Once when he crossed my mind at prayer, I was “transported” about 12 years
back to an experience I had had at a Trappist monastery. Having been granted by the monks
permission to spend 10 days at their guest house—a period that combined
spiritual refreshment with professional pursuit—I was able to virtually live
with the monks, rising at 2:15 a.m. and going to bed at 7 p.m., and praying and
working in silence in the hours in between. Because the monks knew that I was there to also write about
my experience (for an international magazine), they welcomed whatever questions
I asked. One of them was, “Why do
you choose to end your day as you do—singing Salve Regina and being sprinkled with holy water?”
The monks’ individual cells were 2x2-meter structures made of bamboo and
nipa—literally, a bahay kubo—and had nothing inside except
a bare papag (a narrow bed made of
split bamboo), a crucifix, a flashlight, and a bolo. The bolo was for snakes that might crawl in to share their
beds at night in search of warmth.
Yes, of course, “the night holds terrors” for us all, thus the nocturnal
blessing with holy water. So, why
the Salve Regina and not any other
hymn? The monk’s answer was so
simple even a kindergartener could digest it: “Our Blessed Mother should be the
last person in our mind before we sleep.”
Last November I met a 72-year-old priest who from experience knows that
a priest must guard his heart against all kinds of snakes—not just those that
want to share the monks’ beds at night.
These are the “serpents” that crawl around and about the person of the
priest, day and night—like hungry lions on the prowl, ready to devour him—the
same species that desperately tried to tempt our Lord as He fasted for 40 days
and 40 nights in the desert. This
priest suggests “clothing oneself in Mary”, in addition to the Salve Regina at bedtime. He has found a most potent protection
for his ministry to pray 2,000 Hail Marys each day: “I pray 100 Hail Marys
every hour for 20 hours; I sleep only four hours a day.”
It would dawn upon me that Fr. Segretto’s request for prayer was meant
to bear for me such grace that I had never asked for. I would pray for any priest at any instance I would be moved
to, such as: Fr. Buboy who resents his assignment in so poor a barrio that his
average collection at Sunday Mass is 70 pesos; Fr. Dondi who as a student in
Rome would be overwhelmed by nonstop exposure to eye candy (“those gorgeous
Italian women who are all centerfold material”); Fr. Rey, the eternal headache
of his bishop for being a Lothario victimizing pretty Sisters assigned in the
parish; Fr. Edgar who devotes more time to his profitable leisure-oriented
business than to the needy parishioners; Fr. Joey who causes trouble and gives
a bad example to seminarians in whatever community his superior assigns him to;
Fr. Dylan who is known to have sired two children with different partners and
is unrepentant about it; Fr. Sonny whose breath always reeks of alcohol at the
confessional; and a few others.
I have received communion from all of these priests, fully aware of
their weaknesses. I have prayed for all of them, too. A change in me surprised me that it had taken place under the radar (so to speak)—I
suddenly realized that I had been freed from the notion that the state of the
priest’s hands could affect the value of the host I am receiving. I was not even aware that for the
longest time I had been wholeheartedly receiving communion from laymen,
seminarians, and nuns. This
realization was illumined by the memory of a week in the desert when I, then an
agnostic, experienced extreme thirst.
On a seven-day trip called the Sahara Safari, venturing into the desert
between Egypt and Libya with a dozen German scholars, I came to appreciate the
value of water. We had to travel
light; loading our Moogs with more than the barest necessities could get our tires stuck in the sand. Thus, we were
each allowed to use only two liters of water every day, to drink and to perform
our ablutions. So when we came to
an oasis, the crew advised us to drink as much as we wanted for the next day we
would be back to our 2-liter water ration. The villagers led us to a well, the community’s sole source
of drinking water. The water stank
of sulfur and we all had to drink from one worn-out, chipped cup used by all
the villagers. Elsewhere I would
have fussed over the broken cup and the water’s offensive odor, but in the
desert with a parched throat, I couldn’t care less if the water smelled of
sewage or if the person drinking before me had TB. I was thirsty, and it was all that mattered.
Many years later, after the undeserved miracle that brought me back to
the Church, I would see the desire for communion as a hunger for God that’s not
unlike the thirst for water in the desert. I need it to remain alive; deprive me of the Eucharist and
I’ll die. I no longer care whether
or not the hands feeding me are pure or his person holy. In communion, the Lord gives Himself to
me; that is all that matters.
We do not turn away from the Church simply because some of her pastors
fall short of our expectations. We
wish they would all be Christ-like but we pray for them even (and more
intensely) when they are not.
In his homily shortly before he
retired, Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI said that “nothing causes more suffering
for the Church, the Body of Christ, than the sins of her pastors, especially the
sins of those who become ‘thieves and robbers’ of the sheep, lead them astray
by their own private teachings, or ensnare them in the toils of sin and death.”
Those of us who are aware of the sins of our priests may
in a way said to be privileged, but what is more important is, with that
privilege we assume a grave responsibility. Becoming aware of the infidelities of priests, the
ingratitude, the coldness and sinfulness of these men of the cloth means we are
given the privilege of being invited, as it were, into the very depths of the
sorrows of the Sacred Heart.
Leaning on His mercy we do not judge priests for what we perceive to be
their imperfections; rather, out of compassion we pray that they be
strengthened in their journey to union with God.
At the very least, gratitude to
God should prompt us to pray for His priests. When we strengthen a priest with our prayers, we strengthen the
hands, lips, eyes of Christ; we strengthen the whole Church.
