By Fr Joseph Panabang SVD

Viernes Santo to Easter Sunday
With a worried look on his face the catechist introduced a man to me. “What’s the matter with him?” I inquired. The man, almost on the verge f tears, confessed that he dreamt his newly built house was burning. To build the house for more than three years and now see it burning in your dream is no joke for a man whole believes so much in the reality of dreams as perhaps one legacy from his ancestors. “What is your job?” “Farmer”. “Are you married?” “Yes” “How long?” “Just three days ago, I found a woman I wanted to marry and I’m really and madly in love with her.” There you are, I told myself. “My friend, this is your dream. The house that was burning was your heart in love with that woman. Into your new, you shall bring the woman and the two of you shall live happily ever after. Both shall be burning with the fire of love. So, there is no need to worry. Instead, rejoice for you shall marry. “With that, the Good-Friday face of the man turned to Easter Sunday.” “You ‘obruni’ are like gods, you know everything,” he muttered but when he left, he said something to the catechist which I did not understand. Later, the catechist confided to me,” that man said you talk like a witch-doctor.”
***
Macho Paa or Macho Pa?
Kumasi is one of the cities in Ghana. During the colonial times, because of its beautiful landscapes and gardens, it was called Garden City. But now that it is no longer beautiful, some critics call it the Garbage City. Anyway, I was at Kumasi bus terminal on my way to Accra, the capital of Ghana. I had just sat when a hurried lady stopped, looked at me and said seriously, “this obruni is macho paa...” while laughing at the compliments, my eyes followed her, wondering where the hell did she get the word “macho”. “Obruni” means white man and “paa is a superlative which means ‘very’.
***
Midlife Crisis
I suddenly felt restless, could not sleep; lonely, anxious, afraid of the dark, and felt threatened inside my room as if the roof was falling on me. I couldn’t understand inside my room as if the roof was falling on me. I couldn’t understand myself and couldn’t pinpoint what exactly was wrong with me. The following day, I drove to Wenchi, an hour and a half drive, to see, Sr. Lourdes Pilapil, RVM. I confided to her and with confidence as if by instinct, she stood with ease, got a book and read: “Cold feet, skin dryness, palpitations...So, Joe, these are the symptoms of midlife crisis.” She showed me the book. The Future Woman by Shirly Conran and Elizabeth Sidney. Shocked I said, “Do you mean these symptoms are for women?” Seeing my reaction now in double crisis, she politely assured me that some symptoms are common to both men and women. Thank God it is all over.
***
Poetic License
Meditating on midlife crisis, foolishly I composed a midlife toast patterned on the Gallic Toast. The toast runs:

“That the roof above may not fall on me, and that I below may no fall apart.”
***
Hair Raising or Death Stirring
The mother of Bishop Dominic Andoh, Bishops of Accra died. I happened to be at the funeral and the preacher gave an excellent homily on death that really made the audience, almost hypnotized, hang on every word he said. After the Mass, in the sacristy while the priests were removing vestments and exchanging comments, the preacher passed he right in front of my nose and I remarked, “Father, that was indeed a death-stirring homily.” Someone at the back responded, “beware, he (pointing to me) is a joker”.

 

 

By: Gabriella Shin

My Widowed Mother Objected
Before I left Korea, I worked on the parish catechetical programs in my spare time. My widowed mother really objected to my plan to go to the Philippines as a lay missionary. So I prayed and plotted the way o my mother’s heart- through my parish priest. Instead of helping me, however he thought I was crazy. He wanted me to continue working in our Korean parish, and said I should leave Filipinos alone, and not be imposing strange Korean ideas on them. He really teased me when he said they were poor and hungry, and that they would only have another mouth to feed and less food for themselves if I were there- he knew my appetite, it seems.

When You are Down: Pray
When I left for Manila in June 1990, I had my mother’s blessing- and my parish priest rosary beads. His parting words to me were “When you are down, pray, use these beads”. I kept all these things in my heart but the fears and the anxieties of my mother and my parish priest were there too. What exactly did being a lay missionary mean?

Gabriella, They Need You
Half way through my Tagalog language course, I visited Malate parish on the edge of the tourist belt. It has quite a number of young and old whose body, and sometimes whose minds, have been broken in struggling for survival. I felt a deep pain within me when I saw so many children sleeping out in the plaza besides the Church. When the Columban priest said to me “Gabriella, they need you” it was as if God had spoken. He empowered me. He gave me confidence in myself. I knew here was something I could do as Lay missionary. I could be a friend of these street children. In fact I tried it, and it worked.

The six Korean Lay missionaries who arrived here in the Philippines together with three Filipina lay missionaries who are now in Pakistan.

 

 

Filipina Lay Missionaries
Emma Pabera
Gloria Canama
Pilar Tilos

Korean Lay Missionaries
Justina Rhee
Cherina Cho
Gemma Son
Columba Chang
Isidora Kim
Gabriella Shin

 

The Angel Took Off the Black Veil
On Easter Sunday morning I joined the women as we went in procession behind the Dolorosa, the sorrowing Mother. When we met the lifesize statue of the Risen Christ, it was an emotional moment to me. The angel took off the veil from Mary and replaced it with a white one and proclaimed: “Queen of heaven, rejoice, alleluia,... Your Son has risen as He said, alleluia.” I remember then what I had been taught in Korea about the first joyful mysteries, about how my namesake angel Gabriel was also close to Mary. I remembered my rosary beads, and as prayed them that Easter day, I decided I would write and thank my parish priest, Fr. Pedro Kim. I think I will even send him this story.

 

He said I should leave Filipinos alone, and not to be imposing strange Korean ideas on them.

Fr. Amigleo continues his account of life in Indonesia.

Muslim Lent
A religious phenomenon in Indonesia which I never witnessed before in my life is the Muslin Lebaran. It is a month of feasting which starts from six o’ clock in the morning up to six o’clock in the evening. During this month of Lebaran all activity i.e. school, office works, business, socials are practically at a stand still. The whole city, nay the whole country, observes Lebaran. This, being the case, I started wondering why the Catholic Church in Indonesia had not move moved the Lenten season to coincide with Muslim Lebaran. That, so I thought to myself, would certainly be a very concrete way of expressing solidarity and religious unity.

Ramadan
After a month-long of fasting comes the feast of Idulf Fitri or Ramadan. At this time the whole atmosphere of soberness and dryness during the Lebaran is totally transformed into an atmosphere of joy and celebration. There is rejoicing all over the place. In the Philippines context, it can be compared to our Christmas or New Year celebration.

Back to Indonesia
In October 1976 I was recalled to the Philippines but after ten years of service in the Philippines, I fulfilled my promise to return. This time I was assigned in Irian Jaya, the eastern most part of the country, a very fascinating place where the local people have barely emerged from the Stone Age (Cfr. Article in Misyon, Vol.2 and Vol. 2 no.3). Aside from teaching at a local regional school of Philosophy and Theology (a school for pastoral workers i.e. both candidates to the priesthood and lay pastorate),I am also given the opportunity to serve various Christian communities in the government- sponsored transmigration resettlement where the Muslims from majority. There, although in limited, I am able to realize once more my dream to be present among our Muslim brother and sisters and to start a dialogue of life.

To be a Brother
Ever since I became interested in inter-religious dialogue, I made it clear to my self that I am going it not as a “spiritual conqueror” eager to convert them to Christianity. All want is to be a brother with them. Someone who has to share and learn from them. It has never been in my intention, even up to now, to attract and make them shift from their religious allegiance. For if I do that, I am being dishonest and disrespect in my relationships with them. I am being very dishonest and disrespect in my relationship with them. I am not being truthful to the spirit of dialogue. In the words of Taylor I would be “recklessly destroying their dreams” and their faith.

 

No Proselytizing
Inter- religious dialogue aims not at proselytizing but at walking together as brothers respectful of each others’ faith and religious allegiance. It is listening attentively to the Spirit, searching for truth and becoming more receptive to God’s saving will. It is journeying together in sincerity, love, openness and brotherhood.

Explicitly Proclaim Jesus Christ
If it happens (as it does occasionally) that they asked me in passing what Christianity is all about, it is then that I try to explicitly  speak about Jesus Christ as the son of  God who become man. Muslims also believe Jesus but not as the Son of God. For them he is just a mere man, one of the prophets the greatest being Mohammad.

Inspired
This effort of dialogue with our Muslim brothers and sisters is basically inspired by our Lord Jesus Christ Himself who went out of His Way to reach out to the non-Jews like a Samaritan woman at the well. I also find tremendous encouragement from the summons of the Second Vatican Council as well as the charism of the congregation of the Immaculate Heart of Mary (CICM) to which I belong.

Increase of Faith
My dialogue with our Muslim brothers and sisters has truly enriched me more than I have, perhaps enriched them, they have taught me, as I mentioned above, of the important place of prayer and its value in my life as a Christian and as a missionary. Born in a predominantly Catholic country, I was also taught by them how to appreciate another religion, how to respect it and to look at it from their viewpoint. But above all, they have also made me more appreciative of the tremendous richness and value of the gift of faith in Jesus Christ. Moreover, I have become more aware of the fact that inter- religious dialogue is an essential task of the missionary Church. It is evangelization.

I started wondering why the Catholic Church in Indonesia had not moved the Lenten Season to coincide with the Muslim Lebaran.

 

 

By: Fr. Pedro Marcelos Peñaranda

(An open letter from a Seminarian in the Mission in Cameroon)

Completely Lost
I arrived in Cameroon November 6, 1988. After nine months of struggling with the French language in Belgium, I set a foot in Yaonde from where, after barely five days, I went north to Koza. That was in the dry, hot season. I felt I was completely lost in a very different world. For the first time in my life I saw black every which way I turned, as if I was dreaming. But it was a happy dream, I realized, after a few days of adjusting my eyes.

Two Doors: Language and Food
The first hurdle to face was: inculturation, adoption, contextualization, integration-choose your term. In my case, it was to enter into the house of the Mafa people, both in the literal and figurative sense. There are two doors leading one to establish relations with a people other than his own, especially if he wishes to pursue it to a certain dept. These two doors are their language and their food.

Gymnastics of the Tongue
Neither the one nor the other way was easy for me. To study the Mafa language requires a lot of patience, initiative and creativity, because there is not much opportunity for formal studies. Even the few mimeograph materials available only offer confusion, for there is a choice of several sets of orthographic styles, according to the researches and propositions of different linguist. We count on out fingers the missionaries here to succeed in speaking it straight, even after ten, fifteen years! That is because of complicated vowels, dithongs and consonants normally not found in the international alphabets. The tongue has to do a lot of gymnastics. Worse, the Mafa language is quasi-tonal: plenty of words or even syllables can have totally different meaning depending upon whether one pronounces them high, low, or neutral tone! But despite the difficulty, I did try my best, and believe I have succeeded in making a little progress.

The Harmattan Brings Meningitis
It is on the level of languages that I worked the hardest, because even until now I still find it difficult to adjust to their food. In order to understand this difficulty, it is necessary that I describe first to you the region and the manner by which their meal is prepared. The Mafa region is extremely poor especially compared with the fertile south. The land is wild and dusty. Wild, but I would say majestic and at the same time; these enormous heaps of rocks and stone which rise up to 1,494 meters towards the sky. They are all naked and brown, except for a few small thorny trees here and there; everywhere they are inhabited and cultivated, even up to the summit, while the slopes are carefully preserved from erosion by beautiful terraces. Dusty, it is because of the sand blown by the strong winds from the Sahara desert, called “Harmattan”. Indeed at times, on days on end, these wild but majestic mountains disappear from view due to the thick fog of the desert sand which penetrates even into the inner crevices of our dwellings. In less fortunate times, this cruel Harmattan brings with it the terrible plague of Meningitis.

Not a Single Drop of Rain
The yearly struggle for survival is won by planting millet during the June-September rainy season. For the rest of the year, not a single drop of rain fall from the sky, and vegetation in the region is virtually nil. Even the cows and goats have to content themselves with dry grass. Still, the worst problem is the lack of water, hence of hygiene, and hence the threat of all sorts of disease. Even our toilets in the mission house, for instance are of a very “natural flavor”; we cannot afford the luxury of flushing it with water. It simply a question of getting used to the smell, of course, but there is never a way to drive away the cockroaches and the big lizards. When the dry season is at its peak, we have to wait sometimes a couple days until the mission well gathers enough water, which is really big trouble for us especially when we have to welcome some important visitors. For many here, the water available is often unclean: They usually dig deeper and deeper each time into the sandy, dried up river beads; that’s explains why amoeba attacks are very common. Because the people themselves have no idea of the disease causing bacteria and microbes, they search for the culprit among the evil spirits and the “soul-eaters”.

The Delight of Burnt Excrement
Now to go back to food, the daily bread here is boiled millet, formed into a ball and dipped in sauce of herbs and bits of dried small salt water fish. The “millet ball” is prepared twice a day only, or even once, during “la periode de soudure”, between the last reserves and the new harvest. For the strangers this meal is difficult to eat because it is actually, if unintentionally mixed with sand, its grains being earlier pounded on bare ground and later crushed by hand into flour using flat stones. And their traditional salt? It is produced by filtering water through the ashes of burnt excrement of cows and goats.

Shared Poverty versus Poverty amidst Plenty
I am witness to the difficult life among the poor communities in my country, the Philippines, but here I am deeply touched by a much different level of poverty. Of course I must admit that the poverty in our country constitutes a graver scandal because it is poverty amidst abundance controlled of rich, powerful families while here, it is a “shared poverty” which touches more or less all the sector of the population.

I felt I was completely lost in a very different world.

Salt is produced by Filtering water through the ashes of burnt excrement of cows and goats

By: Fr. Aldan McGrath

SHANGHAI PRISON would not be high on everybody’s list as a place to spend Christmas, and though we prisoners could not see or talk to one another we could not let Christmas pass with out celebrating it. And celebrate it we did.

For months several prisoners had been secretly writing messages to me on a sheet of rough brown toilet paper the only paper we had. I used to write in return. Through this correspondence I actually gave a complete course of religious instructions to one prisoner, Wolf Gruen, a German Engineer who was in prison on a trumped up charge of espionage.

Whether the communist suspected me or not, I cannot say, but I rationed on paper. How ever, coming near Christmas I had mentioned in a letter to one that every time Bing Crosby went to Mass in Hollywood, the priest always knew he was there because there would be a $50 bill in the collection basket. This prisoner sent me a little parcel saying: “This is not a $50 bill but at least it can be used in God’s work.’

In the parcel were 50 sheets of toilet paper. I decided to make Christmas cards and send them to my fellow prisoners.

The Christmas cards I made was not I fear, a work of art, but I was pleased with it. It had a star penciled in one corner and the rays from the star shone down on a crib in the opposite corner. On the top I wrote: Glory to God in the Highest and on earth peace to men of good will, and on the bottom: Mary brought forth her first-born Son and wrap Him in swaddling clothes and laid Him in a manger

I sent out a couple of dozen of these cards and other prisoners send card to me. Wolf Gruen’s card had a candle with wax dripping down on to holly, a little poem with Christmas greetings. Another prisoner’s card was two sheets of paper ingeniously suck together with soap. On the first sheet a window was cut and when I opened  the window I could see on the second a little church covered with snow. We were delighted with our cards and through them our Christmas wishes went round to from cell to cell. The Communist guards knew nothing about it.
Two bays before Christmas I had great stroke of luck. I was summoned downstairs and given three tins of food and two bars of chocolate. I learned afterwards that Father MacElroy, my superior in Shanghai had been sending food to me ever since I had arrested the year before but this was the first time I had received any of it.

Back in my cell I look to see what I had got. Beautiful pork, beautiful beef, peaches. Other prisoners had been receiving food parcels occasionally, and they used to send me little bits of food. Now I was able to give them something. It was not very much when I share among 25 or thirty people, but after our normal diet of rice and vegetables, it was banquet fare, far more precious than the turkey dinner at home.

I got notes of thanks. One prisoner wrote: ‘Oh Father, I have dreamed of peaches and chocolates and who would ever think at Christmas they would come along.’

Wolf Gruen used to get out a journal. He wrote in on a sheet of toilet paper and filled it with little incidents in the prison which he would play up in a most amusing fashion. Just before Christmas another prisoner decided to bring out a rival journal. It had a wonderful editorial on Christmas. The gist of it was something like this: We must all get behind this Little Man (the little man being the Christ Child born in Bethlehem). Lets all, every nation here; get behind him, look at all He has done for us during these years and look at the peace and joy He has brought us in inside prison just thinking about Him.

I received a strange request fro Wolf Gruen. He wanted my empty toothpaste tube. I sent it to him, and on Christmas Eve I received a present –a beautiful pencil-holder made out of the tube. He had rolled the metal very tightly, the wrapped paper around it and covered the paper with a pattern of multi coloured threads pulled from his socks. He gave similar holders as Christmas present to some other prisoners and we were able to put our little butts of pencil into them.
Alas for our nice pencil-holders! A few days after Christmas we were all suddenly brought out of our cells and made to stand facing the wall on the corridor outside. The guards searched every cell, found our pencil –holders and crushed them into smithereens.

They didn’t found our Christmas cards because we had been tipped off and we had destroyed them all.

As far as the communist were concerned the monotonous routine of prison life remained unchanged for Christmas Eve. WE rose with the whistle in the morning, had our rice and vegetables passed in through the bars twice daily and looked at the grey prison walls all day. But with our Christmas spirit. Wolf Gruen sent me a note which expressed the feelings of us all. He said: ‘Never in my life have I known a Christmas as happy as this. There is so much give and take. We are all suffering yet there is such good feeling between us.’

I was particularly glad he had said that. Only few weeks before, knowing that he was depressed and unhappy’ I had sent him a note in which I said: May God give you peace of mind’.

 And that time he had replied: ‘You speak of peace of mind, that heaven-sent gift. I have never known it.
Strange that he should get peace and happiness at Christmas in a Communist prison! Wolf Gruen was a Jew, and when he was released from prison and expelled from china he was baptized and received into Catholic Church.

Another letter also gave me great pleasure: It was from another prisoner, an American businessman, who at exercise one day had whispered, Father, can you give me some prayer?’ He was a protestant and I told him that any prayers I give would have the name of Our Lady in them. “That’s alright by me, Father’, he replied. I sent him the prayers. His letter of thanks contained as great a tribute to Our Lady as I have ever heard.

‘Now I always pray through Our Lady’, he wrote,’ And Father, do you know what its like? It’s like putting aviation gasoline into jeep.

On Christmas Eve word passed around that we must be very quite at five o’clock, when the guards would be changed. We didn’t know why or from whom the message came, but at five o’ clock there wasn’t a sound from our row of cells. Suddenly a young American prisoner burst out in a beautiful tenor voice and, against all the rules of the prison- we weren’t supposed even to whisper- he sung Silent Night. The notes of the famous Christmas Carol pierced the prison gloom: Silent night, Holy night...

There wasn’t a sound until he had finished the last note and then there was a terrific burst of clapping from every cell. Immediately we heard the guard rushing up the stairs to the singer’s cell and of course he was punished. A week or so later we saw him at exercise and he passed the message round: ‘Boys, it was worth it.’

Christmas Day was rather an anti climax after the excitement of Christmas Eve. We didn’t mind; we were happy and we had made the communist take note of the feast. But the irrepressible Gruen caused another incident. He was passing my cell after being down in the prison yard for exercise when he whispered: Happy Christmas Father’. The guard on the floor below happened to be looking up and he came charging upstairs to my cell.

‘What did he say?’ he demanded. ‘Oh, he just said Happy Christmas.’ I replied.
‘There is no such thing a Christmas in this prison. You are all criminals; you are not allowed to celebrate Christmas.’

I was beginning to feel very brave by this time so I retorted: ‘You can’t stop me celebrating Christmas. My Christmas is in my heart.’ I knew I spoke for all.

And each year at Christmas time I recall with gratitude those great friends, men of many nations, who shared the hardships and joy of that Christmas in prison. Wherever they may be, my wish for them is that it may always be Christmas in their heart. As a great missionary priest once said: For those who love God, every day is Christmas day.’