In his reflection on the priesthood at Casa Marta last January, Pope
Francis cautioned priests against becoming “smarmy.” Now that sounds like something British teenagers say all the
time, but given his style and personality, the pope couldn’t have chosen a more
precise word, because “smarmy” means “ingratiating and wheedling in a way that
is perceived as insincere or excessive.”
Tell me if “smarmy” applies to the following priests (whose identities
we will hide under fictitious names):
His most available parishioners claim that “Fr. Trek is okay except for
one weakness—he is under the saya of a
rich matron in our parish.” They
note that he is normally easy to get along with until conflicts arise, in the
parish council, for example.
Viewpoints and personalities clash but fair or unfair, rain or shine,
the rich matron prevails. Her
ideas may not be the best, they may even be “corny” or “baduy” but she gets her
way because Fr. Trek supports her, even against his better judgment.
They are sure there’s nothing romantic between the two “because she’s
old enough to be his grandmother”; rather, they add: “We understand that Ma’am
Matrona donates a lot—a lot—to the parish projects, we appreciate that, but we
also wish she wouldn’t ‘donate’ so much to Fr. Trek. Every time she comes back from abroad there’s always a pasalubong for him from Ferragamo,
Bally, Florsheim.” It’s hard to
just laugh it off, they say,
because the obvious bond between the two—“yung pagkakampihan ng maglolang iyan”—affects their efficiency and
tends to turn off competent parishioners whose talents could really improve
things in the parish.
In another parish, Fr. Pol is
known for his often sour disposition. “Hindi naman siya
masama, sumpungin lang, (He’s not really bad, he’s just moody)”, parish
leaders say, “pag may sumpong, hindi mo
malapitan, kahit kailangang-kailangan mo na ang pirma niya, matatakot ka kasi
parang bulldog sa bangis (When he’s in a bad mood, he’s unapproachable,
even though you need his signature badly you keep distance because he’s as
ferocious as a bulldog).”
Fr. Pol’s parishioners have
learned to tolerate certain delays in parish procedures due to his moods, which
they see as some kind of chronic illness, but “Nagtataka lang kami, bakit pag ang kausap niya ay si Mayor o si Gob,
nagagamot ang sumpong niya? (We just can’t help wondering why he seems
cured of his moods when he’s dealing with the mayor or the governor).”
Pope Francis further said last January, “And how damaging to the Church are smarmy priests! Those who put their strength in
artificial things, in vanity, in an attitude... in a cutesy language... But how
often do we hear it said with sorrow: ‘This is a butterfly-priest,’ because
they are always vain... [This kind of priest, even though anointed] does not
have a relationship with Jesus Christ! He has lost the unction: he is smarmy.”
Instead of “smarmy”, however,
“squirmy” is what the following incident made me feel. One day I was invited to dinner at an
institution where many priests reside.
After dinner—which was sumptuous by any standard—we all went to
something like a recreation room, with tables and chairs and a huge tv set. “Oh, I gleefully thought to myself,
we’re going to watch a movie!” But
before I could ask what movie that was, the priest setting up the system
started to test the mike. Ah so…
it’s sing-along time, it’s a videoke room!
Some priests came in with plates
of hot dogs and drinks both soft and hard. And faster than lightning the songs began—My Way, Leaving on
a Jet Plane, Besame Mucho—while the images flashed on the screen—girls in
bikinis. Blondes, red heads,
brunettes, they strutted about, draped themselves on velvet couches, bared
their nubile bodies on the beach, and popped their over-endowed breasts before
the camera. These bikini
bombshells were the standard background visuals for all the songs. All the songs! Even when a priest was belting out a
Beatles favorite—“When I find myself in
times of trouble Mother Maaaary comes to me, speaking wooords of wisdom let it
beeeee….” I observed the
angles of the shots, the focus—and concluded with certainty that the cameramen
who took these videos never suspected there would be men with a vow of chastity
among their audience.
I had thought long ago that due to my vast experience, nothing could
shock me anymore. That night I was
proven wrong. Nothing prepared me
for that. Stunned but nonetheless
concerned, I politely asked my host, the superior of the house, “Does this
always happen? You know… these
videoke pictures…With drinks and pulutan
pa, when we had just had a very rich dinner?” Fr. Superior said matter-of-factly but with a tinge of
resignation in his voice, “Yeah, yan ang
gusto nila eh! (Yeah, that’s what they want).” Really? “Gosh,” I told him, “I hope you choose
people you invite to this! Not
everybody will understand you.” He
assured me he had believed I would understand.
I did understand but I couldn’t help being squirmy about it. Being in a roomful of priests singing
with their eyes on a screen animated by those barely clad Caucasian bodies, I
was suddenly reminded I was female.
I had never before felt so uneasy being female, because my gender never
got in the way of my work. In the late
70s, many years before my hair turned gray, I crossed the Atlantic on board an
oil tanker with 43 seamen, interviewing them and gathering data for two weeks,
from New York to Rotterdam and back—not one moment did I feel ill at ease about
being the only woman on board. But
now, trapped by civility with a dozen anointed men in a virtual videoke bar, I,
a hardboiled journalist, was absolutely stupefied. My only consolation was, it was a joy listening to the
singing priests. In fairness, I
must say ALL of them have wonderful, recording-quality voices.
(To be continued)
