The best way to understand a
sacrament is when you minister it. And probably the best way to
misunderstand and even un-learn it is by not ministering it on God's
behalf.
I was newly ordained and immediately
assigned as missionary in the Gulf (spelled swamp-lands) province of
Papua New Guinea. Together with 'The' veteran pioneer missionary
priest of ours, we made our monthly pastoral visit (when there was
enough fuel) to a village way inward the rain-forest of the Gulf.
Winding through the snake like river, it took us two (2) hours to
reach the village despite the a fast outboard motor on our dinghy.
With almost the entire morning gone, we reached the village and sat
beneath the shades of the their huts. Their homes were built from
real all-organic (natural) material. The walls were weaved grass.
Their homes were elevated on two (2) meters high stilts. They were
elevated for practical reasons to avoid flash floods from the river
and the usual visits of snakes.
It was in the Gulf that I began my
initial ministry of confessing catholics in mission territories. The
tribal language of theirs was obviously a universe of difference from
the languages familiar to me. Their language was also different from
the central village from where we departed. It seemed like for every
meter you moved away from the central village, the vowels and
syllables also mutate and evolve into another language of its own. It
would be naive to call these dialects in this age of advanced
linguistics. My baptism into missionary life before the sanctuaries
of the Lord was just beginning when just ahead of me was a
celebration of a liturgy of reconciliation in a language I thought I
knew well, called mercy.
There was not a single word or
syllable I could infer, by way of association, with any root the
western world takes its origin from. There was nothing near Latin,
Greek nor Hebrew. Needless to say nothing that resembles English or
even Malay where some Indonesian, the nearest country to Papua New
Guinea, words would have derived. What I was “hearing” in the
humble and serene whisperings of these persons in confession was
simply other worldly. I was the alien in their world. I was the alien
in God's world.
After having confessed the remaining
parishioners we celebrated the Eucharist. Having finished all other
assistance to them by way of medicines and attending to their other
material needs, we traveled back down the river to our parish depot,
our base camp for the weekend. Arriving at our base we not only
moored the dinghy to a tree but literally had to haul it up the river
bank, which was about 3-4 meters above sea-level. Likewise we had to
carry the out-board motor for safe-keeping since some people got
accustomed to the generosity of nature that they take it for granted
to ask permission when taking anything like a pineapple from a
neighbors' backyard when everything belongs to their “wantok”
(the same clan that talks the one-and-same language).
While eating the dinner we had just
cooked ourselves, the de facto parish priest and veteran missionary
asked me how did I find my first visit to the people of Ahia, the
village in the inner rain-forest of the Gulf we had just visited. It
was 'your typical feedback moment' probably because this visit would
inevitably be part of many upstream trips I would make alone as part
of my ministry.
The first great impression for me
was not so much the sight of numerous large fruit bats called
flying-foxes, with recorded wing-spans in excess of 1.5 meters, nor
the eerie sound of crickets all through the trip. Instead, I eagerly
narrated to him, my joy of seeing an opportunity to apply my pastoral
training as a newly ordained priest. I regretfully boasted that since
I did not understand nor could verify the sincerity of the contrition
of the penitent, “I always gave a 'conditional' absolution to each
one.” I was so confident to emphasize my application of the
practical rule of making a judgement call 'when in doubt, apply
conditions.' Oh was I terribly wrong.
I never forgot his answer. In fact I
even would not want to forget this night even though it happened
exactly twenty years ago. Few I guess would also forget their
honeymoon years as I fondly look back at these moments of profound
learning from a seasoned missionary I was fortunate to have been
with.
“What!” my dear mentor angrily
reprimanded me: “who are you to doubt the contrition and sincerity
of these people!” My enthusiasm in narrating my pastoral
application of my pastoral theory, went from 100 bars to 0 in two
seconds. I was mollified.
He continued “who are you to
withhold the great compassion and mercy of the Lord to these people!”
I was melting cold in my own shame, since there was no one around
except the two of us and the myriads of crickets that enveloped the
silence of the chilly night.
Oh was I terribly wrong in relying
on my mental doubt and on my inadequacy. I forgot all about the
confidence and completeness of our merciful God.
Continuing his bombardment on my
pastoral 'boo-boo' with all leverage and glory (rightfully) he
hammered and honed in to explain truths that one can only admire as
wisdom learned far beyond the confines of a classroom. “It was not
the fault of these people that you do not understand what they were
confessing.” He thundered. “We have no right to doubt, on the
basis of our inadequacy to understand nor speak their language, the
sincerity of these simple people in the rain-forest who asks for
God's forgiveness. When these simple people come,
bare-footed in their poverty, to seek forgiveness and
absolution from you, a priest, don't doubt. And without “scholastic
conditions,” absolve!”
The emptiness I felt for being
engrossedly embarrassed was in fact somehow disturbingly pleasant
because instead of desiring to close my ears to the powering
reprimands, I found myself eagerly hungry for more. His reprimands
were in fact very enlightening, purifying and very fulfilling to me
and to anyone who understood and equally enjoyed the “power
experiences” of God's merciful sacrament as a penitent.
In retrospect, I would reminisce
that day as one of the “best practice” moments of my priestly
life, when I learned again from scrap. I learned that there was,
there is, there will be no reason to be stingy with the mercy of God.
All the more am I humbled with wonder at the meaning of “mercy.”
Mercy itself is so expansive that it even heals the ills not only of
the penitent but its 'spiritual physician' as well. 'Spiritual
Physician' was a term St. Francis of Sales fondly used when referring
to the ministry of this sacrament.
Beyond the 'felix culpa' and
learning experiences in the school of God's people, I still am
excited to be in awe again of the school of healing.
Of recent, in Mongolia, a socialist
land that has 0.001 % catholics, I am still in awe and wonder at
youths and adults who join their friends in a Catholic liturgy of
reconciliation. One may ask why am I being surprised (again)? I am
delightedly surprised once again because some of them are not
catholics! These are non catholics who knowingly and willingly join
their catholic friends in liturgical penitential occasions during
advent, during lent, during summer camps, and at times just
approaching a priest who was sitting down in a confessional that had
a sign written in Mongolian cyrillic “Наминлал”
(Naminchlal) which was the vernacular term for 'asking forgiveness.'
In these non Christians, those that
comprise the majority of people in our mission presence in the
frontiers, the sincerity and desire to seek forgiveness could only be
attributed to God's generosity. God, the great Spiritual physician,
has provoked them to come also to say their 'own version' of “Тэнгэр
Бурхан мийн, Намайг Уучларай” (Tenger
Burkhan minh, Namaig Uuchlarai: My God, I am sorry).
After learning from the wisdom of
the swamps and rain-forest, once again I ask myself “who am I again
to turn them away saying: “you are not baptized yet... you're not a
catholic... these are only for Christians.” For all we know, rather
than be angry, they simply would not understand why could they not be
allowed to say 'sorry.' For in reality these simple souls would be
more confused when catholic “monks” refuse to accept them in a
confessional when they humble themselves to say their innermost
faults and say “forgive me.” Who am I to turn them away in their
sincere belief in an indistinct yet merciful God whom their friends
said 'forgive sins.'
Who am I even to scandalize them by
turning them away from a 'rare occasion' to embrace humility and an
opportune desire to be transformed for the better. They trusted their
friend. And therefore introduced them quicker to a new God. This
“God” is not exactly the same as the one they heard from their
ancestors. This God was not only to be called “Тэнгэр”
(Tenger: the heavens) as one who is high and distant. This new
name of God, “Тэнгэрбурхан” (Tengerburkhan:
one among us from the heavens) is in fact so near, He is a
refreshingly unique God who prefers to be called “Аав” (Aav)
which means Father.
Unlike the first two years as a
neophyte in the Gulf, seven summers in Papua New Guinea and thirteen
winters in Mongolia have passed and I had the time to be more
familiar with the vernacular. Understanding “Халх Монгол”
(Khalkha Mongol) a bit more, a confessor or a “spiritual physician”
is humbled and is re-educated in the working of divine mercy by what
he hears when penitents truly express their sorrow for their sins and
asks to be forgiven. It is truly humbling when people “come to
confession” with the simple and sincere understanding of what it
means to say “Намайг Уучларай” (I am sorry). What
makes it unique is because these penitents were not even catechumens
but simple people who recognize their faults and seek forgiveness
from an invisible spirit greater than themselves. It is like
imagining the God of the heavens waiting for them. But He was waiting
probably not at the top of the stairway to heaven but was waiting
just on the first step of the stairway closest to earth, so as to
reach out and embrace them while the stood on earth. Who then am I
even to dare say: “You cannot be forgiven” (because you are not
baptized yet).
Reading the simple advices of St.
Franics de Sales' Confession in his book Filotea, led me to
appreciate not only this ministry but the relevance of this sacrament
all the more. I have learned through bruises but I am happy to have
scars to prove that I wish to learn well from THE spiritual
physician. In the confessional with non Christians I do give a
blessing knowing that I, as a mere steward of the church, can always
make good use of these anointed hands which can heal not only through
one noble and efficacious representation of the action of Christ and
his Church. There are also vicarious and various ways like bestowing
a blessing of the Mother of Christ, with the hope that through her
intercession, her merciful Son would forgive these humble souls in
ways only the οἰκονομία (oikonomia: economy) of
salvation can explain.
I have learned not only through
intellectual affirmation but in tangible appreciation that the mercy
of God is so expansive. God's mercy is for all to receive and
experience and not only for the baptized to enjoy. I have learned
that heaven is not only 'booked' (hotel with reservations) for the
Christians but is instantaneously (now) open and available for all
men and women of good will even if they speak only Orokolo (Ahia
language) or Khalkha Mongol.
One might say 'that is nothing new.'
True, but it is different when one understands it in his mind than
when one sees and partakes of the rejoicing in heaven 'when THE one
lost sheep is found.' This has brought me at times at odds with the
faith I have learned from classrooms and from life. Tasked with
'being ready to give an account of my faith,' I experience a profound
conviction and joy when I say 'my job is not to work for conversion
of people' ie. shifting from one religion to another. Instead, I
understand 'my mission is to bring as many, if not all, to Jesus.' I
would be happier if my task would be made faster when and if some
were to request to be Baptized and thus help bring others closer to
Jesus and not to some other place.
As for conversion? For me it should
be left to describe transformation. From a god-less life to a
god-plus life... likewise from a life of sadness to a life of joy;
From a life of selfishness to a life for others; From a life of sin
to a life of grace. This is for me is conversion. It peeves me when
people come up to me after knowing I am a missionary and asks, how
many have I converted? 10/10 they meant switching religion.
To sum up, I was wrong to
have served the “function of ministering” rather than for whom it
was meant to represent. With all deference to my mentors of
sacramentology, I remembered how we were responsibly, canonically and
judicially to minister the sacrament of confession to many types of
people which included the scrupulous and the callous. However I
failed to see beyond the priestly scrutinies that assessed the “how
to” be stewards of the “keys” of the church. I failed to see
beyond the “when and why.” I ought to have remembered “for
whom” ie. ON WHOSE BEHALF we stood in for. It is nice to be
reminded time and again, that the “keys” to bind and
to unbound, we were entrusted with were not only
the keys for re-joining the 'ἐκκλησία' (ecclesia:
visible assembly/church) but moreover, were entrusted with the keys
of heaven's stairwell which led to a Father's waiting embrace as The
“βασιλεύς”(basileus: kingdom)
(A Reflection on St.
Francis de Sales tract on “Confession”)
c:ako
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