Party in the house!

We're no angels, but good comrades are sure hard to find.

Today's high feast of the Archangel Michael and All Angels in the Byzantine Rite was punctuated with a visit, not exactly of any angelic being, but that of a good man, our brother and friend, Alejandro, who came to be with us for lunch. (This is no insult to the holy angels who rejoice in true friendship come from God.)  It lasted long enough just to get our fun fix, all before he had to hit the road again. Joining us were a few friends who paid their courtesy. Pictured below are our old sport Sepp and the closest thing we have to a rabbi, Florian.

 

And, well, just for old times' sakes...

I make sure that I optimize the benefits of our friendship...

  

Trumau, my Trumau!

Two years ago on the feast of Our Lady of Sorrows, I set foot on Austrian soil early in the morning at 6.45! It felt like landing on the moon as soon as I deplaned and met Martin MacDonald who picked me up from Schwechat. (I would later be master of ceremonies when this Welsh gentleman wed his beautiful June bride Rose and I was thus tasked to meticulously meet their most exquisite liturgical requirements.) I registered immediately upon arrival and attended my first class in Latin that afternoon. Hardly had I prepared myself for anything intellectual and here I was, pitifully spewing jawbreakers under the masterful direction of Dr. Andrei Goţia.

The historic Schloss that is home to Trumau's first university.

Marktgemeinde Trumau doesn’t give you the impression of being a university town. It is perhaps because the I.T.I. has only been around for a couple of years since the big move from the Kartause in Gaming where it had its humble beginnings. (That wonderland is certainly much talked about although this is as much as I can say here owing to the fact that I haven’t even gone there yet. Well, maybe one day. But it is Trumau that concerns me at this point.)

There is nothing magical about Trumau and you really can’t be starry eyed when you hear of this municipality. City strutters, if they ever knew it existed, would consider it backwoods and definitely a far cry to the neighboring Baden which boasts of imperial lodgings and famous residents like Beethoven. There are no sprawling hills in Trumau. It is all flat and the only decent elevation is seen at a great distance. Most days, gates are shut, houses are hid behind hedges, and it would seem like the burghers only keep to themselves. And if you like shopping, the only grocery store in town closes at half past six on weekdays, at 3 p.m. on Saturdays and is never open on a Sunday or on a holiday. But if it is any consolation, there is a modest restobar standing right next to the only traffic light in town.

Enjoying a late-summer rainbow backdrop.

Despite this picture of glum to an outsider, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that I’ve fallen for the place, and if it's any wonder, just think of the California Gold Rush that made the San Francisco area population swell from a few hundred to tens of thousands, and it all started when a foreman chanced upon nuggets of gold. It’s like that for me with Trumau, but we have something more precious than gold here. It’s people who are the real attraction, those who have become my neighbors in the truest sense—whether it’s providing shuttle service at a moment’s notice, checking in on me when I’m sick, performing odd fixes, or just keeping me company. Danke sehr, liebe Trumauer!

Emil and fiancée Alesandra at Trumau's Oktoberfest with my 'handyman' Wolfgang.

Hanging out with volunteer firefighters on Sicherheitstag ('Security Day').

St. Benedict shows the way.

The I.T.I. Community opened the school year in a decidedly Benedictine spirit, beginning with the feast of St. Gregory the Great on Monday and capping the week with a spiritual talk on the Medal of Saint Benedict on Friday night. As a novice oblate of the monastic family of San Vincenzo al Volturno in Italy, it couldn’t have been a better kickoff!

Monsignor Hogan blessing medals of St. Benedict.

 

We have also in our midst a returning alumnus, Dom Thomas Bolin, a monk of Monastero San Benedetto located in Norcia, the birthplace of St. Benedict. As the resident Roman-rite priest, he is able to join the formation community for Divine Office, replacing P. Johannes Cornides of the Community of the Beatitudes, who goes to the École Biblique in Jerusalem to carry on with his dissertation.

Dom Thomas Bolin, O.S.B. (right).

Pater Johannes, a shepherd after God's own heart.

 

I thank God for this tremendous spiritual support. A little over a week ago, the mistress of oblates at San Vincenzo and my spiritual mother, Dame Agnes Shaw, wrote these prophetic words: “Know that we are behind you in your search. Hold on to your Benedictine spirituality, knowing that it can open to other horizons but is a strong guide in itself.”

Learning a true art with Mother Agnes: "Obsculta, o fili..." 

   

I should also like to mention another Benedictine companion, Dom Gregory Casprini, whose unfailing help (even if mostly via Skype and email) has been a source of strength and inspiration in the last couple of years. A monk of Solesmes in France, he now serves as novice master of this famous abbey’s daughter house in Lithuania, Palendrių Šv. Benedikto vienuolynas. 

My trusted friend and guide, Father Greg.

 

Counting to 500

My 'guest appearance' at the Collegio Filippino in Rome.

Last Month, the Most Rev. Jose S. Palma, D.D., the metropolitan archbishop of Cebu, of which my very own Diocese of Maasin (Southern Leyte) is a suffragan, issued the pastoral letter Live Christ, Share Christ: Looking Forward to Our Five Hundredth, on behalf of the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of the Philippines, over which he presides. In it, he spells out the tasks of an era of New Evangelization in the archipelago poised to celebrate the fifth centenary of the arrival of Christianity. This point in history is marked by the first Easter Mass on March 16, 1521 in the island of “Mazaua,” which, as established by a great majority of historians, is the present-day Limasawa.

  

It is, by no means, sheer coincidence that I am an adopted son, by virtue of ecclesiastical affiliation, of Southern Leyte, which was the place of my paternal grandfather’s childhood just before World War II. (Later as an adult, he would return there as an agrarian reform official and then, still much later, to witness my investiture as a seminarian of the diocese on August 22, 2010.)

Formal reception by Bishop Precioso D. Cantillas, S.D.B.

Donning the cassock for the first time, assisted by deacons (then).

Standing next to "Tatay," my grandfather.

While I still do not yet speak either the Cebuano or the Boholano dialect, the Visayan language variants dominant in Central Philippines, it is an honor for me to have to trace my roots back to the very spot where the seeds of the Christian faith were planted half a millennium ago. From there, I hope to be a docile instrument, “fostering and fulfilling the ‘missio ad gentes’,” wherever the Spirit bids me go.

   

The Monsignor and I: Maasinhons advancing the Jubilee!  

 

To new beginnings!

As this school year rolls out, I am getting a new roommate. Well, not exactly. I roomed with him, and even shared a rickety bunk bed, for about a month when I first set foot on Austrian soil. Emil is an old friend, and certainly a roommate of choice!  And until a couple of months ago, Alex completed our splendid trio.  

A venerable insignia adorning the bathroom wall.

And here are we three, perfecting our stunt of model behavior.

I welcome this new development, thrilled at the prospect of a year-round ‘hallowed’ merry-making, but I also feel sad to part with Sepp, my roommate and travel companion this past year. Well, here are some photos in tribute to those memories.

A high view of dining – when it all began.

When in Rome.

Just like a 'certified' Franciscan.

Cutting up our roast duck for a home celebration.

Coffee and cake after a Sunday stroll in spring.

And, lastly, a glimpse of our nightly synaxis all'interno delle mura before lights-out: 

Ernst Barlach’s Die Lesenden Mönche III (1932).