Photographs on the wall

(Today is the Feast of St. John Marie Vianney, the patron of priests especially those working in the parishes. Please pray for all priests. Ask God, who called them to the ministry, to increase their wisdom, love and compassion for His people whom they serve. Read the following and have a glimpse of what goes on inside the heart of a priest.)

As the secretary of the Priests’ Assembly of the diocese, I went to the bishop’s residence to have the minutes of the last meeting photocopied. Passing by the dining room, I took glimpses, as I usually do every time my feet take me there, of the laminated pictures of our venerable priests who, we pray, are already enjoying the beatific vision. Under their names are written the date of their ordination and the date of their earthly departure. And I was drawn to the invisible reality between those dates, an unwritten history - that which really matters. Going back to the car, I could hardly shake myself from these thoughts.

These great men, whose memory is perpetuated in those pictures, exude an air like they had never seen years of discontent. What could have their years been like? How am I to see those hidden years? The days of glory are come, but I am drawn to the days leading to the laurels. For to me, what matters is not so much what challenges laid on their way as how they responded to those challenges. And I can see their chasubles yellowed with overuse, the stoles gradually losing their colors, their chalices enduring the elements, their breviaries worn and torn. I can hear their strong words to parishioners who force their devious thoughts and opinions, and yet I can also hear their hearts throbbing with compassion. I can hear the sound of their vehicles braving mud in the barrios. Cups of coffee, perhaps a few sticks of cigarette, alerted them at their tables as they prepared their sermons, conferences and other talks in the late of night. The dining tables might have given up on them several times. Some ingrates might have pierced their ears and caused them pain. Others might have been indifferent to their labors and blind to and perhaps even frowned upon their sacrifices. But through all this, they remained faithful. And then there I was standing before their photographs on the wall. I get to ask myself: will people be enriched by my own years in between?

This is only my first sacerdotal anniversary. The words of the Lord, “Feed my sheep,” encapsulated the vision of my life as priest. As I celebrate my first year anniversary as a priest, I feel summoned to confront myself in regard to my priestly motto. Have I concretely been a shepherd after the heart of the Lord? How close have I approximated the Lord’s model? Have I been a compassionate priest? Could have I shooed some sheep away instead of leading them into the stalls? I realize I need to forgive myself.

But remembering that great day when I solemnly said ‘yes’ to the Lord, uplifts me as well. That special memory has a mysterious way of building up my spirit. It renews and reenergizes. It further gears me up for the ministry. I won’t enumerate the very little things I have done thus far. Or have I done anything? But I hope to make each day of my priestly life count.

It’s amazing how the dead can still instruct the living about living, and how dead priests continue to teach and edify me in my own ministry. The time will come when my photograph, too, will hang on that cold wall near the dining room of the bishop’s residence. May my priestly passion never die while I live. (Fr. Tom, November 2004)