Professors' Corner

Part I: Q&A with Father Gary Soria

Context and Impressions

Q: During what years, and in which places, did you have the opportunity to live in the same residence as St. Josemaría?

• I did not really live in the same residence with St. Josemaría during my stay in Rome (1974–1976). I stayed in the Inter-regional Center of Studies for Numeraries from various parts of the world, where we studied and worked a lot. During those years, in order to save money, we had designed various strategies to cut down on labor costs, doing some of the manual work alongside philosophical and theological studies. St. Josemaría resided in Rome; we resided some 10 km outside Rome. Besides, during those years, he was out of Italy several times. When I arrived in 1974, he was still in Spain recovering from a very tiring trip of spreading the Good News in Latin America.

The first time I met him was in a gathering in his residence with all of us from the Inter-regional Center. That was early January 1975. I could not follow all his interventions—it was the usual question-and-answer format that he loved to engage in. We asked any question, and he responded in Spanish. I wanted to hear him without any translator, as I wanted to hear his voice above all.

My impression: he was short of stature—I was taller than him. He had a smile always on his face; he saw me and smiled at me, but I found him a bit tired, unlike the one I saw in documentaries of his get-togethers in Spain—very alive, dynamic. Little did we know he had several medical issues—one of them was his failing eyesight, which we were never informed of. Yet, in his conversation with us that day in January, he used his failing eyesight as a means to speak about asking light from God so we do not offend Him, as he manifested his sorrow for many episodes he knew of persons—even ecclesiastics—who, through their actions, did not show their love for the Church and Jesus Christ. This emotional pain I sensed without any need for translation.

Q: How did he carry himself in ordinary, day-to-day moments, such as at home or during meals?

• I have no experience of this, yet when he was with us, you felt his warmth and affection—his gaze—even if we were more than a hundred in that gathering.

Q: Is there a particular conversation or encounter with him that has stayed with you through the years?

• I was always with him along with many other Numeraries, yet you felt that you were not so many—as if you were just a few with him.

His Example and Presence

Q: In what ways did St. Josemaría reveal holiness in small, ordinary things that those around him could notice?

• I have little to say, except that he was easy to talk to, comfortable to be with, and seemed to invite a kind of personal conversation with him even if there were many people around.

Q: Did you ever witness how he responded to difficulties, misunderstandings, or personal suffering?

• Only through stories of some who stayed with him. Actually, most of those episodes have been written down and are contained in the biographies about him.

Q: Was there something about his personality (such as his humor, warmth, or simplicity) that people today would especially appreciate?

• His eyes and loving glance—hard to explain.

Q: How did you personally experience his fatherly care and concern for you, and for others who lived near him?

• Even if he spoke in response to one of us asking him sometimes personal questions about how to live some aspects of the spiritual life better, you felt that his response was also applicable to you.

Personal Impact

Q: In what ways did sharing daily life with him influence your own prayer and way of living?

• Hard to describe, except to read his biography and writings to always get inspired.

Q: Did he ever give you advice or correction that deeply shaped you as a priest?

• None, as I was ordained a priest in 1982 and he died in 1975.

Q: How did his presence challenge or inspire you to grow closer to God?

• Reading his writings—especially the foundational ones.

Q: Looking back, what difference did your time with him make in your life as a priest?

• God’s providence—for which I am a bit apprehensive, as I have to give an account to God, having lived with someone whom I felt was a saint, and then experienced his canonization in 2002.

Q: Can you share a concrete way your closeness to St. Josemaría enriched your life or perspective?

• Freedom is for loving.

Q: What is an enduring lesson you continue to carry with you from those years?

• He is what we call in Spanish nuestro Padre—a father he is to anyone who gets close enough.

For Today’s Generation

Q: What quality did you witness in St. Josemaría that you believe could help young people at UA&P live their faith with greater depth?

• Openness to the world and to God, and love for freedom—of one’s own and of others.

Part II: Some Short Remembrances of Being with St. Josemaria by Fr. Gary Soria

In 1974, we [or I] did not have meetings or get-togethers with St. Josemaria.

However, 1975 was different—except for the period of February 1975, when he went on a pastoral trip to Venezuela and then Guatemala—he spent at least one get-together (an hour or so) every month with us in Cavabianca, the formation center for Numeraries from all over the world.

Though the main installations were done—common areas like living rooms, classrooms, bedrooms, and dining rooms—decorations were still sparse, as there was little money. Food for about 200 young men was just enough to assure we were not malnourished. However, one had to be clever, as one would arrive with little trace of breakfast—usually just milk, coffee, bread, and some butter.

On Sundays, eggs were served—for the lucky ones who arrived early. Well, our Founder knew that food was a bit short, and he usually asked us if we ate enough. We tried to be charitable in our response. He knew we swept the dishes clean of food, and in some get-togethers, he assured us that he would inform the ones in charge of the kitchen to give an extra dessert that day—and it happened. A remembrance of the paternal kindness of St. Josemaria.

The most memorable get-togethers were in June 1975—there was one every Sunday. It was like a celebration for us. On the first Sunday of June 1975, he decided to take a walk with more than a hundred of us through Cavabianca, which was designed to be like a small, typical Italian village. Most of us were trying to walk very closely with St. Josemaria; the more daring ones took the sweet spot to hear his comments and give him some stories. After the walk, St. Josemaria confided that he was old and felt the tiredness of the walk. He told us that it was his dream to set up this formation center to form persons who would be universal in mindset and avoid the temptation of being confined to one’s culture or country. It was designed such that each corner of the big facility “speaks” to us of a family environment rather than an institution—and it was so. Each part of the buildings (there were several connected with covered footbridges) did not make you feel like you were in an institution or a hotel. Each corner had that family air because of the decoration.

I missed the last get-together with St. Josemaria in Cavabianca—June 22, four days before he passed away. There was a miscommunication, and a group of us went to Rome for a cultural trip since we had been informed that St. Josemaria would not come that Sunday. I was quite disappointed by that miscommunication.

June 26 was a Thursday, the one afternoon whose memory is still vivid in me. I was fulfilling a duty of watching over the workers, as Cavabianca was still unfinished in several places. I was alone and hungry—it was around 1 p.m. or so.

Then one person came, uttering a phrase I could not understand. All I thought was that he was coming to replace me in my duty, and I was eager to have lunch.

I stopped him and asked if he came to replace me. He said again what he had uttered earlier, and seeing that I was not connecting, he spoke slowly: “El Padre ha muerto.” The Father has died.

Given my emotional condition at that time, I felt the urge to give a right blow to his face, as I was not ready for a joke, especially with that phrase. But perhaps my guardian angel—and his—prevailed, as once more he said: “El Padre ha muerto.”

I lost all my hunger and felt the ground below me dissolving. My thoughts: What would happen now to Opus Dei—and to me? I would be going back to Manila without having finished the studies I went to Rome for.

Instead of going to the dining room, I searched for a friendlier person—another Filipino—and asked him if the Father had died. Without looking at me, he just nodded, and when I asked for more details, he preferred to be silent.

Well, I felt lost for about an hour. I do not remember if I took lunch—perhaps I did—but most probably it was fast, as I wanted to get more information.

Information was not that reliable at that time, as I received details of his death that were not true. Anyway, I think I volunteered to go to Villa Tevere with others to be present at his wake. Our Founder passed away at midday on June 26. I think I was there praying at his wake with several others around 4 or 5 p.m. I asked St. Josemaria—his face was peaceful—to accompany us and to grant me perseverance in my vocation to Opus Dei.

After my stay at the wake, I and those with me started to reconstruct St. Josemaria’s last week with us, his last words with us, and connect them with his passage on June 26.

Each one of us shared our personal feelings and thoughts—sad but hopeful.

Anyway, I need to end this sharing, as there are so many things to share, and I do not know what could be of benefit to others.

One thing I am learning more and more from remembering the last years of St. Josemaria is his great love and concern for the Church. He shared with us what he saw as a serious crisis of faith in the Church, starting with the clerics, and his desire to strengthen the faith of those who were in contact with Opus Dei—encouraging them to pray for the Church, for the Roman Pontiff, to read the Gospel, read the Catechism, be more assiduous in going to the sacraments, and go more often to Mother Mary. I realized that this zeal—strongly noticeable during his last years—somehow overcame his health issues. I think he had kidney issues (as a result of his being diabetic until miraculously cured), and this one, I only learned about years later: he had several serious cardiac issues several months before he died, and we were never in the know. He managed to avoid our getting worried so he could continue doing his priestly work with us. He pulled himself out of himself to be with us and with others who needed him and just left his health in the hands of the doctors and God.

Perhaps he lived what he had always advised us in Opus Dei—we should be ready to die squeezed out like a lemon.

Lastly, the following year, 1976, I was still there when Cavabianca was finally finished. The last stone was installed (this practice was something our Founder started—to lay the last stone in any undertaking). The inscription in that last stone read (translated into English): "This is our destiny on earth: to struggle out of love until the last moment. Deo gratias. June 26, 1975."

Balagtas

Ang tula

Ay nagmumula

Sa mga hibla

Ng guniguni

Na tinutukso

Ng alaala;

Binabasa,

Sinusuri,

Tulad ng

Isang bugtong

Na nakahimlay

Sa baybay-ilog

Ng diwa,

Upang pagkatapos

Ay isisilid

Sa limot

Gaya  ng

Pinaglumaang damit.

Ngunit ito’y

Muling sisibol

Sa ibang panahon,

Sa ibang anyo,

Upang sidlan

Ang mundo  ng mga

Bagong talinghaga.

Let Be. Let Go. Let the Class Flow.

Teaching, at its best, is not a repetition of lessons but a renewal of awe. Some may wonder how professors sustain their passion for teaching when, at times, teaching the same subjects can feel like a routine. I have been teaching Literature for more than a decade, and I, too, have asked myself how I continue to nurture my sense of wonder and enthusiasm when the objectives and coverage remain essentially the same.

In my early years as a teacher, I would obsess over the flow of my lectures. Everything had to be exactly the same, down to the smallest detail. I would even stress over remarks I had forgotten to say in one class but had mentioned in another. Eventually, I let go. And in letting go, I began to enjoy. And in enjoying, I began to truly see my students.

When professors cling too tightly to the flow, they risk seeing their students as mere objects, failing to recognize their presence and what they can contribute. I discovered that what sustains me as a teacher is not the perfection of delivery, but the savoring of my students’ insights, the guidance I can offer at the pace the moment allows, and the shared enjoyment of the session itself. No two classes are ever alike, and I have learned to embrace the beautiful differences that make each encounter special and memorable. I have come to accept my humanity. I am no machine designed to replicate lessons word for word. It is precisely this limitation that keeps teaching alive and fresh. Because of this outlook, the joy of learning endures.

Teachers may be masters, but familiarity with a literary work can sometimes blind us to its greater mysteries or its subtler details. I realized that each time I enter the classroom, I must resist the temptation to cling to a fixed interpretation. If we broaden our minds, just as we encourage our students to do, we may rediscover the text anew, uncovering truths we once overlooked. Let be. Let go. Let the class flow.

Of course, one cannot ignore standards. There are objectives, ideas, and essentials that we cannot compromise. Professors often must serve as the guiding light, drawing on years of study and deep familiarity with the works at hand. Yet, to genuinely enjoy the ride, we must also listen. When new insights arise, I have learned to remain open to molding even my own interpretations, no matter how established they may seem. If professors remain genuine, and if the search for truth is always at the center, then teaching will never grow dull. It will always remain vibrant, no matter how many decades one has spent in the classroom.

Humility is a beautiful virtue. The moment we regard ourselves as perfect, we close the door to true discourse. With humility, however, every class becomes a living exchange shaped by the uniqueness of our students and by the teacher’s willingness to be present. When we choose to listen, to let go, and to let the class flow, we rediscover the awe that first drew us to the classroom. Teaching, at its best, is never mere repetition, but a continual renewal of awe, an invitation to wonder, again and again.