May 2005
Very often, newly ordained priests are asked: “How does it feel? How did you manage to survive?” These questions make one think that ordination is like an awarding ceremony of a marathon that one has just finished. Or that formation is an amazing race-type of contest in which the winner brings home a cash prize, but also the cuts and the bruises he sustained along the way. But ordination is not like any of these. It is not a prize for the winners or a booty for the survivors. Rather, it is a gift, purely undeserved, given perhaps to the most unworthy of people, like me.
I have been trying to figure out a starting point in narrating my story, and I thought I could start with May 30, 1994, when I entered the Jesuit novitiate in Novaliches, Quezon City. I was merely a youth of 18 years old then, brought to the doors of the novitiate by a sincere desire to offer my life to the service of the Christ and the Church. Or was it simply to be a Jesuit in the mold of my Jesuit idols back in Ateneo de Naga: Frs. Jack Phelan, Frank Dolan, Johnny Sanz, and Rolly Bonoan? Immediately as the steel doors of the novitiate were shut, so strong as if to emphasize the burning of bridges between the novitiate and the world that outside of it, the journey to my ordination day began.
I could write an entire book just describing the details of that journey. But simply put, it was a journey towards authenticity. It was a journey towards a fuller knowledge and understanding of myself. And while I was knowing myself more and more fully, I came to know God more and more intimately. I came to accept my strengths as well as my weaknesses. I learned how to deal with my hurts and pains, but also to rejoice in my gifts and talents. All throughout the process, God revealed Himself as a God who knows me and searches me. He alone knows me truly and fully, for as Augustine says, God is closer to us than we are to ourselves.
However, it was not simply an inward journey, but an outward journey too. And here is the “fun” part because it literally brought me to places I’ve never been before: Palawan, Davao, Macau, China. I met many people, some of whom became close friends who have supported me from the day we met until the present. They are my brother Jesuits, former students and fellow teachers in Ateneo de Davao, parishioners of Sapang Palay and Payatas, diocesan seminarians in Manila and China, and many others. To them I owe much. They are truly part of my vocation story for without their friendship, it would have been doubly hard for me to persevere until ordination day.
On second thought, I think I should begin with June 5, 1981, when I started prep school in Naga Parochial School (NPS) or with June 13, 1988, when I began first year high school in Ateneo de Naga, now a university (AdeNU). It was in NPS that I learned how to read and write the alphabet, how to memorize the multiplication table and do basic arithmetic, how to deliver a declamation and elocution piece, how to deliver a campaign speech in a student council election.
In Ateneo, I built on the basics that I learned in NPS, but the most important lesson that I learned in Ateneo de Naga was precisely its motto: Primum Regum Dei, First the Kingdom of God. While in Ateneo, I continued to be a knight of the altar in Naga Cathedral. At the same time, I was also serving in Calabanga when Fr. Lorenzo delos Santos was parish priest there. Couldn’t it be God’s design that he was to be transferred to Magarao where my family lives? And there I also served as his acolyte. As Knights of the Altar, we went to Lingap Center for streetchildren where Fr. Sanz or Fr. Belardo would say Mass and our beloved, the late Ms. Febes Cedo would teach catechism after the Mass. We brought food to the inmates of the City Jail on St. Ignatius Feastday and on the day of Penafrancia Fiesta. Yes, First the Kingdom of God, and that meant sefless and cheerful service to the poor, the front row honorees of that Kingdom.
Hence, I owe much to my teachers from both NPS and AdeNU. They were my second parents. They were my earlier formators. I am grateful, too, to my classmates who have become my friends because we grew up together, being classmates from Grade 1 all the way to 4th year high school. Looking back, I think, cumulatively, we spent more time with each other that with our own siblings at home. Thus, until now, we have kept contact, meeting to celebrate each other’s birthdays. And I, now a priest, looking forward to assisting in their weddings and baptizing their babies.
This narration could be enough, but it could not be sufficient. Therefore, I think I should push the starting point back to July 12, 1975. I leave it to my parents and those who lent a hand to recall the details, often remembered emotionally, of those months when I had to be brough to Manila for a major operation in the head because of a blood clot. Then they say I was brought to the far-flung barrio of Harobay, Calabanga so that an albularyo could attend to me. If you see a picture of me as a baby after those trips back and forth, you would think I was a hydrocephalous or had a swollen cheek, or in the words of those who teased me, always a had a big candy in my right cheek. Could it be God’s design to let a baby who was given up as hopeless survive such a difficult phase in his infant life?
My family is not the Holy Family of Nazareth. We are a family of humans, weak and sinful mortals, trying hard each day to be good, to be holy, but many times falling short of the ideals each of us dreams of reaching. Like any family, we are not spared of problems and trials, some of them pushing us to the edge of breaking apart. But what kept us together is the faith in God handed to us through the many religious traditions each of our families of origin has bequeathed to us. The faith has kept us. We have kept the faith. That faith has produced a priest. I am that priest.
Authenticity. Primum Regnum Dei. Faith in God. These are not abstract principles all lodged in the mind of one preparing for the priesthood, as if formation is simply a mental exercise, a mind over matter affair. No, it’s not all in the mind. It’s also in the heart. And these three are the gifts that God bestows on the man whom He has chosen to be the recipient of an oh so wonderful gift of the priesthood, a pure gift, truly undeserved, given to the most unworthy of people, like me.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Monday, May 02, 2005
FROM SON TO FATHER
A New Priest Negotiating the Transition
May 2005
Nonoy is the Bikol term used by parents or elders to call their sons, nephews or grandsons, or any young boy. Its variations are Noy, Nonố or simply Nố. It carries feelings of tenderness and affection. If anyone among your friends has any of these nicknames, most probably he is a Bikolano or has Bikolano roots. You can be sure of that in the same way that Utoy most likely hails from either Quezon or Batangas. Dudong, on the other hand, must be a boy from the Visayas or Mindanao.
My parents and my grandparents call me Nonoy. My younger siblings call me Nonong Norlan. Being called Nonoy always gave me a sense of being loved most sincerely by the parents, uncles and aunties. It always made me conscious of my status in the family as the younger member, and therefore, as standing below my parents and grandparents in the family hierarchy. I defer to their will and wishes. I obey their orders and commands. I bow to their authority.
Things changed, however, after I was ordained priest. In Bicol where culture and religion are interwoven to each other, priests are held in high esteem. In the towns or cities where they are serve, they command great respect, very much like or even greater than the municipal mayor or provincial governor. People seek their advice and counsel in their personal and family problems. Parishioners follow the directives and policies formulated by the priest. Even those older than him in age and experience take his hand to kiss them.
Hence, when I returned to my parents’ hometowns of Magarao and Calabanga, both in Camarines Sur, my grandparents and relatives, all of them older than myself, came to me, their faces beaming with joy, and took my hand and kissed it, making mano po to me. I felt awkward in that situation: my lolo and lola, my uncles and aunties, whom I hold in high esteem and regard with deep respect, making mano to me! Shouldn’t I be the one making mano to them? Not knowing how to react in such situation, I also took their hands and made mano po to them, at which one of my aunties said, “Kami na ang ma-bisa saimo ta padi ka na. Father Norlan ka na!” (We should be the ones kissing your hand because you are now a priest. You are now Father Norlan!)
In the two weeks that I stayed in Bicol, visiting my relatives, making small talks with them, catching up with the latest news about this or that relative, no longer was I called Noy or Nố as often as before I was ordained. They would address me as Father Norlan. Then I slowly realize that something has indeed changed since ordination day. Yes, I say, to myself, I am the same person as the day before I was ordained, but to the people who witnessed the ordination, and those who attended my thanksgiving mass, there is a new person standing in front of them. This new priest is no longer just the Noy or Nố whom they asked to do errands or whom they reprimanded for a naughty act when he was still a young boy.
One day, one of my aunties approached to me and shared with me her problems at home, with her children, with her siblings and with her job. I was so surprised I did not know what to say in response to her sharing. These were stories she would never tell me before because some of them involved my parents or my other aunties whom I also respect. It was not a confession, but I thought what she shared were confessional matters. Then again, I heard the statement that explained why all these were happening: “Sinasabi ko ni saimo ta padi ka na. Ano masasabi mo, padi?” (I’m sharing these with you because you are now a priest. What can you say, Father?)
On my way back to Manila, while on the bus, I was trying to make sense of the experiences since my ordination, particularly those that happened in my parents’ hometowns. I recalled how easy it was for me to be vested in my priestly garments of chasuble and stole on my ordination day. How could it not be done easily when there were six people assisting in the investiture! But how difficult it is, I thought, to put on the true priestly vestments: not those made of silk or satin, but those invisible albs and chasubles which people see in me which draw them to me, which makes them take my hand and kiss it.
Are these invisible vestments their expectations of a priest? their perceptions? their projections? Or could it be what our theology books call the “Christ-in-the-priest”? That in their priests, people see, not the priest, but Christ who makes use of the priest as His instrument that He may be tangibly present among His people as their Head? Is it Christ who exercises authority and power over them whom they acknowledge as they take my hands to kiss them? Is it Christ who listens to their every affliction who, they trust, can ease their sorrows and burden? Is it Christ who gives his body and blood, His whole self, whom they recognize as their Lord and Saviour?
The transition that I am undergoing: from being a son, Noy or Nố, to being a father, Father Norlan, has been accompanied by amazement at how the sacramental principle works: how the Lord can make use of tangible, lowly and fragile earthly instruments to manifest His all-powerful, albeit invisible, presence in the world. The psalmist says: “My sin is always before me.” This, indeed, is my experience before the mysterious workings of God through the sacraments. Before the body and blood Christ, made present on the altar by the power of the Holy Spirit upon the gestures of my hands and words of my mouth, I confess my unworthiness to be the instrument of the transformation of the bread and wine. And as I raise the bread and wine in the climactic doxology to the Father, I meet the eyes of the people, all eager to receive the gifts of Jesus’ body and blood. Then, I begin to understand what it means to be called “Father Norlan.”
The transition from being “son to father” can not be undertaken apart from the community of believers. It is not a philosophical or theological question that can be discussed and resolved in a classroom. It is a task that can not be performed in a carpeted private chapel or in the priest’s airconditioned bedroom. It is a journey that has to take place where the people of God are: whether in the Sunday Eucharist or in a First Friday reconciliation service; both in the canonical interview for marriage and in the burial of a one-month old baby; in the picket line of workers on strike as much as in the cancer or psychiatric ward of a government hospital.
The priest is a son who has been made, or precisely, is being made (present progressive tense!), into a father, to be for his community, the father that welcomes the prodigal son back into his arms, into his love, even as the priest always remains a son who needs to constantly return to the Father who assures the priest/son-father: “You are my son! Today I have begotten you!”
May 2005
Nonoy is the Bikol term used by parents or elders to call their sons, nephews or grandsons, or any young boy. Its variations are Noy, Nonố or simply Nố. It carries feelings of tenderness and affection. If anyone among your friends has any of these nicknames, most probably he is a Bikolano or has Bikolano roots. You can be sure of that in the same way that Utoy most likely hails from either Quezon or Batangas. Dudong, on the other hand, must be a boy from the Visayas or Mindanao.
My parents and my grandparents call me Nonoy. My younger siblings call me Nonong Norlan. Being called Nonoy always gave me a sense of being loved most sincerely by the parents, uncles and aunties. It always made me conscious of my status in the family as the younger member, and therefore, as standing below my parents and grandparents in the family hierarchy. I defer to their will and wishes. I obey their orders and commands. I bow to their authority.
Things changed, however, after I was ordained priest. In Bicol where culture and religion are interwoven to each other, priests are held in high esteem. In the towns or cities where they are serve, they command great respect, very much like or even greater than the municipal mayor or provincial governor. People seek their advice and counsel in their personal and family problems. Parishioners follow the directives and policies formulated by the priest. Even those older than him in age and experience take his hand to kiss them.
Hence, when I returned to my parents’ hometowns of Magarao and Calabanga, both in Camarines Sur, my grandparents and relatives, all of them older than myself, came to me, their faces beaming with joy, and took my hand and kissed it, making mano po to me. I felt awkward in that situation: my lolo and lola, my uncles and aunties, whom I hold in high esteem and regard with deep respect, making mano to me! Shouldn’t I be the one making mano to them? Not knowing how to react in such situation, I also took their hands and made mano po to them, at which one of my aunties said, “Kami na ang ma-bisa saimo ta padi ka na. Father Norlan ka na!” (We should be the ones kissing your hand because you are now a priest. You are now Father Norlan!)
In the two weeks that I stayed in Bicol, visiting my relatives, making small talks with them, catching up with the latest news about this or that relative, no longer was I called Noy or Nố as often as before I was ordained. They would address me as Father Norlan. Then I slowly realize that something has indeed changed since ordination day. Yes, I say, to myself, I am the same person as the day before I was ordained, but to the people who witnessed the ordination, and those who attended my thanksgiving mass, there is a new person standing in front of them. This new priest is no longer just the Noy or Nố whom they asked to do errands or whom they reprimanded for a naughty act when he was still a young boy.
One day, one of my aunties approached to me and shared with me her problems at home, with her children, with her siblings and with her job. I was so surprised I did not know what to say in response to her sharing. These were stories she would never tell me before because some of them involved my parents or my other aunties whom I also respect. It was not a confession, but I thought what she shared were confessional matters. Then again, I heard the statement that explained why all these were happening: “Sinasabi ko ni saimo ta padi ka na. Ano masasabi mo, padi?” (I’m sharing these with you because you are now a priest. What can you say, Father?)
On my way back to Manila, while on the bus, I was trying to make sense of the experiences since my ordination, particularly those that happened in my parents’ hometowns. I recalled how easy it was for me to be vested in my priestly garments of chasuble and stole on my ordination day. How could it not be done easily when there were six people assisting in the investiture! But how difficult it is, I thought, to put on the true priestly vestments: not those made of silk or satin, but those invisible albs and chasubles which people see in me which draw them to me, which makes them take my hand and kiss it.
Are these invisible vestments their expectations of a priest? their perceptions? their projections? Or could it be what our theology books call the “Christ-in-the-priest”? That in their priests, people see, not the priest, but Christ who makes use of the priest as His instrument that He may be tangibly present among His people as their Head? Is it Christ who exercises authority and power over them whom they acknowledge as they take my hands to kiss them? Is it Christ who listens to their every affliction who, they trust, can ease their sorrows and burden? Is it Christ who gives his body and blood, His whole self, whom they recognize as their Lord and Saviour?
The transition that I am undergoing: from being a son, Noy or Nố, to being a father, Father Norlan, has been accompanied by amazement at how the sacramental principle works: how the Lord can make use of tangible, lowly and fragile earthly instruments to manifest His all-powerful, albeit invisible, presence in the world. The psalmist says: “My sin is always before me.” This, indeed, is my experience before the mysterious workings of God through the sacraments. Before the body and blood Christ, made present on the altar by the power of the Holy Spirit upon the gestures of my hands and words of my mouth, I confess my unworthiness to be the instrument of the transformation of the bread and wine. And as I raise the bread and wine in the climactic doxology to the Father, I meet the eyes of the people, all eager to receive the gifts of Jesus’ body and blood. Then, I begin to understand what it means to be called “Father Norlan.”
The transition from being “son to father” can not be undertaken apart from the community of believers. It is not a philosophical or theological question that can be discussed and resolved in a classroom. It is a task that can not be performed in a carpeted private chapel or in the priest’s airconditioned bedroom. It is a journey that has to take place where the people of God are: whether in the Sunday Eucharist or in a First Friday reconciliation service; both in the canonical interview for marriage and in the burial of a one-month old baby; in the picket line of workers on strike as much as in the cancer or psychiatric ward of a government hospital.
The priest is a son who has been made, or precisely, is being made (present progressive tense!), into a father, to be for his community, the father that welcomes the prodigal son back into his arms, into his love, even as the priest always remains a son who needs to constantly return to the Father who assures the priest/son-father: “You are my son! Today I have begotten you!”
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