Baptism of Nathanael

Nathanael is the son of Mark, a physician and Therese, a music teacher.  They've been married since 2008 and after a long wait, and almost at the verge of giving up, they finally had a son, born August last year. They weren't even expecting it, and Therese only found out about her pregnancy when she was already well in her second trimester.
The couple was actually expecting that Fr. Manuel be the one to officiate the baptism, but since this Italian priest had to take his sabbatical, almost in a hurried way, and Fr. Armand, peeved that he was only a second choice, decided to passed it to me three weeks ago.
I know the couple well, they're regular churchgoers.  Therese sings and plays the violin during Sunday Masses while Mark, who is under formation to become a deacon, is our new sacristan, a role which he shares with two other men.  While I'm not exactly the chatty type and I totally abhor small talks, Mark and Therese aren't fazed at all in striking a conversation with me, although most of the time, I really don't know what to say and I nod myself out of a dialogue, because frankly, my French still isn't that good.
When I met them, however, for the preparation for the baptism, our conversation was a bit perfunctory and clinical.  Not that I mind it, but I can sense a very palpable disappointment from the couple. Later, that night, Therese emailed me and told me that she was in fact sad that Fr. Manuel couldn't be there for Nathanael's big day.  She said that he is her best friend and spiritual father.
During the ceremony this noon at the Chapel, I tried to keep it simple. The only reason for this is that one of the sponsors, the godfather if you will, is actually a priest, ordained on 2001 and the family had known him for three years since they met at Rome.  He knows the tool of the trade, so to speak, and so, he'd see if I'm just trying to add theatricals to the rite, a cheeky liturgical trickery I have learned from Armand to spice up the celebration.  At the end, the simplicity actually worked, and we had a very solemn baptism, attended by a few friends, most of them I personally know. At one point of the ceremony, Nathanael cried his lungs out but at the moment when I poured the water on his forehead, he became quiet and gave me a quizzical look.
What made the celebration special is the music.  We actually sang during the celebration, which is rare in baptisms here in  this country.  They picked well the hymns and the responses.  In fact, the litany of the saints was chanted (a first time!) in a manner that made me recall my ordination to the diaconate.
My homily focused on being a poet.  I told them, if they wanted Nathanael to grow up and be a priest, prophet and king, like Christ, they should make him a poet first, and these munus triplex will naturally follow.  A passage from Homer's Odyssey inspired me here, the one that recounted the killing of all the suitors of Penelope until only a priest and a poet were left.  Ulysses killed the priest but spared the poet because the poet is blessed to speak the language of the gods.


Some dinners are made of glass wines
lined up to great vintages, while others
are series of fancy desserts,
cute little cakes and heavenly pies.
Others are spartan, functional,
while there are those that are made
of stories, told and retold at occasions.
At each of them, I always ask
God to help me survive.
For cutleries glinted at epic wars
that end not with a truce
but with a cup of coffee getting cold.

On my 37th birthday

I just turned 37 last week and truth be told, for the first time in my life, I felt I really grew up.

I admit that at each birthday, I can see things that changed in me.  My appearance, my voice, the fact that I moved from year to year to different levels of education... I had celebrated my birthdays in weirdest places, often hung-over by new year revelry, or just at home, or in my apartment, or in my seminary room, or in front of the computer answering emails and private messages.  Last week, I was just in my room, almost two years as a priest, who before Christmas was in one of the most beautiful cities I've ever been, and, as always, since my participation in Facebook, looking over the messages of many people, most of whom, I only met once somewhere in my past and now, our only interaction is the rare "likes" we give at each other's posts.

But as I said, suddenly, I felt that I had grown up.

It might sound a bit late, especially for a 37 year old, to say these thing, but frankly, I have no excuse whatsoever.  All I knew is that the world around me has suddenly changed and I felt its weight bearing on my soul.  I no longer doubt the power of hushed prayer and the importance of silence while looking at the window with a cup of cheap tea.  I give more respect to the written and spoken words and bow down to appreciate the lyric touch they give in my adult life, but more importantly, I realised that I have a new friend, wordlessness, an ominous being that loomed over me as a ghost, but now, she holds my hands with such warmth, that I am assured that it is her that I need, here and now.

As I turned 37, I have learned to lay down my imaginary sword and surrender to my long-time enemies, uncertainty and subtlety. And while they leered in delight to my defeat, I somehow feel that I earned their respect and will one day be there with me on the streets, offering me cigarettes or helping me with my groceries or picking up my fallen ego from the floor.

As a 37 year old, I am confident that I've grown wiser, more cynical, more dark, more compassionate, more nuanced, more adventurous, more careful.  At 37, I am now much closer to knowing who is the real me.

Here's another free verse, during the time the parishioners gathered to reflect on the letter of our local bishop:

We read the letter, but our hearts drummed hard
on the questions that seemed not to rhyme
with the superlative generalities
that rose and fell like a heaving chest,
short of air, peppered with nominal gasps in risk
of reducing the Word into something proverbial,
or painfully parochial. We pulled our vests,
in a church that is becoming more and more
Cold.  Hope is the word
we all desperately want to touch and hold.