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 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 call 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 of 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 cold. I had long hours of daily prayer and it often seemed endless. My housework was cleaning the sacristy, which I did every day. I mopped and cleaned the floor day after day. It almost felt like a waste of time. I never left the seminary except for hikes that we did once a week. I think the trial for me during that first year was that of enduring daily routine and monotony. I now see that perhaps the cross begins on our hands and knees, bowed down in humility before Christ. After two years of novitiate, I went back to Korea with my parents before moving to the next stage of formation. I would study classical humanities in Monterrey, Mexico. During my visit to Korea, I went to check my ankle at a hospital because I would often sprain it during soccer games. It turned out that the ligaments on my right ankle were badly torn apart. I needed surgery. We arranged a quick appointment and only two days after the surgery, I was on my way to Mexico in a wheelchair. While I struggled to steer the wheels left or right, Jesus certainly turned the push handles. He began to show me the way to Him.
