The mystery of the Cross and my journey to the Priesthood 

“Our Lord sat down then, and began to eat the bread and the meat, breaking the bread in the way only He knows.  Marcelino put his hand on the bare shoulders. “Are you hungry?” he asked.  “Very much,” answered Our Lord” (Marcelino, Bread and Wine). 

My mom would often read books to me when I was a child. One of the books that I remember was called Marcelino, Bread and Wine (translated as Marcelino, Bread and Wine). It was a novel written by the Spanish writer, José María Sánchez-Silva. Marcelino was left on the doorstep of a monastery as an infant. The orphan boy was raised by the monks. He was well-loved but felt the absence of his mother. One day Marcelino found a friend in the forbidden attic who was hanging on the cross. The boy was afraid of the man on the cross at first, but strangely grew fond of him with time. And in a miraculous way, when the boy spoke to the man on the cross, the man replied. Their relationship would grow deeper with time. Once, the boy asked the man why he was crucified on the cross. Moreover, the little boy asked if he could take the nails and the cross away to alleviate the man’s suffering. The man appreciated the boy’s kind thought, but he refused the idea. He would still return to the cross. When the boy inquired why he had to remain on the cross, the man responded that love kept him there. He could save us by dying on the cross. 

This story had a deep impact on me, and even as a six-year-old boy, I would imitate Marcelino by talking aloud to the crucifix that was hanging in my room. I would even bring him some food from the kitchen. I didn’t have Marcelino’s experience, but I always had the intuition that the cross was a symbol, a sign of someone who loves me so much. Little did I know that as a priest, I would be like Marcelino, bringing bread and wine to the Altar and transforming them into the very Body and Blood of Christ in the Mass. I discovered later in my life how important this experience was. The life of a priest is intimately linked to the cross of Christ. In the Rite of the Priestly Ordination, the bishop tells the newly ordained priest the following, “Receive the oblation of the holy people of God. Understand what you do, imitate what you celebrate, and conform your life to the mystery of the Cross of Christ.” Thus, a priest is called to unite himself to the cross, to the mystery of God’s self-sacrificing love. A priest learns how to live as a priest by crucifying himself together with Christ. By giving himself to others as Christ did on the cross. One of the constant themes of my journey to the priesthood has been that of the cross, and it was something that never changed in my life. I always had a crucifix in my room, even amid all the changes throughout my journey to the priesthood. The cross has always been a constant divine presence and a sign of God’s immense love. 

“I see that you have a lot of blood on your face, hands, and feet,” 
Marcelino observed.  “Do your wounds hurt you?” he asked.    

I was born in Seoul, South Korea in 1991. When I was one, our family moved to a suburb called Bun Dang, which was a new, clean, and developing city. It is located just outside of the hectic city of Seoul. Though I grew up in a serene city, I have always been a restless child, to say the least. When I was six years old, I used to compete riding bicycles with some other young boys in my neighborhood. I would always win, and it was boring. One day I thought that I could still beat my peers, even with my eyes closed. And as you would expect, that didn’t go well. I bumped right into a parked car, hit my face against a license plate, and began to bleed profusely. One of my neighbors saw what happened and brought me home. My sister still remembers vividly my bloody face. This incident explains my childhood quite well. And to a certain degree, my relationship with God in the first three years in the seminary. I was the driver and Jesus was in the back seat. Whenever I wanted to do things my way, they didn’t work out. I drove ignoring the voice of Christ as a young seminarian and I hit my limit, just like I bumped into a parked car. As a child, I don’t remember my aunts and mom calling me with a soft, calm voice. It was almost always tinted with a certain tone of worry or anxiety that was caused by my reckless behavior. I didn’t have the silence to hear God’s voice. That would happen later.  And when it did, I felt like Samuel who heard God in the middle of the night in the temple or Elijah, who could hear God’s voice in the whisper-like breeze on mount Horeb. 

I come from a small family.  My dad was a businessman and my mom a devout Catholic. They come from different backgrounds. My dad is from the countryside, and he had a rough childhood. My mom, on the other hand, comes from an aristocratic family and was a spoiled girl. They met and got married in less than three months. It was so, because my mom prayed before dating with the intention of meeting a person who would help her to get to heaven. And my dad showed up.  

I never thought about becoming a priest until I was fifteen years old. One of my middle-school classmates told us he wanted to be a priest. I never heard someone saying that, and I was very intrigued by his desire. Then, he met a legionary priest who just arrived in Korea.  After, a friend of mine went to a minor seminary that the Legion ran in New Hampshire. It was common that many of my peers went to study abroad, but this one was special, and I mentioned it to my mom. My mom, in turn, inquired from my friend’s mom about the school, and somehow, I got to meet the legionary priest. I was fascinated by his talent. He would speak in Spanish with another Mexican seminarian who always accompanied him. He certainly was very eloquent and smart. He inspired me and I wanted to be like him. And then I thought for the first time that being a priest was, after all, not a bad option. I perceived something beautiful about the life of a priest, even though I couldn’t understand what it was about. I spoke with him often, and little by little I became more open to the idea of becoming a priest. In a couple of months, my parents also thought that being a priest would be a good option for me. One year after my friend from school went to the minor seminary, I also went to New Hampshire.  

I entered the minor seminary in New Hampshire in 2007, and there I spent two years of my life. It was a beautiful period. I felt like Peter who spoke with Jesus during the Transfiguration on Mount Tabor, “Lord, it is good that we are here” (Matthew 17:4). It was good for me to live there; it was a time of light where I saw the meaning of my life. I experienced God’s love for the first time. I was pretty good at soccer, and I surprised my peers with my skills and agility. We had a strict discipline, which helped me to grow. We used to get up every morning praying, or more precisely yelling out an ancient prayer called “Te Deum.” A religious brother would hit the light and yell out, “Christ our King,” to which all the students would yell back immediately, “Thy Kingdom Come!” There were around 150 students and we yelled so loud that a priest in the chapel that was 200 yards away could hear us with all the doors shut. I learned the virtue of hard work and discipline from the minor seminary. It was a challenge and a trial, but I am grateful for that formation, which forged my character and taught me to be more like a man. It was here that I began to loosen my grip on the wheel, at least allowing Christ to move the side mirrors.   

I began to read some spiritual books, including those of the first Franciscans. I loved the stories of St. Francis and his followers. One thing that resonated with me was the message of the cross. St. Francis would teach that true joy comes only from the cross and not from the world. St. Bonaventure, who was renowned for his holiness and wisdom, used to teach at the university of Paris with St. Thomas Aquinas. Thomas once inquired about the source from which he would draw all his inspirations and writings. St. Bonaventure pointed to a crucifix and said, “There is my inspiration and the source of all wisdom.” He would repeat the expression, “the wisdom of the cross (Sapientia Crucis).” I didn’t understand it then, but again the idea of the cross echoed in my soul.  

Marcelino had never in all his life seen a crucifix so big with a Christ the size of a real man nailed to a cross that was as big as a tree.  He went up to the foot of the cross and looked intently at the face of Our Lord. 

One of my favorite aspects of the minor seminary was learning how to pray. We started and ended each day in prayer. We celebrated Mass, prayed the rosary, read spiritual books, and met with a spiritual director. I had some special graces during my time in New Hampshire. Once, I was alone in Adoration at the chapel. I don’t remember the date, but it must have been an important feast day. On those days, we had the custom of Eucharistic Adoration, whereby each student would spend quiet time with the Lord throughout the day. This time, I happened to be alone. I was praying in silence just like Samuel and Elijah. I was gazing at the crucifix, which had a bloody representation of Christ. It was graphic, and, as I was praying, I felt a burning love in my heart.  I heard a voice from within that said, “Abraham, Abraham, do you know how much I love you?” It was my first time hearing God’s voice, something I longed to hear when I was imitating Marcelino in my room as a six-year-old boy. But when it actually happened, I didn’t know what to make of it, and I started to cry. I tried to hide my tears when the next student came to substitute me. Little by little, in that hidden place, I started to fall in love with God, just like little Marcelino. What God told me was not a command. He didn’t tell me, “You must be a priest.” He simply invited me to get to know his immense love for me. Being a priest is being an intimate friend of Christ. I think the secret of living our life happily as Christians is to keep fresh our loving relationship with God. For me, being a priest is about being more closely united to Christ and sharing that love with others. St. Paul’s words about Christ’s love continue to move me. He wrote, “I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life  which I now live in the flesh, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me” (Galatians 2:20). St. Paul’s conformity to the cross of Christ is closely linked to his experience of the personal love of God for him. He knew that Christ died not only for everyone, but for him as well. I think there is a sacred intimacy that only each soul shares with Christ when he is united with him on the cross. And the person who was closest to the cross of Christ was his mother, Mary.  

“And what are mothers like?” Marcelino asked.  “I always think about mine and what I’d like most of all would be to see her, even if it was just for a moment.”  The Lord explained to him what mothers were like. He told him that they were beautiful and sweet. And that they always loved their children and even gave their own food and drink and clothes when there wasn’t enough. 

I had a lot to learn when I first went to the minor seminary. I was put in a new culture and a new language. I had to learn how to discipline my life for the first time. Although I never felt homesick, I did have trials. The religious brother who was my formator used to write all my deficiencies down in his notebook. One day, he called me aside and started to correct me, telling me all the things that I was doing wrong. I couldn’t take it, and I cried. He froze and didn’t know what to do. Then, he led me to a statue of Mary, and we prayed there in silence. I didn’t have any mystical experience, but I felt as if Mary was embracing me and telling me, “I am here. Don’t worry.”  Jesus prayed some Psalms during his Passion and one of the Psalms that he prayed was the Psalm 22 of which the first words are, “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me.” It is a prayer that starts with a desperate cry but ends with a hopeful trust in God. In this prayer, the Psalmist remembers his mother while he finds himself in great pain, “But you are he who took me out of the womb; you made me trust while on my mother’s breasts. I was cast upon you from birth. From my mother’s womb, you have been my God” (Psalm 22: 9-10). I thought that Christ also remembered his mother Mary at the darkest moment in his life, because Mary is always there to help. She was there at the foot of the cross. I also experienced Mary’s caring presence in that difficult moment. After this incident, I loved making short visits to Mary throughout the day. We had a custom of praying in front of the statue of Mary before going to bed, and I was particularly fond of those moments.  

When the time came for me to graduate from the minor seminary, I had two options: either return to Korea or enter the seminary to pursue the path to the priesthood. My heart was still not ready to give up many things, but since I received so much from God, I knew that I had to give something back to Him. Thus, I began my life in the seminary with some uncertainty and a reluctant attitude. I was like the older son from the parable of the prodigal son who lived in the Father’s house but had his heart elsewhere. I was jealous of the things that I couldn’t enjoy while being a priest. I can relate with St. Augustine’s description of his life before the conversion, “You were within me, but I was outside of myself, and there I sought you. In my weakness, I ran after the beauty of the things you have made. You were with me, and I was not with you” (Confessions X, Chapter 27). 

During this time, I often read a passage from the Book of Sirach, which my mom read to me before I entered the seminary, “My son, when you come to serve the Lord, prepare yourself for trials. Be sincere of heart and steadfast, undisturbed in times of adversity. Cling to him, forsake him not; thus, will your future be great. Accept whatever befalls you, in crushing misfortune be patient; For in fire gold is tested, and worthy men in the crucible of humiliation” (Sirach 2: 1-5). I think my novitiate was a time of purification. All those inner struggles were my crucibles of humiliation that nobody could see but God. It was hard and it tested me. God was forging my heart. 

My first year of novitiate was in Cheshire, Connecticut. The seminary didn’t have a good heating system and I was always