Father Isidoro Kemmerer, SVD, and the Pruner's Burden

 by EMMANUEL R. FERNANDEZ 

If he were not assigned the role of Prefect of Discipline at that time, he would have been the most likable of the four SVD formators* who were at the helm of the Mary Help of Christians (Minor) Seminary just before it was turned over to diocesan formators in 1976. Father Isidoro Kemmerer of the Society of the Divine Word (SVD) was a short and plump missionary priest from Argentina, who was blessed with a baby face and a pair of boyish eyes.  That he had a hairless, shiny forehead which occupied more than its fair share of space, in fact, made him look even more babyish.  He was the youngest of our four formators (or so it seemed to me then), and as I shall later show, he had a sense of humor that, unfortunately, he felt he had to keep in check on account of his official role. He would have been the priest we felt most at home with.  But he had a job to do and he was bent on doing it well.  

As Prefect of Discipline, he was in charge of ensuring that the seminarians faithfully followed the rules and regulations of the minor seminary, with a view to making self-discipline an inextricable part of their character.   He was, in a manner of speaking, the “pruner” in that vineyard; and he did not hesitate to use his shears whenever he felt that doing so was necessary. 

Father Kemmerer was on duty 24 x 7; and he had this uncanny talent for suddenly appearing on the scene just when you least expected him to be there – and you thought you could get away with the transgression you had just committed or were about to commit.  He employed this uncommon skill of his especially during our study period and during the first two hours after the bell had rung to signal to seminarians that it was time to take a good night’s rest. 

During our study period, Father Kemmerer would be stealthily walking up and down the corridor along which our classrooms were lined up, trying to see who was not studying his lessons; who was breaking the rule of silence by talking to his neighbor (or talking to himself!); or who was doing some other thing which could be considered an infraction of sorts.  Woe to him who was not smart enough to escape Father Kemmerer’s watchful gaze!  Father Kemmerer’s favorite punishment was to order the erring seminarian to walk to the back of the classroom, kneel down, raise his arms sideways, and remain in that position for 15, 30, 45 minutes or one hour – depending on the gravity of his offence.  Sometimes, Father Kemmerer added an extra feature to the punishment.  One classmate of mine claimed that he was once caught chatting with some other classmates during study period.  The punishment that Father Kemmerer imposed on them was rather unique, to say the least.  Instead of asking them to walk to the back of the classroom, he asked them to proceed to the corridor, form a line, kneel down, stretch out their arms sideways, and stick  their tongues in and out repeatedly while counting from one to one hundred!   My classmate described the experience as a “comedy of chastisement,” and I can’t think of a better way to describe it.  It was a good thing that Father Kemmerer decided to transfer the venue of that particular punishment to the corridor.  If it were executed at the back of the classroom where the rest of the seminarians could see what was going on, the whole class would have exploded in laughter, and the punishment’s intended effect as a deterrence would have been lost.  But, I suspect that Father Kemmerer couldn’t help laughing inside himself when he saw how comical the punishment he had just imposed turned out to be. 

The same punishment (minus the sui generis tongue-sticking routine) was also imposed on those seminarians whom he caught doing other things during the time when they were supposed to be sleeping.  Even studying one’s lessons or reading a book with a flashlight at bedtime was considered an offence in those days. 

Speaking of books, one of the things that former minor seminarians will never forget about Father Kemmerer was his zealous censorship of all the books and magazines that they brought in with them from “the outside world.”  He patiently went over their pages to make sure that they did not contain anything that might “pollute” his young seminarians’ minds.  And if he came upon a page that contained anything “impure,” it was immediately torn out, crumpled and thrown straight into his waste basket.  Seminary legend has it that some senior seminarians eagerly waited for the chance to be assigned to clean his office so they could get hold of Father Kemmerer’s waste basket.  They would then piece the torn pages together, with the patience and enthusiasm of biblical scholars who have just found the scattered pages of an ancient manuscript on the bank of the Jordan River.  Of course, like most legends, this one remains unverified as of press time. 

Father Kemmerer’s default demeanor was one of sternness. Yet, in his unguarded moments, Father Kemmerer inadvertently revealed a humorous side to him.  Aside from that comical punishment he once imposed on that classmate of mine and his fellow “rule-breakers,” I remember how he used to tease us at mealtimes about who should receive the privilege of getting his leftover food.  The perennial complaint of minor seminarians in my time was that the food they were getting was never enough to satisfy their hunger.  (As to whether the source of the problem was the scarcity of food or the insatiability of minor seminarians’ appetites [or both] is an issue that I sometimes think about with a chuckle.)  Fortunately, there was always a light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak.  Intentionally, I believe, Father Kemmerer never finished all the food that was placed on his special table in our refectory.  He always had leftover food to give away – and even if these were leftover food, they were consistently special!  They often consisted of carbonara, mashed potatoes, pork chop, fried chicken and other mouth-watering recipes, with matching dessert to boot!  Seminarians, who were seated at separate tables in groups of four, eagerly awaited the moment when Father Kemmerer finally wiped his mouth with his immaculately white napkin and decided which table of seminarians he would give the prized leftover food to. Sometimes, he would turn the moment into an opportunity for humor.  He would glance around the dining room with a naughty smile on his face, pretend that he was having a hard time deciding whom to give the leftover food to, act as though he had finally decided to give them to one table – only to shake his head all of a sudden to indicate that he had changed his mind. Seminarians (especially the ever-starved ones) loved the suspense – and the chance to see the funny side of their Prefect of Discipline!  From where I sat, I could tell that Father Kemmerer was having as much fun as we had on those occasions. 

Aside from having a humorous side, Father Kemmerer also knew how to praise seminarians when they did something he considered commendable.  I recall a time when he made an unannounced check of our individual cabinets in the dormitory.  We were told to stand beside our cabinets and show him what was inside.  When my turn came, he literally shouted with joy at what he saw, saying “Look at this!  Look at this!  This is how you should arrange your clothes!”  I took a look at my own cabinet and I myself was surprised at how well arranged my clothes indeed were.  They were folded and piled so neatly and uniformly, you would think you were looking at a display cabinet in a department store. I remember suddenly feeling so proud of myself, as though I had just won a prize in a tournament.  And I also remember thanking my lucky stars for inspiring me to arrange the contents of my cabinet that day, not knowing that a spot check was actually in the offing.  

Father Kemmerer’s compliment was so effective that, up to now, more than four decades later, I still find myself arranging the clothes in my cabinet as perfectly as I did that fortunate day.  Sometimes, when I open my cabinet, I have this funny thought that Father Kemmerer might suddenly appear behind me to see if I have been able to maintain the habit he had complimented me so generously for, many rainy seasons ago. 

My most touching memory of Father Kemmerer, however, happened at a beach in Binmaley where our freshman class had an outing as a reward for winning a seminary competition.  We were having a lot of fun swimming and playing on the shore when, all of a sudden, someone shouted that two of our classmates were drowning.  From the shore, we could see them desperately trying to keep themselves from being swallowed up by the water. We had no other adult companion with us except Father Kemmerer, who evidently did not know how to swim.  All he could do was to cry out repeatedly “Help them! Pray for them! Help them! Pray for them!”  On his face, one could see a mixture of fear, helplessness, and a growing sense of despair.  Fortunately, a passing fisherman came to our classmates’ rescue.  They were saved from drowning, but they had to be hospitalized for days afterwards. 

Every time I remember Father Kemmerer, that scene at the beach never fails to squeeze its way into the picture in mind.  For all his outward sternness, I saw how profoundly human he was after all.  That day, he looked to me like a helpless grandfather who would never have forgiven himself if those two boys had not been saved. 

Contemporary educators would likely frown upon the disciplinary methods employed by Father Kemmerer.  By their standards, the punishments he imposed would amount to a serious degradation of children’s dignity.  But, it would be an error (and an act of unfairness) to evaluate anything out of its historical and cultural context, or worse, to pass judgment upon it using the criteria of a different historical and cultural context.  Father Kemmerer’s disciplinary methods were considered normal and acceptable in their time and place.  That is not to say, of course, that all the methods employed by some Prefects of Discipline in that era were acceptable.  I have heard sad stories of some Prefects of Discipline who employed forms of corporal punishment that could be considered inappropriate (perhaps even cruel) by any standard.  Fortunately, I do not recall hearing anyone complain that Father Kemmerer imposed a punishment heavier than the ones I have just described. 

A Prefect of Discipline’s job is, without doubt, the most unpopular role that could be given to a seminary formator. I believe that if they had a choice, most seminary formators would rather be assigned as Spiritual Director, Prefect of Studies, Procurator, or Rector.  A “pruner” in God’s vineyard (which is what a Prefect of Discipline’s job is ultimately all about) will always find himself in a perpetual dilemma:  if he wants to be popular with his seminarians, he must be willing to relax the rules a bit, ignore their infractions from time to time, adopt a “hear-no-evil, see-no-evil, speak-no-evil” attitude towards his seminarians… But then, he would be running the risk of committing a dereliction of his duty. He might even end up as the laughingstock of his seminarians. 

On the other hand, if he faithfully carries out his duty as a “pruner,” he will have to give up the desire to be consistently popular with his seminarians.  Some of them will play cat-and-mouse with him and brag about the times when they were able to outsmart him. In fact, whenever former seminarians reminisce together, over bottles of beer, about their seminary days, they will almost always end up talking about how they were able to outwit “poor Father Prefect” at one time or another during their stay there. 

I myself had been guilty of such uncharitable talk from time to time in the past.  But the older I get, the more I realize what an immense service our Prefects of Discipline had rendered to us, to the Church, and to God during our seminary formation. If we now feel grateful for the self-discipline that has become an integral component of our character as former seminarians, let us not forget that much of the credit should go to those heroic and charitable priests who accepted the burden of becoming the pruners in God’s vineyard, even if they knew that it would probably take several decades before the plants would finally realize that the wielding of the shears was really meant for their own good.

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*The four SVD priests were Father Viktor Holobrady, SVD; Father John Healy, SVD; Father Peter Michael, SVD; and Father Isidoro Kemmerer, SVD.  They were our formators during my first two years in the minor seminary (1974-1976).  In June 1976, the administration of MHCS was turned over to diocesan formators under the leadership of Father (later, Bishop) Jesus Cabrera, who made history as the first diocesan Rector of the minor seminary.  In 1978, my classmates and I became the 2^nd batch of seminarians to graduate from MHCS as an institution run by diocesan formators.

 

Dying

by EMMANUEL R. FERNANDEZ 

            From a certain point of view, we should all be glad that we are going to die someday.  It is, in some sense, a blessing that our life will have an end.  Can you imagine what an ordeal it would be to grow old without ever dying, to experience our bodies weakening over the years while knowing that, no matter what happens to our bodies, they would survive for hundreds and thousands of years – for all eternity in fact?  I have heard about some old people in their late nineties who eventually find themselves wishing that God would finally give them their well-deserved rest.  And who can blame them?  It is not easy to grow old, to live inside a body that cannot be prevented from getting sick and weak and helpless with each passing day. There is a limit to what science can do to slow down (much less stop) our aging process and its concomitant pains.  If some old people in their late nineties eventually wish God would at last give them eternal rest, can you imagine how it would feel to turn 250 or 500 years old, with no hope of dying in sight? 

            Some will probably counter:  I would not mind living forever as long as I would not grow old at all, or as long as I would stay forever young AND everyone else stays forever young.  That latter condition (that everyone else stays forever young) is important because it would be horrendous for us to watch our loved ones grow old and die, from one generation to the next, while we ourselves remain young and untouched by time.  It is hard enough to love and lose people to death in one lifetime.  Can you imagine what a scourge it would be to have to do that over and over again in many lifetimes – forever and ever, in fact?  

            I myself would not mind living forever as long as I stay forever young AND everyone else (especially the ones I love) also stays forever young.  Sadly, however, that is not the case with our life.  We all grow old with each passing day.  We all grow weaker, more helpless, more dependent upon other people with each ticking of the clock.  Unless this reality is changed, we should all be glad our life is going to end someday. 

            On top of this very practical reason why we should view death with a sense of gratitude (nay, with a sense of relief!), there is another reason which may not be immediately obvious to many of us:  Death is literally what makes our life complete. Death is what gives our life a form and a potential for meaning. Can you imagine reading a book about a story that will never end, a story that goes on and on over countless pages with no conclusion in sight?  Or watching a telenovela that drags on forever, night after night after night, on your television screen?  Or listening to a piece of music the melody of which has no ending?  The ending of the novels that we read, the telenovelas that we watch, and the music we listen to is what makes them complete. It is their having an end that gives them a decipherable form.  Even if their ending is sad or tragic, the very fact that they have an ending is what makes them interesting and beautiful.  And our life is like that.  Precisely because our lives here on earth will have an end, precisely because they will be “completed” at some point by our dying, we have the opportunity to live them in such a way that they will attain a meaning, a significance, a beauty which they would not otherwise attain. We would never feel the urgency of doing what we want to do and doing what we need to do (in short, the urgency of truly living) if we knew that there would be an infinity of tomorrows during which we could finally do them, if and when we do decide to. 

            Nevertheless, even if we finally open our eyes to the bright side of death as we just described it, most of us will still continue to view death with fear.  And I think there are two main reasons why we shall continue to view death in that manner.  The first is that death always entails some form of pain.  The second is that none of us is really sure about what awaits us beyond the wall of death. 

            Dying is almost always a painful experience – physically, emotionally, psychologically and what have you. Whether it is dying suddenly in an airplane crash or dying slowly due to a lingering illness, whether it is dying by fire or by water or by ice, whether it is dying while one is young or dying while one is old – almost every manner of dying involves pain. And, as human beings, we all want to flee from pain whenever we can.  

            Apropos of the pain that accompanies dying, we can look at it this way:  what is the worst thing that could happen to us as a result of that pain?  The answer of course is that we might die, period.  Perhaps, then, we could look at the pain that accompanies dying as an inextricable part of the path we must traverse to get to our universal and inevitable destination, which is death.  We can also consider this:  God, in Whom “we live and move and have our being” will surely give us whatever strength we will need to “endure” the kind of pain that shall accompany our own manner of dying.  We may not be able to know here on earth why He will allow us to die the way we will; but we can trust that He will make sure that we will be able to “bear” our painful passage from this life to the next. 

            As to the second reason for our fear in the face of death: indeed, it is part of the human heart’s nature to be afraid of the unknown -- and death is literally the Great Unknown.  Up to now, no one has come back from the afterlife to tell us what the afterlife looks like – assuming that there is indeed an afterlife.   Some people claim to have come back from the dead but, sadly, their accounts leave much to be desired in terms of credibility.  We Christians, of course, believe that there is life beyond this life, because no less than Jesus (who, we believe, is the Son of God Himself) assured us so.  But that’s all we can really stand on, in the final analysis:  the firm belief, the unconditional faith in our Lord’s assurance of eternal life.  Beyond that faith, we do not have the scientific proof to back up our claim.  Yet, that is also the case with the other believers who profess a belief in some form of an afterlife, like reincarnation.  They too cannot present scientific proof to substantiate their belief in, say, reincarnation. And, by the same token, even materialists who insist that nothing awaits us beyond this life, that the entirety of our life is extinguished and we literally return to nothingness the moment we die – they too have no scientific proof to put forward for their assertions.  The different religions of the world can, of course, come up with the most persuasive philosophical arguments in support of their respective beliefs.  But the most that these philosophical arguments can do is to show that it is logical/reasonable to hold such beliefs.  They cannot conclusively prove that the afterlife indeed exists (or that it does not exist). Those who think that philosophy can, on its own, answer questions of fact would do well to remember what Bertrand Russell once said of the eminent ancient Greek philosopher:  “Aristotle maintained that women have fewer teeth than men; although he was twice married, it never occurred to him to verify this statement by examining his wives’ mouths.”[1] 

            At the end of the day, therefore, anyone who wishes to find meaning in death has to find his way back to faith:  faith that Whoever created this immense and still-evolving universe with its myriad life forms desires to share Life, not Death; and that the apparent “deaths” that all creatures experience are but stages that they have to do undergo in order to reach the Fullness of Life that The Creator wants to share with them – with us.  Faith that Whoever created this intricate work of both art and science which we call the human being, did not create it for the purpose of playing with it only for a while and throwing it away like a useless toy once He has grown tired of it.  Faith in the repeated assurances given by God’s own Son that death is not the end of our road, and that eternal life awaits those who put their trust in Him. 

            “Do not be troubled; trust in God and trust in me.  In my Father’s house there are many rooms.  Otherwise I would not have told you that I go to prepare a place for you.”[2] Indeed, it is only by putting our unconditional faith in our Lord’s promise of eternal life that we can face death with courage, with hope – and with peace.      

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[1] Bertrand Russell, The Impact of Science on Society (New York:  AMS Press, Inc., 1968), p. 7.

[2] John 14:2.  Christian Community Bible, 35^th ed. (Quezon City:  Pastoral Bible Foundation/Claretian Publications, 2004).