Deacon Abraham Jae Woo Eo, LC: 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, Pan y Vino
My mom would often read books to me when I was a child. One of the books that I remember was called Marcelino, Pan y Vino (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 at 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 ever 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 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 had never heard someone say that, and I was very intrigued by his desire. Then, he met a legionary priest who had just arrived in Korea. After, a friend of mine went to a minor seminary, also called an apostolic school, 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 didn’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 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.
I was in Monterrey, Mexico for one year, and it was the year of my second conversion. Up to that point, I was like Jacob who wrestled with God. I was wrestling against my doubts and uncertainties. In Mexico, I reached my limit; everything came to a head like my six-year-old self and that parked car. This time, I rode that wheelchair with my spiritual eyes closed. I was driving and Jesus was in the back seat. I was leading my life in my way and not according to God’s. I didn’t speak any Spanish when I arrived in Mexico. I was the only seminarian among 200 others who didn’t speak the language. I studied Latin and Greek in Spanish that I barely spoke. I remember my Latin teacher who taught us to speak in Latin. I wasn’t aware that he spoke in Latin for the first few days of his lecture since I didn’t understand either Latin or Spanish back then. In addition to the language difficulty, I was also very physically uncomfortable. I couldn’t move around easily since I had to walk with crutches, which felt like my cross. There were stairs everywhere and there weren’t any elevators. The place I lived at was very hot and humid, so I had to take a shower at least four times a day. And we didn’t have AC in the building. I couldn’t get my feet wet. I was still a hyperactive kid, and I couldn’t stand not being able to move around freely. And to make all things more unbearable, I didn’t get along well with my superior. I hit my limit then. Instead of a bloody face, I had a blood-soaked heart. I was steering that wheelchair and maneuvering those crutches while Jesus watched.
One day during my prayer I said, “It is enough. I’ve done everything. I have been generous with God. And here I am in Mexico, and I am miserable. I am going home.” I went to a phone booth and called my mom. It was around 3:00 am in Korea and somehow my mom picked up. “Mom, I am going home. Buy me a plane ticket,” I proclaimed. She didn’t know what to say. Ten minutes later, my father called back. “Son, you cannot make important decisions in haste,” he said. “We will talk in one month and you are not coming home in the meantime. You cannot leave in that way. You will stay where you are for a month. We will talk then.” He was firm in that difficult moment and now I thank my dad for not having listened to my frustrations. In that month of agony, I received a personal letter from our general director, Fr. Álvaro Corcuera. He was the kindest person I met in my life. He came to visit our seminary in Mexico a couple of weeks before my spiritual crisis. When he returned to Rome where he resided, he inquired to my superior how I was doing. When he learned that I was leaving, he took the time to write me a three-page letter. He encouraged me to give God the first place in my life. If I abandoned myself totally to the God who loves me, God would let me know what He wanted for me. He told me that if I was still not convinced of my calling, I could leave in peace knowing that I have given God the first place. I have read that letter many times. It is now a treasure. Moved by his loving words, I decided to follow his advice. I stopped thinking about myself, and I gave up my worries and anxieties that came from comparing myself to my friends outside of the seminary. I stopped thinking about the grass on the other side and was content with what I had. It was after this change of attitude that I started to discover that following Christ is so beautiful. I realized that following God is my free choice, a free response to his invitation that says, “Will you follow me?” I realized that there were so many good things in the Father’s house, which I couldn’t see for the first three years of my life in the seminary. Before this second conversion, I was like the grumpy older brother who was jealous of his younger, prodigal brother. After the change of attitude, however, I became a happy and grateful son. I can relate with Augustine’s description of his conversion experience, “You have sent forth your fragrance, and I have breathed it in, and I long for you. I have tasted you and I hunger and thirst for you. You have touched me, and I ardently desire your peace” (Confessions, X, Chapter 27).
Marcelino was very happy. The days that went by were for
him like a glorious dream. He didn’t seem to remember anything
and lived only in his thought. Nothing distracted him from his
friendship with the Man in the attic. Not even the storms […]
kept him away from his Friend, from his conversations
with our Lord, and from his long visits to the chapel.
I know I am a priest today because of Fr. Álvaro’s letter during that critical period in my life. Despite his administrative duties and pressures, he came down from his personal cross and breathed life into me. Fr. Álvaro taught me that the rule of efficacy doesn’t apply to persons and that I need to be conscious of the immense value of a single soul. I remembered Isaiah 43:4, “Because you are precious in my eyes, you have been honored, and I have loved you.” Each soul is precious in God’s eyes, and a priest is called to have that same gaze of Christ who saw each one of us with so much love and mercy.
Once, in Korea, I accompanied a Legionary priest to administer the Anointing of the Sick to a politician who was dying of cancer. The man didn’t want to die, and he was afraid. In the face of death, his wealth couldn’t buy him health. I saw how transient our lives can be. It reminded me of the first lines of the Book of Ecclesiastes, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity” (Ecclesiastes 1:2). We visited him a couple of times, and each time his family members were so surprised to see him smiling and joyful whenever we were around. He died not long after our last visit, and it had a deep impact on me. I learned that a priest is the person who accompanies people in their last moments before they go to meet God. The work of a priest is not something that you can measure according to a temporal standard. It has an eternal consequence. I sensed that there was something sacred about the priest serving not only as an ambassador of God, but also in persona Christi. This experience helped me to appreciate the value of being a priest.
When I was 25 years old, I had to interrupt my studies and return home to fulfill military service duties, which is mandatory for all men in South Korea. I was supposed to work as a Four-star General’s private driver. It turned out, however, that the Four-star General was a devout Catholic. Jesus no longer took the back seat. He was in full control of the wheel and my life. When the Four-star General figured out that I was a seminarian, he assigned me to work as a chaplain’s assistant for most of my military service. I felt like baby Moses floating on the Nile River. Just as Moses was sent from his mother and then miraculously returned to her, so too was I returned from whence I came: the Church.
My biggest cross during the military service was neither the secular environment nor the demanding physical training. It was the nun that I worked with as a chaplain’s assistant. She was an elderly Korean nun. My country has a clear sense of hierarchy, and I lost some of that for having lived outside of Korea for many years. She was a perfectionist, and I was far from being perfect. I would tremble each time I cut a wax candle after Mass for I would get in trouble if the candles were not straightly lined up. She is the first woman who made me cry. I felt my deficiencies barreling down once again. Towards the end of my military service, I started to dislike her to the point where I wouldn’t even talk to her. When she walked into the room where I was, I would leave. If I saw her walking toward me, I would walk away from her. It was that bad. I was avoiding the nun, and I was avoiding the cross. But the story with the nun didn’t end sadly. A couple of years later, when I was only a week away from being ordained a deacon, I happened to do some shopping in town. I had a strange inspiration to inform her about my upcoming diaconate ordination. I texted her rather reluctantly. In less than a minute, she called me back. And surprisingly, she happened to be in the same town. Rather than running away as I had in the past, I forewent the errands and visited her instead. She was living with forty other elderly nuns. When I arrived, she asked me to speak about my vocation story to the sisters. They were happy to hear my testimony. Before I left, we hugged and made peace. When the time came, I had ten nuns attend my diaconate ordination, and the nun with whom I hadn’t talked for years was also present. I am proud for reconciling with her after so many years. The incident taught me that I should never run away from the cross. It is only when I embrace the cross that good things, such as a beautiful reconciliation, can come about.
“Are you hungry?” asked Marcelino.
“Very much,” answered the Lord.
When Jesus finished eating, he looked at Marcelino and said,
“You are a good son, and I thank you.”
My heaviest cross, however, came at the moment that I least expected. While on vacation with my family in Japan six years ago, I noticed that my dad was not himself. He was always very good with directions, but now he couldn’t find his way to and from a restaurant restroom. After the trip, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. I heard the news when I was already in Rome studying philosophy and theology. When I returned home each summer, it always broke my heart to see how different my dad was each time I saw him. I felt like Job who used to complain to God for all the bad things that happened to him. My dad’s illness was something too great for me to bear. In the depth of my heart, I would cry out to Him, but I heard no answer. He only listened without solving the problem in the way that I wanted. My dad’s illness progressed rapidly and in less than five years, he went to a nursing home. It was a difficult time for our family members, especially for my mom who cared for my dad with such a heroic love.
My dad was never good at expressing his emotions. He rarely told me that he loved me, though I knew that he did. He used to be the head of his small business and he was also a boss at home. My dad was not a practicing Catholic before I went to the seminary, but after I left home, he slowly started to pray more, and he eventually became an active member of the Legion of Mary. A couple of weeks before my diaconate ordination when my dad was already away in a nursing home, I had the opportunity to spend some time with the members of the Legion of Mary. Some of them were very good friends of dad’s. They told me some surprising things about him, which I would never have imagined. One of them said that my dad used to have my picture as his cell phone background. When he was in a good mood, he would tell his friends, “This is my son; he will be priest one day.” I never knew that he was proud of me. I felt as if God, the Father, was telling me through my dad, “You are my beloved son; you will soon be my priest.” I could sense that just like my earthly father had phoned me in Mexico long ago, my heavenly Father was also happy I answered his call to become a priest. This gave me a lot of peace and consolation that I couldn’t see when I was still processing my dad’s illness. God was listening patiently all along while I was venting and complaining. Now, I can see the good things that came from my dad’s illness. The cross has tremendous power, especially over things we can’t yet perceive.
Our Lord smiled again:
“You’re sure you’re not afraid at all?”
“No,” answered the boy, looking at Him quietly.
“Then you know who I am?” asked our Lord.
“Yes,” answered Marcelino. “You’re God.”
In the summer of 2022, I had the opportunity to assist an exorcism in Rome. After much prayer and reconciliation to purify my soul, I went to meet the possessed person. Her story was a moving one. She had been possessed for almost two decades ago and was terribly tormented by the devil since then. Along with another priest and a consecrated woman, we drove together to meet the exorcist. Before we started the exorcism, people who had been assisting previous exorcism sessions told me that the devil was quite weak and that I wouldn’t see anything extraordinary. But they were wrong. I was seated right next to her, and during the exorcism, the devil manifested himself in a violent way. He started kicking the exorcist to the point where I had to hold him down. I had a crucifix in my hand, and I knew that the devil hates the cross of Christ. At first, I felt the incredible strength of the devil. Although the woman was small, I couldn’t hold one of her arms down, even with all my might. But when I started to meditate upon the cross of Christ, the devil became so feeble. He was yelling out blasphemies in the beginning, but suddenly, he became quiet. When I looked up and opened my eyes after all the chaos, I realized that the devil was looking straight into my eyes. I was less than ten inches away from her and this evil spirit. I’ve never seen a look so ugly and so full of hatred in my life. He yelled out to me, “Get out of my face! I don’t want you!” I took the devil’s address as an assurance of my calling. After the exorcism, the woman told me that she was always fully aware when the devil manifested himself. She told me that the devil hated me so much. Because I have been consecrated to God, my presence thwarted him. The experience has been a confirmation of sorts. When Peter denied the cross of Christ, Jesus said to him, “Get behind me Satan” (Matthew 16: 23). For Jesus, Peter’s denial of the cross reminded him of Satan’s temptation. Fulton Sheen said that the essence of the diabolic is the hatred of the cross of Christ. And I felt a lot of that during the exorcism. I experienced the power of the cross of Christ that enabled me to face the devil and hold my ground. After years of wrestling with my own restlessness and doubt, there is no doubt priestly ordination is what Jesus wants for me. Christ has been my driving force all along.
My first months of living as a deacon were a time of true joy. In my last year of studies in Rome, the superiors assigned seminarians to different apostolates. We were asked to share our three wishes for the type of work that we would like to embark upon. My first wish was that I would like to work in a place where I have never been before. My second wish was that I didn’t want to work in a school. My third wish was that I wanted to work with young adults. None of my wishes were met. I was sent to the United States, where I first began my journey almost 16 years ago. In August of 2023, I became a chaplain at Holy Spirit Prep, a Catholic school in Atlanta. To be honest, I was not content with this assignment, but with time, I fell in love with it. I didn’t know that I could love my students as much as I do now. God blessed my obedience and gave me the heart of a father. One time, I was watching a soccer game that my students played against one of the rival schools. It was a very tight match. I was surprised by what I was yelling out each time our team scored, “Those are my boys!” We won the game, and I was a proud father. Being a chaplain at school can be demanding and difficult to navigate, but my heart is so full of gratitude and joy. I learned to be a father by living my life no longer for me, but for others. There is a holy joy that comes from the cross as Jesus promised, “These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may remain in you and that your joy may be full” (John 15:11).
One of my favorite parts of Marcelino, Pan y Vino is when the little orphan boy started to love spending time with the man on the cross. The Gospel quote that I took for my priestly ordination card is “Remain in me, as I also remain in you” (John 15:4). It was the phrase that echoed deep in my heart when I first heard God’s voice in the small chapel in New Hampshire that said, “Abraham, Abraham, do you know how much I love you?” To know God’s immense love for us, we need to remain in him. In my life, the love of God has been shown in various ways, but it spoke most powerfully through the cross. I long to be a priest who resembles Marcelino in his joyful time with Christ. And I long to be a priest who brings Christ to others through pan y vino, in the bread and wine of everlasting life.
Deacon Abraham Jae Woo Eo, LC
Deacon Abraham will be ordained to the priesthood on Saturday, April 27th, 2024 at 10 am (Rome time) / 4 am (Eastern time) along with 19 other Legionary of Christ deacons. We will livestream the ordinations with a commentary in both English and Spanish on YouTube. Please stay tuned for more information and join us in prayers for these 20 men as they approach their upcoming ordinations.
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