It did not help that we had this weirdo and socially withdrawn asshole for a parish priest who drove his faithful to Iglesia sa Dios and some society of nocturnal devotees who would rouse the whole town from sleep with their pasyon-cum-orasyon amplified on loud speakers at dawn, starting at 2:00 AM to be exact. This weirdo minister never cut his hair for the entire duration of his short-lived ministry in our town; he was recalled after he figured in shouting match with a resident who was furious over the asshole priest's refusal to allow the resident's husband's remains to be brought inside the church for that reason: the shouting match.
That asshole priest also invited vandals to his convent and there were nights when stones would rain on his roof as disgusted and disgruntled parishioners vented their ire over his asshole ways. He mostly refused to say mass in the barrios, and he locked the church doors most of the time. His Sunday sermons were downright dry and boring it made me wonder why such an asshole could become a priest, supposedly a good communicator, an excellent marketer of salvation. He was one of the worst preachers I have ever encountered in my life, though I must confess I stopped listening to sermons many years ago for fear of damnation caused unnecessarily by a bad preacher!
That asshole priest made me rethink my decision to enter the seminary. But I had a way of convincing and reassuring myself that I would not become like him. When I asked for a recommendation, the asshole priest readily gave me, although I never got to see what was written inside the sealed envelope. (The one I handed later on to the (e)rector of the seminary.)
Fast forward to December of the same year. Six of my schoolmates trooped to city to take the exam and joined with the rest of prospective seminarians in a two-day get-together. But I went there as an excuse to see my favorite city, no more, no less. Then two months later, I received a congratulatory letter, saying I qualified for the seminary. I was the only one who made it. Two of my classmates were dying to enter but were unlucky. In two weeks, a fraile came to see me and family, probably checking if they were in the position to send me to the seminary.
News of my qualifying spread quickly, and friends and neighbors came congratulating and wishing me success daw in the seminary! Mukhang napasubo na yata ako, a. There's no turning back. What about the girls? Well, I kept them of course! I even added one shortly before graduation. The more girlfriends the better to keep you inspired (no argument, please).
Everything went fine and in three months, I was ready to enter The Hills.
2 comments:
Pray, tell me, why would one listen to a boring sermon, to a sermon without substance and argument.
I would bring my kids to church--because they had to have that wonderful notebook of mass attendance signed by the priest, and they would invariably predict that I was bored when I would look up the church ceilings. Sometimes, I would get out, and go back to the pew when the sermon was over.
Here, in sermon as in any kind of discourse, a priest just cannot stand there rattling and thinking that everyone is an idiot in the congregation. A solid argument is the key here, a solid interpretation skill, and that wonderful and delightful ability--read: bombastic--to delivery well with the right tone and hand movement and other persuasive techniques. Without those three, I am not sold.
I do not think I have high tolerance for idiotic sermons.
Oh, last June and July, we began doing the same ritual of ennui with our youngest, who chose to study with them the sisters, like her siblings. So we are doing it again--this Sunday mass, and this Sunday signature. I hope that one day soon, the better priests will realize that they have a religious duty to be good with words--with THE WORD.
That's the problem with many priests, including those made in The Hills--communication skills, the grave lack of it.
I also share the same feeling about idiotic sermons. I hate to listen to predictable theologizing, much less tolerate simplistic, down-to-earth sermons which are actually moronic blabberring, a.k.a. excessive use/misuse/abuse of the little catechesis they knew from Loyola. But it must be done, otherwise the coffers would run dry and Padre Burgos would be left starving for food, sex, or wine, or in any order, and the lolitasand lolitos, depending on who is presiding, won't easily come by.
Frailes are known to have mastered the art of oral sex, er, communication, because their relevance largely depends on how well they use their tongues to inspire people to keep the tithes, tits, and thighs flowing in (and out?) and maintain liquidity. Of course we know those residents at The Hill who knew too much about using their tongues on selected members of the congregation not to solicit funds but to disburse them.
Tsk, tsk, tsk. Well, at least they use their tongue. Right?
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