Formation is Being Able to Feel

What is this ‘formation?’

Seminary Life

Since childhood, it was always my dream to enter the seminary with the hopes of one day becoming a priest. If you would ask anyone who has known me from my elementary days of what I wanted to be when I grew up, they would all answer, without a doubt, I wanted to become a priest.

A few years later, in twelfth grade, I was already looking for universities to apply to. I applied to three universities: Tarlac State University, Central Luzon State University, and the University of the Philippines. I was accepted into all three, with the program Bachelor of Secondary Education, majoring in either English or Social Studies.

But at that moment, it struck me — the first vocation, or ‘calling,’ that had rung within me again. One thing led to another, and I found myself somewhere in Cavite, attending a search-in event (where aspiring seminarians were given a two-day opportunity to experience and get a glimpse of the life of a seminarian) whilst actually in the midst of preparing and training for the Regional Schools Press Conference.

Obviously, I chose the latter—to enter the seminary.

It was a dream. I could not fully grasp that this was it. I remember writing in my journal, “Being here is a dream come true; staying here is a dream becoming a reality.”

But dreaming is different with a calling.

Formation

Will you be known because you are a priest, or a a human being able to feel?

Formation, in and of itself, is the term we use in the seminary to refer to the process, throughout the years, by which we, as seminarians, are ‘formed’ and learn to live our lives — not merely to become good priests, but to become good Christians. Therefore, formation is a lifelong process. Even priests themselves say that they, too, are still in formation. The difference is that seminarians are more heavily guided through this process.

I remember a term I once encountered in an article written by a Piarist brother and published in one of their magazines. He said that we are like clay. We need to remain soft, yet at the same time strong, so that the Potter’s hands — Jesus — can mold us according to how He desires us to become.

In that way, I still find it difficult, especially these past few months, to find the ‘joy’ and ‘meaning’ in this vocation. I have found myself asking, contemplating, and reflecting on whether I am truly meant for this congregation, or even for this vocation itself. After all, the Catholic Church recognizes different forms of vocation, among them the priesthood, married life, and the single life.

This was really rooted in my questions about formation. I have become confused about what formation is truly supposed to be. I find myself somewhat boggled by the different things I have been told, each offering a different understanding of what formation should look like. And because of this, one question continues to linger in my mind: Am I being formed in a way how my formator wants me to be formed, or how God wants me to be?

Since then, I tried to asked different people. Priests, religious, even some of my brother seminarians. But it all boils down to one thing. There will always be a person like that—a person who is difficult to handle.

Then, recently, I came across a post on my Facebook feed that said, “Don’t leave the Church because of difficult people.” I took that as somewhat of a sign. And because of that, I thought that maybe I simply ought to accept it — as Albert Camus might describe it, as an act of rebellion. I told myself, maybe, just maybe, that these bad things are good examples of what not to become.

Then, I remembered a quote I heard from one of our priests on June 25, 2026: “Will you be known because you are a priest, or as a human being capable of feeling?”

A Question

…who do you think you are as a seminarian?

Every after our morning mass, we have our meditation. It is here that we reflect, examine, and feel the presence of God, just after receiving the Blessed Sacrament.

Earlier today, our Seminary Rector facilitated our Meditation. There, he asked multiple seminarians to stand in front of the room, gave them different ‘personalities,’ and made them freeze in place.

There were ten of them. One by one, from first to last, the Rector described a particular kind of person, and the seminarians in front would embody it through their frozen poses. There was a courageous man standing firmly at guard in armor; an archer poised to release his bow and arrow; someone who listens but is not interested; a boy who does not know what he is doing or why he is there; a listener who hears but does not truly listen; an intellectual who reads, learns, and becomes enlightened; a sympathetic person who hears the cries of others; a lone wolf who dares not speak, even when he needs to; a happy-go-lucky person who does not care about whatever happens; and finally, a man of wisdom — demure, composed, and mindful.

After so, we, the remaining seminarians who were still sitting down were asked, “If we could examine all of the kinds of people standing in front, who do you think you are as a seminarian?”

I had answered that I was both a courageous man standing firmly at guard in armor, and a listener who hears but does not truly listen. Thinking of the things that I have done, and what I see myself as, I think these two are very ‘me.’

Then, we were asked what we thought a seminarian should be. As expected, the majority, including myself, chose man of wisdom — demure, composed, and mindful, while some chose the intellectual who reads, learns, and becomes enlightened.

A Thought to Ponder

…who would you choose?

After everyone answered, the Rector asked “Now… If you were a formator, who would you choose? Maybe seeing yourself in a few years as a formator, what kind of seminarian would you choose?”

In my mind, taking everything that had happened up to that point into consideration, I paused for a moment. What first came to mind was, obviously, the man of wisdom who was demure and mindful. But as I looked deeper within myself, I began to wonder why I had chosen the standing, courageous man in armor.

I sat there, awestruck, wondering why I had thought of the man in armor, especially since almost every interpretation of that description seemed to point to a person ready to defend what he believes in. But perhaps that was precisely the reason why. That was not my interpretation.

For me, the shining armor standing guard, strong, courageous, and ready to defend is what we see from the outside. But after the watch is over, the person inside the armor is still a person. The armor may seem impenetrable, indestructible even. But the person inside it is not. Maybe we are that person — the person who wears an ‘armor’ to hide our vulnerable selves.

But, then again, that same person, though he can be wounded, still had the courage to put on that armor, and stand guard. That is the beauty of it. The very act of standing, of guarding, and of simply being present is, in itself, an act of courage. It means that even when we are scared, even when we know we can be wounded, we still choose to put on the armor and simply be there.

To the Other

…never stop seeing the good in other people.

After all that were asked had answered, the Rector returned to something one of the seminarians had said. What about those seminarians who have left formation? In a way, they are still connected to the seminary simply because they had once been part of it.

Then, the conversation shifted to another question. Why would they, as formators, allow seminarians with ‘problems’ to continue in the seminary? His answer was simple, “It is because we never stop seeing the good in other people.”

And like them, maybe that is what I need to look for. The good in other people. Not just now, as a seminarian, but maybe later as a priest, as a good Christian.