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Rapture

This essay first appeared on print on Pentecost 14 years ago in Sr. Cecille’s column “Solid Places” in the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.    ONE of the simple joys of “maidenhood” is the occasional chance to visit the family and babysit one’s little nieces and nephews. The longing makes one receptive to what these kids have to teach us faded and jaded grown-ups, with the added bonus that when their angelic dispositions expire and they turn cranky, one can always return them to their parents without qualm or conscience. (My harried sister, taking back a squirming toddler in her arms, once lamented: “I wish they came with batteries!”)   I was babysitting my 10-month-old niece, who was at that climbing and exploring stage when I was momentarily distracted. Before I knew it, she had discovered the marvels of the dining table’s underbelly, and was now examining the intricacies of our dog’s fur. Our dog, a gentle and affectionate German Shepherd, suffered the indignity with calm resignation. I hastily plucked the sticky-fingered pint-sized explorer and carried her off to the kitchen sink to wash her hands. I held her in front of me, and seated her on the rim of the sink with her feet on its cool surface. As I held her tiny hands under the tap and turned the faucet on, she blinked in surprise and slowly turned to look at me, her eyes big as saucers, lips half parted, with the most beautiful expression on her face. It was pure rapture. Rapture filled her entire being, and it took my breath away. The memory of my baby niece’s rapturous face lingered with me for several days, and brought me to the birthday of the Church which we celebrated last Sunday. Perhaps one way of reflecting upon the feast of Pentecost, when the Spirit came upon the disciples and Mary in the Cenacle (which we Catholics commemorate as the third glorious mystery of the rosary), is to consider this experience of rapture. Three points: First, rapture means being awakened by glory into wondrous joy. From the drudgery of mere existence, we wake up to the stunning truth that, in the words of the poet-priest Gerard Manley Hopkins, “The world is charged with the grandeur of God.” Perhaps this is why they call childhood “the wonder years”——children have not lost their innocence, which is actually an innate sense of God’s goodness permeating the world, waiting to be discovered. The journey into faith involves the same awakening: the God who came, “pitched his tent among us”, suffered, died and rose again, and will stay with us forever. Life, as we knew it, is turned gloriously upside down, inside out, and made new. Second, rapture is not just surprise at some pleasant discovery. The glorious awakening by which rapture bursts upon us leads to an overflowing, joyous gratitude. It is sheer gift marked by unbelievable abundance. The disciples at Pentecost were filled with the Holy Spirit, impelling them to proclaim and  bear witness to what they had experienced. So, too, shall we, when we find the grace to live life gratefully, and therefore, joyfully and passionately. Lastly, when my little niece turned to me with her rapturous smile, she did not (and could not) use words. Nor did I need any: I spontaneously responded with delight at her delight, drawn irresistibly into her joy. Perhaps that is why the disciples could speak different tongues and yet be understood by the people around them. Rapture needs no translation. Joseph Campbell, the famous anthropologist who spent his whole life studying the wisdom of the world’s cultures, was once asked what he thought people looked for in life. He surprised his interviewer by saying that, in his opinion, people were not really after the meaning of life. He said, instead: “I think that what we’re seeking is an expression of being alive. . . so that we actually feel the rapture of being alive.” Pentecost is about awakening to the glory and gratitude of a God who restores and sustains us into life in abundance. Live the rapture.  

Homilies, News & Announcements

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

General, Soul Food, Updates and Activities

Running on Empty: A Reflection on Ash Wednesday

Near the end of my more than three years of intensive psychotherapy, I had a very vivid dream. In that dream, I was in a strange house completely dark and foreboding. I was slowly moving from one room to another, lighting a candle in each room, haunted and terrified by an intense, suffocating loneliness. In therapy, the meaning of the dream gradually unfolded: I was afraid that no matter how much light I can muster, the house of my childhood will forever be empty. Henceforth, I must learn to live with the void.   We fill up that void by busyness and noise, by a surfeit of passing pleasures, by  a horror vacuii that cuts deep into our very being, such that we cannot name who we are apart from what we do or what we have. Such is our need, such is our fear.   It was a painful lesson to learn. I had grown up precisely doing the opposite: filling the void with achievement, in the tragic childish belief that maybe if I do good, I will be loved. And yet in this I am not alone. We all have experienced loss. Heartbreak, suffering, pain, disappointment—even the natural wear and tear of our bodies as we age—all the promise of life inexorably slipping through our trembling fingers, the daily little dyings that foreshadow our last breath. And still we run away: filling that emptiness through various means: achievement, efficiency, popularity, an unending accumulation of lovers, friends, titles, money, fame, the latest gadgets or even facebook likes. We fill up that void by busyness and noise, by a surfeit of passing pleasures, by a horror vacuii that cuts deep into our very being, such that we cannot name who we are apart from what we do or what we have. Such is our need, such is our fear.   Thus, in an acutely existential way, we are running on empty, most of our lives. We are just blind to it. Then Lent arrives, with its no nonsense, in-your-face beginning: Ash Wednesday. Nothing can so completely disarm us of our denial than the ashes on our foreheads, and the reminder that we are, and will sooner or later become, dust. And yet, in this rather brusque beginning, we are given unguent for our wounds, and a fallow time of forty days of deep, deep grace, in order to prepare us for the shining truth of Easter.   Lent tells us that the only way out is through: through that emptiness, through that pain, through that deep gnawing ache that no person or object or experience can completely assuage.   What is this balm of Lent that heals our emptiness? Lent begins with this resounding call from the prophet Joel: “Even now, says the Lord, return to me with your whole heart, with fasting, and weeping, and mourning; rend your hearts, not your garments, and return to the Lord, your God.” Lent tells us that the only way out is through: through that emptiness, through that pain, through that deep gnawing ache that no person or object or experience can completely assuage. We must face the truth that we are radically incomplete this side of heaven, and we must therefore rend our hearts and mourn our losses. And yet that is not the whole truth, nor the more important one, in fact. Joel makes it very clear: we are to return to the Lord with all our hearts. Therein lies our balm, therein lies the core of our truth: only God can fill us, only God can bring love and light and joy into the most secret recesses of our hearts. Only God can give us the fullness of life that is our birthright. The journey of Lent marks this return: we sin and run away, God searches for us and brings us home.   In this homecoming to God, which finds its summit in the Easter Triduum, we are shown the way. Jesus points out that we are to give alms, to pray and to fast. He tells us that we are to do all these “in secret,” because the Father “sees in secret.” What does this mean? And how can these three help to heal our emptiness?   When we open our hearts to God in prayer, we are brought to the truth of our own poverty, of our radical need for God.   In a counterintuitive move that could only come from God, almsgiving, praying and fasting heal our emptiness precisely by bringing us face-to-face with the depth of our insufficiency. We open our hands to help another in need, thereby reminding ourselves that we are never too poor to give, and that whatever we give away will never diminish us, because our worth is not found in what we own. When we open our hearts to God in prayer, we are brought to the truth of our own poverty, of our radical need for God. In prayer we receive that deeply felt knowing that, in the memorable words of the Psalmist, “the Lord is my Shepherd, there is nothing that I shall want (Ps 23).” When we fast from what we want, when we surrender our needs and desires, be they physical or otherwise, we learn the value of self-transcendence. Self-transcendence is nothing but saying “no” to something desirable and perhaps even good, for the sake of a greater “yes” which is grounded in God. In short, to fast is to stop running after that which satiates us, in order to listen to our deeper longing for God.   Finally, Jesus tells us to give alms, to pray and to fast “in secret.” Clearly, there is a lesson in humility here. But perhaps what the Lord desires to deepen in us is also single-heartedness, that purity of intentions that the presence of an audience for all our good work can becloud. When we embrace these practices of self-emptying deprived of other people’s acclamations, we experience the depth of God’s

General, Soul Food, Updates and Activities

Love, Breathtakingly Ordinary

A reflection by Sr. Cecille Tuble, rc in Maryam Community for the month of February 2019: A million years ago, when I was growing up in the 80’s, my ideas of love revolved around Barbara Cartland-inspired damsels in distress being rescued by stern, inscrutably attractive older noblemen, or their more modern equivalents in Mills and Boon novels. Later there were movie versions too: Richard Gere overcoming his fear of heights to offer flowers and his undying love to Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Love, according to these early guides, involved basically being a helpless girl without money or a future, swept off her feet and given, not only a lover/husband, but a whole new identity (of course connected to her man). Love was a once-in-a-lifetime romantic boon: there was only One. True. Love. Too bad if you can’t find yours, honey. Your life is a dismal empty solitude deserving the sincerest commiserations. In my twenties, I was too busy being a self-conscious intellectual feminist, and I thought, with arrogant ignorance, that the guys who pursued me were pitifully blinded by the illusions of romantic love. At that time, my early, largely-unconscious notions of love acquired a quasi-intellectual veneer, an odd and haphazard contradictory mix of adolescent romantic idealism and post-modern ideologies of the impermanence and futility of love. Needless to say, I was blind as a bat when it came to real, flesh-and-blood relationships. I couldn’t recognize love even if it sat on my nose and bit me. Then, in perhaps the most enduring mystery of my life, I fell in love. With God. I was radiant, daring, bursting with joy. I would do anything for God, follow Him anywhere. Of course, in the early years of my religious life, I didn’t actually say this simple truth when asked why I became a nun. I was embarrassed by its unabashed romanticism, its quiet passion simmering over the edges. So I tried to hedge it with more intellectual and spiritual terms. But my journal at that time bore witness, and from time to time whimpered at my denial, like an aggrieved puppy.  God, on the other hand, being love and goodness Himself, patiently and tenderly stayed by my side as I explored this disconcertingly alien country called love. What made it so disconcerting is the fact that loving God pushed me outwards, towards the ones that God loves. And since God is incorrigibly indiscriminate in His loving, that meant He constantly called me to love those I found hard to love, those for whom I erected barriers of prejudice and fear. It was, indeed, a “school of love.” Then the darkness came. And again. And yet again. It bore the name Depression, and like a ravenous ogre, it devoured the light and everything that I had carefully constructed which I called “self” and “life.” There were intervening years of being okay, productive, busy with ministry. But each time that dark monster came I fell apart, and I would lose everything, including a healthy self-love. And yet, paradoxically, even then, love stayed. Simply because God stayed. In my journal entry of February 2013 during one of those times of darkness, I wrote: “My God, my love, 19 years na tayo. Thank you. You’re the only sturdy, stable, lasting thing in my life, and I will follow you anywhere. Please give me the grace to follow you even if it takes me through despair. I know you won’t abandon me. ‘The thief of happiness,’ — that is what depression is called. Remind me, Lord, that You are my deepest joy.” And God heard and stayed and led me through and out of that shadowed valley. And the God of love taught me this luminous lesson in the midst of that darkness: love stays. “It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things,” St. Paul thunderously proclaimed to the Corinthians (1 Cor 13: 7). Love will always stay. But I must not look for it in fuzzy romantic feelings, or in ecstatic prayer, or in idealized “soul-mates forever” friendships. Love, in all its wondrous variety, is breathtakingly ordinary.  Love is the symphony of spontaneous laughter at community meals, and love is the tearful, solitary confrontation in prayer with one’s sinfulness. Love is my two sisters, harried and exhausted, yet with careful tenderness, cleaning and washing our sick father. Love is doing that day and night, for months until he died. Love is Sunday pasta dinner, a walk under the stars, and a blue dress sewn with pride and affection. Love sits beside you outside the psychiatrist’s clinic, and reminds you to get a haircut. Love is a pair of gnarled and trembling hands reaching out in need, love is a banana offered by younger hands to the old. Love is a puppy, soft and warm and affectionate in your arms.  Love is Google Translate and cobbling together emails in Portuguese, love is a dog-eared French-English Dictionary. Love sits across you with glowing triumphant eyes, as your retreatant discovers, with tearful amazement and tremulous joy, that he is, against all odds, God’s beloved pala. Love, indeed, is breathtakingly, joyously ordinary. In this vision, there is no such thing as unrequited love. One day, while I was recovering from my latest foray into depression, my heart stretched out its arms wide and declared: “I love him!” At which my mind yelled, “WTF?!?!” And what followed was a long battle, in which my well-medicated mind, afraid of a relapse triggered by unrequited love, alternately argued and pleaded, cajoled and threatened, all to no avail. My heart dug its heels, and after five months, won the battle. Throughout the years that followed, my heart would announce: “oooh, I love her! (sister),” “Yeah, him too (friend),” “Awww, and you (dog)!”  Finally, it dawned on my mind what the whole love-thing was, contrary to my early schemas (Mills and Boon died hard). That it was, after all, an overflow of God’s love, a love that

Homilies, Soul Food

Widow’s mite

Celebration of 60 years of religious life in the Cenacle of Sr. Lily Quintos, rc Homily of Fr. James Gascon at the Cenacle Retreat House, on Nov 11, 2018: A survey was once conducted in the United States. How much percentage of your income do you give to the Church and charities? The Gallup poll asked this question to 1000 population randomly selected per religious denomination. The Baptists gave an average of 5.6% of their income; the Jews 3.8%; the mainline protestants 2.4% and the Catholics, 1.4%. This survey was done in the States. I wonder what the result will be in the Philippines? I remember a story we used to tell each other when we were young. One time, the heroes of the Philippines had a shindig in heaven. All of them were present. Then their conversation started to verge on holiness. One of them asked, who is the holiest among us? Manuel Quezon proudly stood up and said, I recite the rosary every Saturday. Hmmm, he is indeed a holy person, said the crowd. Then Ninoy stood up and said, I carry a rosary in my pocket every day, and recite it. I learned that from the Ateneo. All those present started nodding, agreeing that he is indeed holier. Then out of the blue, Rizal stood up. And there was a commotion in the crowd. How can he be holier when he even wrote a lot of anti-church literature and even condemned the Catholic faith and the Spaniards? Then with pride, Rizal stood up and said, “I may not be reciting the rosary nor carrying it in my pocket every day despite my being an Atenean; I may have written a lot of literature against the Church. But who among you here go to Church and gets to attend each and every mass, even up to this very moment. So they begin asking, how do you do it? Then he said, I find myself inside the collection basket, with my face imprinted in every single one-peso coin.   The gospel reminds us today about our duty to giving. Giving is a holy virtue. In fact, Jesus himself gave and fulfilled the prescriptions of the law to give, as for example the temple tax and the many other Jewish prescriptions. But in here, he emphasizes an important point about giving. Contrary to what we often believe that the measure of giving is what is given, Jesus tells us that the value in giving is not on what is given. It is not how much we give that counts. Rather, it is who gives that counts. I have always reminded people that when it comes to giving, nothing can limit us but our own generosity. Therefore, every act of giving reveals the person of the giver. The value of what is given is relative to the giver, not in what is given. In the Gospel, Jesus praised the widow who contributed all she had. Despite the real value of the coins, it is the “most” important contribution precisely because of who gave them. Compared to the Scribes, the Pharisees, and the wealthy, who gave from their surplus, this widow gave what a poor person needs to survive. Value is relative to the giver. (tell of the story in parish).  I remember overhearing in a mass once. The old lady was telling her son, Oh, just give the smallest bill.   But I think a more important point of the Gospel is that when we give, we are giving of ourselves. We are reminded that we cannot hold on material things that we have, we have to give then away, all of them.We would do well to recall the question asked about the wealthy man who died. “How much money did he leave? The answer came promptly. “All of it!”. As Rousseau’s admonition goes, “When a man dies, he carries in his hands only that which he has given away.” Because when we give away what we have, what lingers in the receiver is our act of kindness of a generous person who has given himself away. Each of us is called to this giving—to make our hearts written in every heart that benefits from our generosity.   And that brings us to our celebration today, which is the third important point of the Gospel. That giving is about the giver, because when one is able to give, then he is able to proclaim a song of thanksgiving to the Lord of Givers. Then he experiences the being of God, the divine giver. Perhaps, I would dare say that Sister Lily is one of those widows in our midst who gave herself. Serving the Lord for sixty years, she gives thanks today to the Divine Giver. For this divine giver has enabled her to share what she received from him. She was able to share her talents, her treasures, her time in accompanying souls looking for the Giver. And even now, she continues to inspire in us a generous heart of a giver, that in the midst of our poverty, weakness, even dwindling health, we can still give of ourselves through inspiring generosity in each one.   Bertrand Russell wrote, “To be without some of the things you want is an indispensable part of happiness.” Too often the comfortable give to God as though they were poor. And the poor give to Him as though they were wealthy. Let each one of us learn to give, because she who gives herself truly sings a song of thanksgiving.  And may this be the song that we sing today.        

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Feast of St. Thérèse Couderc (2018)

Homily of  Fr. Silvino L. Borres, Jr., SJ on the FEAST OF ST. THÉRÈSE COUDERC on Sept 26, 2018   Our readings this morning are beautiful . They are carefully chosen to give us a glimpse into the richness of the  life and spirituality of St. Thérèse. Three things or themes stand out for me from these readings, namely:  desire for God, vulnerability and fecundity.     First, DESIRE FOR GOD: The 1streading (Ex. 33:18-23) talks of an ancient desire for God and sung for all ages, from one generation to the next:  “Lord, show us your face.”  This is echoed by the responsorial psalm where we hear the psalmist’ heartache for God.   “My soul is thirsting for the Lord, when shall I see him face to face?”   St. Thérèse shares the same desire.  She would refer to herself as “this poor soul who is always hungry for her God, and will always sigh for him until she is entirely united with him.  But she had accepted the fact that the realization of such desire can’t be on earth.  But nonetheless, there was never moment she would not pine for her beloved.”  She recognized that it was this desire which launched her on a spiritual adventure and one which transformed her, as this desire deepened, into a devoted servant of God, available to Him, at every moment of her life, be it a mission, a daily challenge or occasions for suffering.   She had wished the same thing for all the people she encountered.  I think she wished everyone to be closer to God.     She must have seen the hunger and thirst for God among the pilgrims, particularly the women, visiting the shrine of Saint John Francis Regis. Years later, under her influence, these women would receive guidance  to deepen their prayer and grow in their spiritual life.   Second, VULNERABILITY.    Like other Christian mystics, Saint Thérèse Couderc experienced from her own life and prayer that the path to happiness is handing oneself over to God, in union with the self-giving of Christ. In 1864 she writes:.   “To surrender oneself is more than to devote oneself, more than to give oneself, it is even something more than to abandon oneself to God. In a word, to surrender oneself is to die to everything and to self, to be no longer concerned with self except to keep it continually turned toward God.”   (St. Therese Couderc: Her Writings)   To surrender oneself to God is to accept the call to dispossession, to embrace a life of vulnerability as the gospel we just read reminds us: Unless a grain of wheat dies, it will not bear fruit.   Fr. Florencio Segura, SJ calls this surrender to God as “tough, terrifying, and radical”.  It is because it is a call “to lose one’s life,” to the most radical dispossession of our certainties, of everything that supports our life.   It is a call not to rely on anything.  It is to relinquish the security of material things, the comfort and affection of our loved ones and family, and the assurance of control, power and self-sufficiency.   This notion, of course, of dispossession, would sound ridiculous and absurd to a world long accustomed to violence and coercion as a way of proceeding.   St. Thérèse would experience this vulnerability in her own life, welcoming the call to dispossession.   She underwent humiliations during her time as a nun. She was removed from her office and replaced with a new novice as the “Foundress Superior” in a severe humiliating move.   And even long after this superior-novice was replaced with another, the humiliation of St. Thérèse continued.   Finally, FECUNDITY, FRUITFULNESS. Unless a grain of wheat dies, it will not bear fruit.    Henri Nouwen, well-renowed   spiritual writer, gave an exquisite observation on the mystery of suffering. He said that “where vulnerability is experienced, ours or those of others, we see life bursting forth!”    As ancient wisdom reminds us, sufferings and deaths are conditions for fruitfulness or fecundity.They are occasions of growth and bearing fruit.  It is God’s vulnerability that won for us our redemption and salvation.  Jesus brought us new life in ultimate vulnerability. He came to us as a small child, dependent on the care and protection of others. He lived for us a poor preacher, without any political, economic or military power.  He died for us nailed to  a cross as a common criminal.   Long before Henri Nouwen articulated it, it had been a consoling thought for St. Thérèse as she faced her own crosses, prompting her to say: “I cannot ask God to deliver me from these sufferings but only strength to suffer …”   It is easy to mistake fruitfulness or fecundity for efficiency and productivity given contemporary society’s pre-occupation with accomplishments and success.  However, the call to live a fruitful life does not necessarily imply a call to be productive.  You can still be flourishing and fruitful even in the midst of pain and suffering as Jesus did, as St. Thérèse Courderc did.  From its humble beginnings in La Louvesc, France, the spiritual ministry of the Religious of the Cenacle continues, kept alive by more than 400 sisters in over 17 countries throughout the world.  Pius XII talked about how the prayers of St. Thérèse had saved thousands, sanctified them, raising them even to heroism of virtue and zeal. (Beatification, 1951).   And so, we have here before us a heart of a saint that is devoted to God,accepting the summons of vulnerability and self-surrender  as a path to  discipleship and fruitfulness.    As she has served God faithfully, we join Him in honoring St. Thérèse today. St. Thérèse Couderc, pray for us.  

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The Joy and Sufferings of a Saint

Homily of Fr. James Ucab at the Cenacle Retreat House, on Sept 23, 2018:   Good afternoon dear Sisters and Dear Brothers. Today we are now on the 7th day of our novena as we prepare for the feast Of our dear St. Thérèse Couderc. And the theme is Joy. St. Thérèse Couderc once said and I quote, I experienced a joy and a happiness it is not possible to describe. And on another instance she said, We should never allow a single thought of sadness to come into our hearts, since we have within us the one who is the joy of Angels. [Hmmm..] So edifying words. Hearing those words of St. Thérèse Couderc made me imagine an image of a Saint wearing the black habit living a holy, comfortable, and stress-free life. But wait, there’s more. Before I will be carried away because of my beautiful imagination and contemplation of the life of St Thérèse Couderc, let me have a glimpse of her life again to validate, hopefully, my imagination of the Saint’s life. According to my source, the Saint underwent humiliations during her time as a nun for she was forced to resign from her position of Superior and was ridiculed and mocked due to false accusations made against her, though this softened towards the end of her life. Is my source correct, Sisters? Again according to my source, after the death of the Fr. Jean-Pierre Etienne Terme, a scheming religious made an incorrect financial report in order to demoralize St Thérèse Couderc. Unfortunately, the fake news reached the Provincial of the Jesuits, Fr. Renault, and he removed her from her post and she was replaced by a Novice who was also removed later from the post. She was humiliated and was banished for some period of time. This story is but a tiny information about her sufferings. I am curious and I wanted to read the correspondence she made which I know is tenderly kept by the Sisters. There maybe we can find more details of her suffering. Let me go back to my words earlier describing St. Thérèse Couderc: a Saint wearing the black habit living a holy, comfortable, and stress-free life. The story of St Thérèse Couderc is not quite unique. There are also other persons who experienced a similar kind of experience. For instance, the Servant of Yahweh in the Book of the Prophet Isaiah, the just person in our first reading today,Bl. Therese de Souberan a French founder of the Auxiliatrice Sisters, Sta. RafaelaMaria Porras the Foundress of the ACI Sisters, and of course our very own Jesus Christ Going back to St. Thérèse Couderc, but what really made St. Thérèse Couderc a Saint and a person worth imitating? Is it her suffering and humiliations? Personal opinion lang po. I guess, it is unfair and it is not right to say that in order for us to become Saints, we need to experience humiliations and sufferings. Na, in order for us to become an exemplary religious or priest we have to become the “victim…” the famous pa victim effect. I believe and I am convinced that what made St. Thérèse Holy and worth imitating is her commitment to do the will of God with joy despite the sufferings and humiliations she experienced as a Foundress and as a Consecrated person.

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