to what their sins deserve but according to what their souls need. (Homily of Fr. Ritchie Genilo, SJ on the Fourth Sunday of Lent, 27 March 2022)

Features, General, Homilies, Soul Food

Transforming Gentleness: the Grace of St. Thérèse Couderc

Homily of Fr. Daniel Patrick Huang, SJ on 26 September 2020, Feast of St. Thérèse Couderc in Rome. I hope you don’t mind, but this afternoon, I would like to reflect a little on your Mother, St. Thérèse Couderc, as a water purifier or filter. I realize that it’s not a very dignified or poetic image, but I hope that it helps explain what has struck me most these days about St. Thérèse: what I would call her transforming gentleness or her fruitful non-violence. A water purifier. This is not an original image, but one I learned from the spiritual writer Ron Rolheiser when he describes how the suffering of Jesus on the cross takes away the sins of the world. How does Jesus, the grain of wheat who dies, bring forth new life? Rolheiser suggests he does what a water purifier or a water filter does. “It takes in the water that contains impurities, dirt, toxins and occasional poisons.” The filter “does not simply let the water flow through it.” It “holds the dirt and toxins inside of itself and gives back only the pure water.” (1) This is what Jesus does on the cross: he holds in himself, bears in himself, the hatred, envy, anger, and violence of humanity, and instead of simply passing it on, somehow purifies all this in his own person, so that what flows out of him instead is love, graciousness, blessing, forgiveness, peace. Doesn’t this describe too what Thérèse Couderc lived in her sufferings? Reading various accounts of her life, I couldn’t help but be struck by the suffering and humiliation she went through, at the hands of a Jesuit Provincial and her own sisters. Looking back, one can see that Fr. Renault’s decision to replace Thérèse as superior general and foundress with a rich widow who had barely begun novitiate was not only ill advised but actually idiotic! What was he thinking? Till today, the writers I consulted struggle to explain Mother Charlotte Contenet’s inexplicable animosity towards Thérèse. I found myself asking: Why didn’t Thérèse fight back? She certainly would have had reason and justice on her side. Or why didn’t she just leave? Why didn’t she just start again, with a group of more congenial companions? Earlier accounts of Thérèse explain her response as humility: Thérèse as “une grande humble.” This seems to have been what was emphasized in her canonization process 50 years ago. But, as some of your sisters have pointed out (2), these accounts tend to speak of the humility of Thérèse in terms of uncomplaining submission, self-abasement, blind obedience to ecclesiastical authority, usually male. Although there is no doubt that Thérèse was deeply humble, this version of humility sounds suspiciously ideological. The more I reflected, the more I realized that Thérèse’s silent suffering was, in fact, less self-abasement, and more like the Gospel beatitude of meekness, what I have called transforming gentleness or fruitful nonviolence. Like her Lord, her dying was akin to the work of the water purifier. Instead of responding to stupidity, prejudice, pettiness, injustice in an aggressive, violent way, which would have continued the cycle of violence, Thérèse takes in all this and holds it in herself, and through the workings of grace in her deepest person, gives back instead kindness, reconciliation, peace, new life. By somehow absorbing in her person all this negativity, at great personal cost to herself, she kept the fragile congregation she so loved alive and united, for the sake of the work she so believed in, the revolutionary, till-that-time-unheard-of work of women religious giving the Spiritual Exercises. Even towards the end of her life, when she went through her “dark night” and could be seen weeping while she prayed for hours in the chapel in Lyons, she brought into her person all the pain and suffering of the Church, her beloved France, humanity estranged from its Creator. Somehow, mysteriously, like a water filter, what emerged from her was light and peace. There is that lovely story of the troubled novice who saw Thérèse in the novitiate in Versailles in 1880, not knowing who the elderly religious was, only seeing somehow light emanating from her, and feeling a deep sense of peace when that older sister looked into her eyes. (3) That this process involved crucifying pain for Thérèse seems clear. How did she do it? Where did she get the inner strength to respond with transforming gentleness to what would have provoked many of us to retaliation or escape? One of the favorite words of our former Superior General, Fr. Adolfo Nicolas, was the word depth, depth in the midst of a world of distraction and superficiality. I believe too that depth is the only word to describe Thérèse Couderc. Although her vision of goodness and her Se Livrer came decades later, those two documents capture the depth of her vision and her love throughout her life. Unlike many of us who can only see the surface of things and events, Thérèse was blessed with a vision that pierced beneath the surface to perceive the infinite goodness of God, like “letters of gold,” (4) gleaming and beautiful, present and active in the depths of all reality. And unlike those of us whose attention and desire are distracted and captured by so many lesser things, Thérèse was a profoundly centered woman, whose loving act of total surrender meant being so spiritually free that she held nothing back from God and lived completely from and for God. Because of the depth of her vision and the depth of her love, Thérèse was able to respond with depth to the events, even the most painful and difficult, of her life. Perhaps that is the reason why she so valued the ministry of the Exercises that her sisters were engaged in. It is precisely a ministry of depth that invites people to delve deeply into themselves to see the good God at work in their lives and in their world, and to respond with loving surrender to this

Homilies, Soul Food

Gravity

Homily by Fr. Arnel Aquino, sj on the feast of the Baptism of the Lord 11 Jan 2020 “I need to be baptized by you and yet you are coming to me?” That’s how I imagine John to have said that. It’s highly unlikely he said it that way, though, with the personal pronouns in italics. But the point is John did not expect Jesus, the Messiah of all people, to descend to the river Jordan and go down to the back of the line of sinners. John knew that baptizing the Messiah was not his place. He also knew well that this queue of sinners wasn’t a Messiah’s place either. “There’s something misplaced here,” John must’ve thought. “A reversal  that’s short of scandalous.” So, when he said, “I need to be baptized by you and yet you are coming to me?” His pronouns were in the right places. John knew what was his place and what wasn’t. We say it better in Tagalog: alam ni Juan kung saan siya lulugar. If it hasn’t happened to us, nevertheless, you and I are familiar with the situation where we or someone loses the sense of place, ‘yun bang nakakalimutan na natin kung saan tayo lulugar.’ This usually happens when we are taken from a place of non-privilege and placed in a situation of privilege. Raised to such a place we’re given unbelievable access to private spaces, both physical and personal spaces. We are given access to sensitive information, access to money, access to property, etc. And then, sadly, it gets to our head. Then, we lose our place. Nakakalimutan natin kung saan tayo lulugar. Classic examples of this are familiar to us. There are no specific faces to these examples, but we know and have seen them happen. Like a boy starts out as a sacristan, then becomes the head of the altar boys, then sacristan-mayor many years thereafter. Then…he loses his place. Whereupon he conducts himself as if he knows better than the priests who privileged him to be sacristan-mayor. Or like a faithful driver or body guard of many years who’s raised to army general as his boss becomes president. Then… he loses his place. He starts using his power to “liquidate” detractors of his master. Or like a group of parishioners who volunteer to help run a baby parish, outlaying their own resources, efforts, connections. Then… they lose their place. They now have control over who gets to see the parish priest and who doesn’t, whose donation can be accepted and whose shouldn’t, which surnames should appear on the benefactors’ wall, etc. I can go on, but I’m sure you’re familiar with the situation. It usually happens when someone is raised to a privileged place and granted access, then the person gets lost. Nalilimutan na niya kung saan siya galing at saan siya lulugar. Italicized pronouns are telltale signs of this: I, me, my, mine. Then they turn into phrase: through me, with me, because of me, should be me. And the saddest thing about it is that it all started out from such spirit of service, gentle kindness, generosity without any hooks, and true selflessness. In other words, it all started from a place of descent. Now, however, it’s all “disordered affections,” to use Ignatius’ words. Ad majorem Dei gloriam is really ad majorem mei gloriam. Mei in italics, please. Sisters and brothers, we forget our rightful place when we lose our sense of gravity. We lose our sense of gravity when we start believing hat the natural way for us to go is up, and higher, in privilege and access; when the natural way to go is really down and lower, in greater service, in more humility. Jesus never lost gravity, in all his privilege and access as Son of the God Most High. Rather, he always descended. He began his ministry by descending to the level of sinners chest-high in sin. He descended to the level of people’s life-stories and told parables off of them. He descended to the impure, never once vaunting himself pure, though he was. He descended to the realm of illnesses, demonic possessions, gender separation and declared that “the Kingdom of God is here.” He just kept doing and doing good things selflessly, “not crying out, not shouting, not making his voice heard in the streets,” never self-referencing, never lording himself over his friends, never italicizing his personal pronouns. “A bruised reed he did not break, a smoldering wick, he did not quench.” No suffocation, no throttling, no emotional blackmail. Even as Messiah of God, Jesus knew his place. From the beginning of his ministry in the Jordan river to his last meal in the upper room, Jesus, Messiah that he was, was servant. That was his place, the place he always believed he should be, a place he loved being in: the place of descent. No wonder the heaves above opened up that day with the Father saying, “This is my beloved son with whom I am well pleased.” God was so proud of him! And that should be no surprise to us because we know what that feels, don’t we, sisters and brothers? People we privilege and grant access into our lives endear themselves to us when they remember their place. All the more we want to make them part of us. They become such joy. But the opposite is also true. When someone loses gravity, our heavens darken and close and become silent. “I need to be baptized by you and yet you are coming to me?” “Allow it now,” Jesus tells John. “For thus it is fitting for us to fulfil all righteousness.” The Messiah always knew his place as God’s Son. His personal pronouns were always rightly placed, modestly subdued. They never sounded like they were in wearisome, attention-seeking italics. Sisters and brothers, as we move back to ordinary time, if we sense that our egos have led us astray after being granted privilege and access

Homilies, Soul Food, Updates and Activities

The Star of Christmas

Homily at Mass on Christmas Eve 2019 by Fr. James Gascon, sj One Wintry Christmas evening in December, in a faraway land in Minnesota, a father and his 5 year-old son decided to take a walk to the park after the family Christmas dinner. As they pass through the snow filled streets of the village, the father noticed his son staring at each house they would pass by, as if absorbed by what he saw in these houses. Finally, in a soft perplexed voice, the son asked his father. “Why are there purple stars hanged outside the doors of the houses in our neighbors?” With very caring voice, the father answered, “Each purple star represents every son who used to live in those homes, went to war, and died defending our country’s freedom.” And the father continues, “That is why, some have one, two, or three. Each star represents a son given away. That is our way of honoring them, and thanking them for giving their lives for our country.” And there was silence between them. As they continued walking until they reached the neighborhood park and had a perfect view of the clear sky, the got more excited.  He looked up and with great awe and excitement pointed to the brightest star in the sky. “How about that star, dad?” Without hesitation the father replied, “That’s the star at the Father’s house. The star of Jesus. Our heavenly father gave us his only begotten son, that we might know how much he loves us and win our war against sin in the world.” And without hesitation the boy replied, “When I grow up, I too will give myself for our country, so that you can hang a purple star on our door, dad.” And the father could not utter a word. I think this is what Christmas is all about. For four Sundays we prepared for this day; for nine simbang gabi we listened to stories; stories that lead to The story, to the manger where Jesus gave of himself as a gift. We must remember that what was given is not a thing, not a material gift but a person, a baby. Helpless, but will grow into a man to save his people. And similar to the gifts we give each other, it is precious. Jesus is he who was sent, offered, and given up. But what kind of a gift does Jesus represent? Jesus is a gift for all. When the son of man became man, he was given to all. Not because everyone deserves him, but because all of us needs him. He was given 2000 years ago, he is given yesterday, today, and continues to be given every day, even beyond our generation. In our present consumerist culture, we always long for what we want, for what we like, which many times are not also what we really need. We truly need Jesus, thus, the father gifted us with Jesus. Thus, we need to know him, love him, and follow him, as the second week of the Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius summons us to do. Jesus is a gift that is priceless. What was offered in Jesus is not only his person, but more than his person, he offered a relationship. Through him we become sons and daughters of God. In him, we can call God “Abba,” our father. Because we have been connected and related with the Father, through Jesus, we can pray and ask for our needs. Priceless gifts and graces are showered upon us, and we cannot but respond in gratitude. Jesus is a gift of challenge. The gift should not stay with us alone. We need to re-gift Jesus. Perhaps in a new wrapper. “Parang recycled gift… uso na yan ngayon.” The more we recycle the gift, the better. And come to think of it, it is the best gift, because it is never consumed. Rather it consumes, and brings out the best in us as well as in others. So, Jesus is a gift for all, a priceless gift and a gift that challenges. So where does this bring us? To the real disposition of being a Christian. As a gift for all, we are called to interreligious and ecumenical dialogue. Jesus is not only for Christians. Incidentally, this year is year of interreligious and ecumenical dialogue, a recognition that Jesus is for all. We don’t own Jesus, He is for everyone. And if we really have received Jesus the priceless, we must give gifts that are priceless: forgiveness, love, time, listening, visiting the sick, caring for those who need us. These are the priceless gifts we can share having experienced the priceless gift who is Jesus. And finally, this is our challenge. Can we live the life we are called to live as Jesus lived? Our life is an eternal challenge. We should never give up. It is not easy, but through God’s grace, we can. We can accept the challenge. And perhaps, this is the reason why Filipino houses hang not purple stars but colorful parols on their windows and doors. Kumukutikutitap, bumubusibusilak, ganyan ang indak ng mga bombilya ng parol. Because we can offer of ourselves in many unique ways, through many means, not only with our lives, not only with what we have, for our love ones, for our neighbors, for our country, for the world. This is the reason why we have many kinds of parols, with many shapes and colors. If you hang a parol this Christmas in your home, now you know what it really, really means: Are you a gift for all that is priceless and a constant challenge? Otherwise, your parol will remain a decoration, a piece of paper or kapis that hangs there for nothing. And how would you explain it to a 5-year old boy? Maligayang Pasko sa inyong lahat.

Homilies, Soul Food, Updates and Activities

Gazing on the Cross

Homily of Fr. Peter Pojol, S.J. at Cenacle Retreat House on September 14th, 2019 (Saturday) I think it may be safe to say that everyone has had an experience of recoiling at something horrible, of being so distressed by something that it makes us turn away in order to, momentarily at least, block out whatever evil confronts us. It could be the replay of that crucial helmet-and-glove catch by David Tyree, if you’re a New England Patriots fan. It could be a scene of extreme violence, or of a loved one suffering in sickness. It could be a reminder of anything depressing, or anything frightening, anything that threatens life, anything that seems to assert the victory of death, of the anti-life. Have you ever, in such an instance, fought against your instinct to turn away and to forget, and instead steeled your resolve to face that evil squarely and not let it determine your choices or your life, not let it have the last word? If you have, you may have experienced the power of paradoxically drawing life from death, of gaining strength from fear. The story of Moses and the Israelites in our first reading from the book of Numbers illustrates how God saved them from their deaths precisely by having them confront the cause of their death. I must admit that it is a mysterious account written with many of the mythical elements of story-telling and faith proclaiming that was standard practice at that time. But what we can glean from the story is that the Israelites were dying in the desert, whether literally or figuratively from snake bites, and recognizing their fault for turning against God in their distress, they sought the forgiveness and help of God. What is interesting in this account is the way God saved them.  Rather than introducing something different to counter the serpents, God instructed Moses to make an image of the serpent, and to tell the people to look at this image, a stark reminder of their ills. Rather than giving them something to take their attention away from the source of their death and destruction, God as it were made them stare death in the eye and in this way enabled them to defeat death and to have life. There is something to be said about gazing on evil that threatens to envelope and overwhelm us. The wisdom of staring death in the eye is not simply to desensitize us or to make us numb, which is what seems to drive some trends in popular media and culture. For even when we have become desensitized and numb, we can still die, just as we can die running away from death. Rather, the wisdom of gazing right at death is to see what we had not seen before: that is, the power of God that surpasses death and evil—not just death and evil in the abstract, but this death and this evil that taunts me; and not just the power of God in general, but the unrelenting power of this God who loves me persistently no matter how many times I have foresaken him. We may have become desensitized to the paradox of bannering the very cause of death as the promise of deliverance, from the sheer repeated exposure to the image. In fact, one of the universal symbols of medicine derives, I think, from the Old Testament story we just heard: the image of a serpent on a pole, especially as it is being carried by the figure of the greek god Mercury symbolizing the speedy delivery of cure. The other ubiquitous paradoxical symbol of cure and life, whose power to jolt us into recognizing the profound truth of “life through death” is easy to lose, is the cross of Jesus Christ, the exaltation of which we celebrate today. It is easy to forget the impact of raising high the symbol of the standard instrument of torture and death that was the very same one used to kill the one we proclaim as Messiah and Savior. If Jesus had been executed by an electric chair, we would be adorning all our Churches and altars with it. By exalting the cross, whether by the crucifixes we place prominently in our homes and places of worship, or by the habit of the sign of the cross with which we call upon God to bless us in prayer, we not only remind ourselves of our death and of the death of the one who came to save us, but more importantly, we recommit ourselves to the truth that Jesus exemplified and willingly gave up his life to tell: that God is love and love is the final word, not death, not failure, not evil. By exalting the cross we humbly beg the Lord to help us make our own the saving mystery that plays out from death to life. By living by the sign of the cross, we hope to embrace whatever makes us cringe and cower in fear and in so doing to find God embracing us and leading us from darkness into light. As the evangelist John set down in those immortal words we heard in our gospel today: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life.”

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With tears in our eyes but Joy in our hearts

Homily for Sr. Guia’s Funeral on May 6, 2019, Quezon City, Philippines, by Fr. Edmundo M. Martinez: .. There are tears in our eyes, but joy in our hearts as we bid goodbye to Sr. Guia. Guia’s work and the work of the Cenacle concern the spiritual life. Self-awareness is the experience of spirit. When we sometimes say, I know what I feel but I cannot express it, we are referring to the experience of being self-aware of ourselves as being angry or puzzled or exuberant, but cannot put it into words. Because the experience itself involves no words, no images, no pictures: it is immediate, it is immaterial, it is spiritual. Now while all who are alive are aware, not everyone is self-aware. I can listen to the stories of the successes of another, see the proofs of that success—the fine clothes, the expensive cars, the magnificent palaces. When I hear and see these things, I am aware of what my senses and imagination perceive. What I may not be self-aware of is that as I hear and see these things, there is within me a complex experience of envy and admiration, jealousy and regret, frustration and despair. So long as I am awake, I am aware of things around me. I am even aware of myself when I talk about myself. But talking about myself is not self- awareness. Self-awareness is the awareness of the subject doing the talking (Bernard Lonergan). When I talk about myself, I am aware of what I am saying. But perhaps I may also be self-aware that I am talking about myself a little too grandly. That shameful experience of lying to build myself up, even as I speak, is self-awareness. To be self-aware is to be aware of myself in the very same moment that I am aware of what I see, or hear, or do. I cannot speak about it, I can only experience it. It cannot be captured by words; it can only be lived. It is immaterial. To be self-aware is to be spirit in the world (Karl Rahner). Now Sr.Guia’s lifetime work is to direct, and guide, and encourage individuals to grow in self-awareness, and indeed to grow in the self-awareness of God who dwells in each one of us. To discover the Father who created us to his own image (Gen 1:27); to know the Son who promised to dwell in us,(John 14: 20);to be familiar with the Spirit who has been given to us  by whom we cry, “Abba, Father” (Rom 8:15 and 1 John 4:13)—that is the task of spiritual direction to which  Sr. Guia dedicated herself. It is to cut through the distractions and vanities of the world to guide the person to the stillness of her self-awareness. The quiet of that self-awareness, that prayerful presence to one’s self, is the favorable condition by which the person may discover the God within who is more intimate to her than she is to herself (St. Augustine); to  recognize the Lord, and to become familiar with the ways of the Spirit so that slowly she becomes a new creation and begins to see herself, her life, and her world with the new eyes of faith. These new eyes of faith reveal a beautiful world despite the ugliness of sin, because it is a world being redeemed by the body of Christ; it is a world vibrant with life, because it is animated by the Spirit; it is a world filled with hope in its groaning,  because it is heading inexorably towards the kingship of Christ; above all, it is a world in which the person now has a unique and vital role to play, a mission and purpose in life.  All the struggles in life,  all the strivings and dissatisfactions, all the yearnings and disappointments are now seen in a new perspective: they are our longing for God, they are God leading us to himself.  As St. Augustine succinctly put it: “Thou hast made us for thyself; our hearts are restless until it rests in You.” And the more the individual becomes self-aware of God’s presence in her life, the more she gains the freedom of the children of God, and then Sr. Guia’s work recedes to the background, for now it is the Spirit Himself—or Herself–that guides the person, a member fully alive in the body of Christ. To be a spiritual guide that Sr. Guia was is a sanctifying and privileged vocation. Because to be good at it —and Sr. Guia was good at it—requires that one has traveled and continues to travel the road to which one guides the other person. One cannot guide another to holiness without herself being holy. And one can only be holy by making others holy. And so, her work was sanctifying: even as she brought others closer to God, she herself came closer to God. But is also privileged, because as one comes closer to God in self-awareness, one realizes  that it is all God’s work, that all is grace. It is the Spirit within that is at work, and one is merely an earthen vessel. And now this earthen vessel has come to its point of obsolescence, and we bid goodbye to Sr. Guia. But this earthen vessel—this corruptible body—has served its purpose well.  Just as Christ’s body was the instrument of his total love and obedience to the Father, so also, Guia’s body that we now return to the earth, has been the instrument of her loving God and guiding others to love God.  And so we know that Guia’s body now buried corruptible, will rise, like Christ’s body,  incorruptible. The life of Guia has been a lifetime of longing for God and of doing his will. If one has longed for God all of one’s life, if one has followed his will through all the twists and turns of life, if one feels privileged to have been chosen to lead others to Him, would there be any hesitation, or

General, Homilies, Soul Food

Nonsense!

Homily by Fr. Peter Pojol, SJ at Cenacle Retreat House for Easter Vigil on April 20, 2019:   Gospel: Lk 24:1-12 The women’s story seemed like nonsense, and the disciples did not believe them. What story? That the body of their dead Master was missing. That what they all witnessed was not yet the end. Could they dare think that against all logic something good can still come out of this? Nonsense!   Do you know what else seems like nonsense? That God loves us. Look at our world. Look at our country. Look at your own lives. There are many reasons to despair. But on this night, especially on this night, we allow scripture and liturgy to help us recall the weightier, more consequential reasons why, instead of despair, of dismissing all this as nonsense, we must take after Peter, get up, run to the tomb, bend down, see the burial cloths alone, and go home amazed.   We have heard the history of salvation summarized and proclaimed. We have used the powerful symbols of fire against darkness, of water against dryness and lifelessness, of white victory against black evil. I invite you in the coming days and weeks to return to the experience of the liturgies, the stories, of the Paschal Triduum to touch your hearts. For now and the rest of the homily, let me suggest that we listen to words of our Holy Father, the Vicar of Christ, Pope Francis, who writes from the heart, from God’s heart to us.   Christ is alive and he wants you to be alive! (Christus Vivit)   He is in you, he is with you and he never abandons you. However far you may wander, he is always there, the Risen One. He calls you and he waits for you to return to him and start over again. When you feel you are growing old out of sorrow, resentment or fear, doubt or failure, he will always be there to restore your strength and your hope. (2)   This is how Pope Francis begins his Post-Synodal Apostolic Exhortation to Young People and the Entire People of God, entitled Christus Vivit (Christ Lives), which he published March 25 this year.   In Chapter 4, Pope Francis lays out the core message that is most appropriate to our Vigil tonight. He does so in three points: God loves you, Christ saves you, and Christ is alive! Let us listen intently to his words, as if they were from God.   The very first truth I would tell each of you is this: “God loves you”. It makes no difference whether you have already heard it or not. I want to remind you of it. God loves you. Never doubt this, whatever may happen to you in life. At every moment, you are infinitely loved. (112)   God sees in us a beauty that no one else can see: As the Prophet Isaiah writes, “For you are precious in my sight, and honoured, and I love you” (Is 43:4). (114)   God does not keep track of your failings and he always helps you learn something even from your mistakes. Because he loves you. Try to keep still for a moment and let yourself feel his love. Try to silence all the noise within, and rest for a second in his loving embrace. (115)   The second point: Christ saves you: It is precisely through our problems, frailties and flaws that he wants to write this love story. He embraced the prodigal son, he embraced Peter after his denials, and he always, always, always embraces us after every fall, helping us to rise and get back on our feet. Because the worst fall, and pay attention to this, the worst fall, the one that can ruin our lives, is when we stay down and do not allow ourselves to be helped up. (120)   Beloved of the Lord, how valuable must you be if you were redeemed by the precious blood of Christ! Dear [young] people, “you are priceless! You are not up for sale! Please, do not let yourselves be bought. Do not let yourselves be seduced. Do not let yourselves be enslaved…” (122)   Keep your eyes fixed on the outstretched arms of Christ crucified, let yourself be saved over and over again. And when you go to confess your sins, believe firmly in his mercy which frees you of your guilt. Contemplate his blood poured out with such great love, and let yourself be cleansed by it. In this way, you can be reborn ever anew. (123)   Third point: Christ is alive! We need to keep reminding ourselves of this, because we can risk seeing Jesus Christ simply as a fine model from the distant past, as a memory, as someone who saved us two thousand years ago. But that would be of no use to us: it would leave us unchanged, it would not set us free. The one who fills us with his grace, the one who liberates us, transforms us, heals and consoles us is someone fully alive. He is the Christ, risen from the dead, filled with supernatural life and energy, and robed in boundless light. (124)   Because he lives, there can be no doubt that goodness will have the upper hand in your life and that all our struggles will prove worthwhile. If this is the case, we can stop complaining and look to the future, for with him this is always possible. That is the certainty we have. (127)   So, three points: God loves you, Christ saves you, and Christ is alive!   If in your heart you can learn to appreciate the beauty of this message, if you are willing to encounter the Lord, if you are willing to let him love you and save you, if you can make friends with him and start to talk to him, the living Christ, about the realities of your life, then

Features, Homilies, Soul Food, Updates and Activities

Let Christ easter in us

The resurrection isn’t simply about getting the message out in the most efficient way –  it is about individual transformation, one person at a time. That’s why the risen Jesus took the time to console Magdalene and walk with a couple of discouraged disciples to Emmaus.. appeared to the disciples in Jerusalem, he came back just to appear for Thomas who missed the chance to see him.. Our Lord always deals with us in a very personal way. He knows each of us so well and he understands our deepest desires and he knows what we truly need.

General, Homilies, Soul Food

What Love Embraces

This essay first appeared on print on Easter 14 years ago in Sr. Cecille’s column “Solid Places” in the Sunday Inquirer Magazine. Beatriz is now a lovely, healthy 14 year-old.   Joy and sorrow are sisters; they live in the same house. – Macrina Wiederkehr There is a pervasive attitude in our world today, which seeks to deny anything that would remind us of our mortality. We run away from wrinkles and thinning hair with the same fervor we display in trying to escape the more invisible diminishments in our lives. This is most evident in our postmodern pathological denial of the inevitability of suffering and the rightful place of sorrow in life. But if we are to know the depths of joy, if we must truly love (which is our most difficult and ultimate task, according to Rilke), then we must learn to accept the visitations of sorrow. This reminds me of a little story: It was supposed to be just another routine prenatal check-up. The young mother was on her ninth month, only a week till full term. It was her second child too, a much prayed for and long-awaited one. Her eldest daughter, a precocious 6-year-old, had been bugging her parents for a baby sister, and she was finally getting her wish. “Beatriz,” that was the name they had chosen. But the visit turned into confinement: apparently the mother’s body was all primed to deliver, but the baby was not quite ready to come out yet. They had to wait a few more days. The labor and delivery turned out to be a breeze, and she delivered a beautiful baby girl. It was all routine. There were disturbing signs, however. The other nursing mothers in the rooming ward had gushed at how quiet her daughter was, while theirs squalled lustily, but the mother was a little uneasy. Her tiny baby took only a little milk, and would just whimper softly. On the day they were supposed to come home, the pediatrician noticed that little Beatriz was very ruddy, which was disquieting since both her parents were fair-skinned. And so another consultant was called, and soon tests were made. At this point, things unraveled quickly for the bewildered and shocked parents: there was something terribly wrong with their newborn daughter, and the doctors suspected a blood disorder and a viral infection. She was also jaundiced. A blood culture was ordered, and since the hospital did not have the facilities for it, the father had to rush to another hospital to have it done. It was 2  a.m. by this time. Back in the hospital, Beatriz was having convulsions because of her high fever. Her mother remembers the scene well: “It is so terrible for a mother to see her own baby suffer like that, and to be helpless about it. All you could see were doctors and nurses surrounding her, just this moving, frantic wall of white coats and uniforms… l couldn’t see her anymore. It is the most awful feeling in the world, to know your child is in danger and not even SEE her… the memory burned that image forever in my brain.” A different sight greeted the father, when he returned to the hospital. He saw his little daughter, now in the neonatal intensive care unit, with assorted tubes attached to her tiny body, her eyes blindfolded to protect them from the photolight therapy. He took one look at his baby, and broke down and cried. The initial shock and horror at this turn of events gave way to a long, equally painful vigil. The blood culture took five days, and until then (the doctors said), they must wait and pray. Family and friends rushed to the hospital, but there was really little they could do or say. For what words can they speak to make any sense out of the suffering of an innocent baby? And what else can they do  but relieve the parents of some of the practical details of a hospital confinement? The weight of a powerless, painful waiting for the fate of their child, and the struggle to find meaning out of the utter senselessness, was theirs alone. They clung to each other, and to their faith, She refused to leave her baby’s side, and when her blood pressure soared and she was banned from the sterile area, she waited outside the door everyday, praying. He sought refuge in the hospital chapel, sometimes falling asleep there, his 6’0″ frame squeezed in the narrow pew, one arm clutching the back of the pew as if it was a lifeline, like a man lost at sea. Only love can understand such words, and only faith can give the courage to see beyond love’s present suffering. When the blood results came back, it was discovered that Beatriz had polycythemia, which means her blood was “too much and too thick.” She needed partial exchange transfusion round the clock. She also had klebsella ozaenae, a viral infection that proved resistant to the antibiotics that she was being given, and so a new round of more powerful drugs was started. The days stretched with an awful, surreal, slow-mo quality: the father would visit her in the morning before he went to work, and her IV would be in her foot, and when he returned in the afternoon, it would be in another part of her body. Her veins were so tiny they kept collapsing. It broke his heart every time.  Still, they kept their faith. After one of their baby’s convulsions, the mother wept as she told me what had happened. After a moment, she quietly. painfully said: “Do you know what her name ‘Beatriz’ means? It means ‘Bearer of joy’ I know that even now, she is living up to her name.” Only love can understand such words, and only faith can give the courage to see beyond love’s present suffering. After nearly two weeks in the neonatal intensive care unit, Beatriz was declared

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