The meeting of the General Administration with the youth of Asia was successfully held in Tagaytay for four days from September 21 to 24, 2007. After four days of reflecting, sharing and enjoying one’s company, the said activity was concluded with a speech of Bro. Sean Sammon, the General Superior of the Brothers. Here is the message of Br. Sean for all the Marist youth here in Asia:
Seán D. Sammon, FMS
24th September 2007
This morning I plan to tell you two stories, using each of them to bring together some of the rich sharing that has taken place over the past four days together. The first story is light and humorous; the second personal and of a more serious note.
Our first tale is about a bishop and a taxi driver who died on the same day. The bishop breathed his last as the priests of his diocese recited the rosary gathered around his hospital bed. In contrast, the taxi driver expired as he was rushing across town in search of his next fare. Both men arrived before the Gates of Heaven about the same time where they awaited the arrival of Saint Peter and whatever lay in store for each of them.
The bishop, casting a glance at the taxi driver, thought to himself: I hope that God in his mercy can find a place for that poor soul. As for myself: my reward in the Kingdom of God is assured. After all, I was a person of some prominence in the Church and have served the Lord faithfully.
You can imagine the bishop’s surprise when on his arrival Saint Peter went straight over to the taxi driver, embraced him, and escorted him personally through the Gates of Heaven and into one of the Kingdom’s choicest mansions.
Quickly recouping his composure, the bishop thought to himself: if God has given that taxi driver a reward such as this one, I can only imagine what he has in store for me!
When Peter returned, however, he offered the bishop rather perfunctory thanks for his service to the Church, tossed him a set of keys and directed him toward an apartment complex located in a noisy neighborhood near heaven’s gate. The bishop was startled but went off nevertheless to inspect his new quarters.
On taking a tour through home, he quickly became angry. There has been a mistake here, the bishop thought to himself. I, who was a bishop in the Church, am given this modest reward while that taxi driver, who did little more during the course of his life than cause traffic jams, is assigned to one of heaven’s choicest spots. Yes, a mistake must have been made. And so, he quickly set out in search of Peter determined to right the wrong.
On finding the Saint he demanded an explanation. Peter sighed and said to the bishop, “Your Excellency, you know very well how things work here. What you get in the afterlife is determined by what you did on earth. And quite frankly, your Excellency, when you preached people slept. But when that taxi driver drove, believe me, people prayed!”
What is the point of this first story? Well, I dare say that the bishop was surprised and the taxi driver delighted. And haven’t we have shared these same sentiments from time to time during the course of our days together. Surprise at the discoveries we have been making about one another as well as our various cultures and customs, and the realities of our countries; delight in the simple joy of meeting and coming to know one another better.
During our first evening together many of us eyed each other across this room, a new group in a new environment. And while we ventured out now and then, in the main during those first hours of our time together we remained tied to those we knew. Tomorrow was another day and we would see what lay in store. Listening to introductions that ran the gamut from Damian, James, and Peter at age 16 through Marivic and Freedom who are teachers, the full range of experience, personality, and hopes and aspirations of those assembled became a bit clearer.
On the morning of our second day we shared something of our cultures and countries and learned about the rich legacy that is part of each one of them. However, we also heard about the gap that exists in some places between rich and poor, and began to appreciate the religious discrimination that some in this room face.
We also heard tales about bullying, suicide, and fears that some of us have about future government repression. So, too, we were told tales about the exploitation of persons that takes place in some countries and of students being forced into prostitution to simply pay their bills. Some wondered aloud about countries that lacked a sufficient number of students to fill their schools and of others that lacked a sufficient number of schools to accommodate all who wished to attend. And these were but a few of the many items mentioned.
As our discussions continued we began to realize that we were part of a much larger Marist world, and that we had a responsibility for one another. Consequently, we must commit ourselves to finding solutions to the problems that beset us in our Marist institutions and also work at effecting the changes that are necessary in our countries and cultures.
Yesterday, we had a chance to ask one another questions and listened to stories about religious commitments. The tale of each person was unique but that fact should come as no surprise since God’s dream for the life of each of us is singular, meant for us alone and for no one else.
Throughout our discussions, I must confess, that I kept asking myself, “Where is God in all of our conversations?” Yes, where is this person who we claim to be so central in our lives?
That question brings me to the second story that I want to tell this morning. As I mentioned a moment ago, it is personal and a story that I have told on occasion before. Fourteen years ago, I was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I remember the day well: January 21st, 1994. Snow was falling softly in Pelham, NY, the town north of New York City in which I was living at the time. A friend was visiting from California and asked if I wanted company on my trip to the doctor’s at four o’clock. But I knew that this was one journey that I had to make alone.
On arriving at the doctor’s office and taking one look at her face, I knew that the news was not good. I had an inkling, from time to time, during the week of tests that preceeded my meeting with the physician that some difficulty probably existed but I had no idea though as to its nature or extent.
“Sit down,” the doctor said, “I will tell you what we have found, and then I will tell you what you must do.” You have a brain tumor of major proportion, five centimeters in diameter. It is located in the middle of your head. We will use medication to try to shrink it but you cannot avoid neurosurgery.” Then she proceeded to give me the name, address, and phone number of a surgeon, some prescriptions, and a few other instructions. Finally, she looked at me directly and said, “There is one other thing I must tell you. Another year of life for this tumor will cost you your own.” I was 46 years of age.
During the weeks and months that followed that appointment with the doctor, I underwent a variety of treatments and eventually the neurosurgery that she had said I could not avoid. But these events were but a small part of the picture of change that began to unfold in my life. For you see, the tumor that visited me in midlife was the catalyst for a journey that I made from my head to my heart. I had lived the better part of the first forty years of my life in my head. Since that time, though, I have been dwelling much more in my heart. A far messier place to live but so much more gratifying.
Now, what does this story about a tumor at midlife have to do with the topic of our days together? First of all, it reminds us that life is a precious gift. Each of us has but one, made up of a limited number of years. And while life is freely given and ours to make of it what we will, the length of its days are not ours to determine. For some they are cut short due to accident or disease, their promise perhaps not realized. Others among us live many years beyond what might be expected and witness great change, innovation, and progress. However, it is what we do with our lives that make them so important.
Mary of Nazareth learned this lesson over time. Here was a woman of her day, getting ready to marry. Hers was a genuine human journey, her life commonplace and obscure. Here was a woman who searched, felt anxious, laughed and cried, did not understand everything, and had to find her way from one stage to another as she traveled life’s journey. And life did not treat her gently. She lived through the human lot that falls to us all: tears, distress and bitterness, courage and greatness, agony and death.
Saint Therese of Lisieux reminds us that we love Mary not because the Mother of God received exceptional privileges but rather because she lived and suffered simply, like us, in the dark night of faith. Mary was a daughter of this earth; she had human passions, joys. She shared all the human concerns that we experience today.
But Mary was able to discern God’s dream for her life. That very same challenge faces each of us here in this room today. What is it that God asking of you; what is God asking of me?
Second, the story about a brain tumor at midlife also reminds us that many of life’s decisions are not rational but rather intuitive, they are affairs of the heart more than anything else. A vocation to religious life, for example, is a bit like falling in love. You meet a person and find yourself attracted to him or her. Over time a friendship develops between you and you find yourself looking forward to spending time together. You find yourself sharing more of your history with this person, as well as your hopes and dreams, your fears and concerns. And then one day, you discover that this person whom you met, and who over time you have come to value as a friend, has become someone very special indeed.
You are a new generation here in Asia. Never for a moment believe that you are only the future, for you are the present also. Real life does not start at some pre-appointed time during the days ahead. What you are living today is not the dress rehearsal for life but rather it is your life. Make of it what you can.
Marcellin Champagnat did just that. For he was but 27 years of age when he founded the Marist Brothers. He had no money, an old house on which there was a mortgage to pay, and two recruits—one of whom had almost no schooling. But Marcellin had a dream. And that is what lies at the heart of a religious vocation: a dream, God’s dream for you and for me.
If Marist education is meant to do anything, it is meant to teach young people to dream. To dream very large dreams about changing our world for the better because of Jesus Christ. How do you want to make a difference in our world and what price are you willing to pay in order to do so?
These four days together were meant to help our General Council learn something more about the world of young people living in the region of Asia. And we are grateful for all that you have shared with us. For our part, we hope that we have left with some better understanding about religious life today. Yes, it is but one way to serve the Lord but today it is not as well understood as it might have been in the past.
Some worry that religious life requires too much discipline and sacrifice. But any life lived well demands discipline and sacrifice. Others worry that it is a lonely life; but religious life is no lonelier than any other life. Each of us has a responsibility for taking the risks necessary to develop rich friendships.
Marcellin Champagnat was a man in love with God. He could not have accomplished what he did in life were that not the case. And herein lies the very core of religious life. You cannot live it unless Jesus Christ is the center and passion of your life. And so, as we ready ourselves to leave here today, let us pledge ourselves to listen for God’s Word in our life, and let us pray for hearts generous enough to respond to what that very same God might have in mind for each of us and for our lives. Thank you.
Posted in Youth
