Bios and Stories     (click on arrow to show & hide story)

 

Father Larry Christian - Pastor, St. Ann parish

Fr. Larry Christian is not only the Vicar for the Archdiocese of San Antonio and the pastor of St. Ann Parish, but he is also very active within the various organizations of the archdiocese. For example, Fr. Larry is very active ecumenically, as evidenced by his very active involvement with several San Antonio Protestant Churches and Jewish Temples and their interdenominational and multicultural programs, where he is often asked to participate as a speaker, organizer, or committee member, throughout the year.

In addition, Fr. Larry is also very involved in the Right to Life Movement in San Antonio, as evidenced by his frequent leading of the Rosary and Prayer Services in front of abortion clinics and his other efforts related to helping to save the unborn. Fr. Larry is also a Fourth Degree Knight of Columbus and is very supportive of this great Catholic organization, both within his parish and throughout the San Antonio area. Father Larry is also very active in supporting and promoting the many other activities within his parish, including the various Liturgical, Faith Formation, Men’s, Women’s, and Youth Groups of his parish.

Aside from his many gifts and very active involvement throughout the archdioceses of San Antonio, Father Larry is a very modest, humble and holy man. He has a very calming yet inspirational demeanor about him, that gains trust, touches the heart and moves the will of others to follow Christ’s example in their daily lives and in building up His Holy Church.

 

Father Will Combs - Pastor, St. Mary Magdalen

I was born and raised in a beautiful family of five in Millington, NJ. Every night for supper we held hands before we ate as my dad led us in a prayer of thanksgiving. At the age of ten I was baptized in our local Presbyterian Church. I loved the stories of God and his people in the Bible and dreamed some day of being a hero and rescuing people from their misery.

All the success that I achieved at home and in high school seemed to evaporate over night as I found myself eight hours away at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. My first months in college filled me with fear of failure, grief of losing my childhood and guilt of my selfishness and pride. I questioned if life has any worth if everything will come to end and die. What’s the use of living unless there is something beyond death? unless someone has risen from the dead?

In desperation, on my 19th birthday on December 19, 1988 I gave my total, unconditional surrender to Jesus Christ as my Savior and my Lord. Unknowingly led by the Holy Spirit, I began to take long walks, examining my conscience and begging God for forgiveness and help. Prayer and studies in religion and anthropology led me to study abroad for two years in Ecuador.

When the U.S. declared war on Iraq for the first time in January of 1991, I thought the world was going to end real soon. I told my parents that I am dropping out of college to radically live the gospel among the poor in Latin America. One night on my way back to my host’s house I saw a man pushing a pick up truck all alone. Trying to be a Good Samaritan,
I helped him push until the undercover cops came and beat us up on the streets of Quito with the back of their rifles. Then the police came and threw us in the trunk of their car and into jail. Little did I know that the man had stolen the pick up truck.

For three nights and two days in jail I had plenty of time to think and pray. Thanks to my host family I was able to get out just in time. I realized that I did not only need Jesus and the Bible to be a good Christian, I also needed his body and bride, the Church. There are many reasons why I joined the Catholic Church.

1. I read the whole Bible which tells the story of salvation from the beginning all the way up to the time of the apostles, and then what? "Then comes the long history of the Catholic Church." I reasoned if God has promised to never leave his people (Mt.28:20), why should I?
2. I had always longed for the unity of all of us Christians as one Church. Why not start with the beginning with Catholics from all races, languages and nations united together as one under the successor of St. Peter and the Apostles?
3. I was longing too to be with God and sense his presence here and now and not just then and there in heaven. Such longing drew me deeper and deeper into the beauty of Catholic art, devotions and the Holy Mass.
4. I needed teachers to form me and heroes for me to imitate and emulate. Who could quench such thirst in me to radically live the gospel? After jail, I devoured all my religion courses, catechism classes, retreats, spiritual direction and books on the lives of the saints at the Catholic University in Quito.
5. Finally, I was lonely. Jesus promised that he would not leave us as orphans but would send the Holy Spirit to form us into one family of faith and fellowship (Jn.14:15-21). In April of 1991 while reading the Acts of the Apostles, I felt the power of the Holy Spirit personally fill me with a strong, sobering, intoxicating joy and zeal to live and die for Jesus. By far, more than any other reason, it was the Holy Spirit that led me to seek and find my family and home that I had been longing and praying for so long: the Catholic Church.

Upon receiving my first communion and confirmation in Quito, I hoped to join the Jesuits in Ecuador. My godfather and mentor, Fr. Richard Schneck, SJ, persuaded me to graduate from Bowdoin College first and then join the Jesuits from his province in California. For the next three years, I traveled and lived in Maine, East L.A., Mexico, N.J. and Alabama and worked with the campus ministry, the Jesuits, my local parish and Trinitarians. Every step along the way, the Lord was there forming me and preparing me well for his work to be done.

Finally in 1996 he opened the doors for me to join, the Brothers of the Beloved Disciple in San Antonio, Texas. Co-founded by Fr. George Montague, SM, and Fr. Bob Hogan, BBD, the vision and charism of our community is found at the foot of the cross where Jesus hands over his mother and Holy Spirit to the disciple whom he loved. Our calling is to be a reminder of the full role of the Holy Spirit and our Blessed Mother in the ordinary life of the Church. I am currently serving as the parochial vicar at St. Mary Magdalen Parish near downtown San Antonio. What a tremendous gift from the Lord!

In all honestly, at first I did not want to be a priest and do "all that sacramental stuff." I wanted to be like St. Francis, a simple religious brother living among the poor.

Why did I become a priest?

1. As a Catholic school P.E. coach, the highlight of each day was worshipping God in the holy mass and leading people in prayer at meetings.
2. I dreamed of preaching and teaching the faith and longed to study theology.
3. I loved our Church (who saved me) and saw an urgent need in her for zealous priests.
4. I realized from experience and study that the sacraments were the Lord’s gifts of grace flow through his body, the Church, and in particular through his priests.
5. I read "Our Lady’s Beloved Sons" and other private revelations in which our Blessed Mother calls forth for an army of holy priests.
6. My new heroes became St. John Vianney and St. Padre Pio as well as Fr. George and Fr. Bob: holy, charismatic souls with the heart of a pastor. "the harvest is plenty, the labors are few." Who was I to refuse?

Needless to say, it became obvious to me that God was calling me to be a priest. What joy I experienced when I finally accepted my call to be a priest, a joy that has not left me. On the vigil of Pentecost, May 29, 2004, the Lord ordained me as one of his priests.
What joy! Jesus has come that his joy may be ours and our joy may be to the full (Jn.15:11). You are part of my joy. I have been a priest for five years. It is truly a joy and a tremendous blessing in my life to serve our Lord and his holy Church as one of his servant priests. I testify that nothing is impossible for God. God can work through anyone, even me.

You, who are reading and reaping any and all fruits from my testimony, fill me with joy. May our lives not be in vain but joined together by the Holy Spirit as one in Christ to be an acceptable offering to God, our Father. Yes, "may the Lord accept this sacrifice from the priests’ hands for our good and the good of all his Church." Alleluia. Amen!.

 

Father Clay Hunt - Pastor, St. Joseph's parish, Del Rio

At the time of this interview, I have been a priest less than one year. I was born in Fort Worth Texas and grew up in a little town called Bracketville near the Mexican border. Growing up with a younger brother, we often served as altar boys at church which was only a quarter-mile away from home. Serving was great fun for us, even getting up early in the morning during the week. We would serve at Mass, get home for breakfast and then head off to school. Those were good days. We grew up working on a ranch and hard work was just a part of life. I also liked to play sports (basketball). My father used to refer to me as a little bulldog because I was relentless in my efforts.

Originally I was studying biology with plans to become an Optometrist. I wanted to help people see. I was a bit off on where God was calling me. I wanted to help people see with their natural eyes and instead I was called to help people see with the eyes of faith.

Before becoming a priest, I was a missionary for seven years and that was a blessing. I got to travel the world, and see the oneness of the Church in Mexico, Belize, Guatemala, Rome, and the Philippines. One time in Belize when I was a candidate along with a bunch of others for the religious life and also teaching school, a priest gave a couple of us some money to buy groceries for a retreat. The priest specifically asked Clay to buy food with which to make "substantial" sandwiches. So we went and bought bread, meat and fixings, and made sandwiches that probably weighed 5 ils. each. Nobody could eat the whole sandwich. It was quite funny.

While the story of my call to the priesthood is perhaps too long to mention here, we should recall that Christ promised that in each generation he would raise up men that would shepherd his people and I am blessed to be part of the wonderful fulfillment of that promise.

In seminary days, the brothers used to call me "Brother A–" because I was a like a donkey. Always working like a beast of burden. Now that I am a priest, I love my work at Our Lady of Guadalupe in Helotes. I have always had a great love for Our Mother Mary. It is great to be under her patronage for my first priestly assignment. I believe that the greatest grace God has given me as a priest is the authority to forgive sins.

My favorite saints are Saint Faustina, Saint Genoa Mola and also our patron saint for this year, Saint John Vianney. My favorite prayer is the Chaplet of Divine Mercy. I have been praying the Chaplet for more than 10 years. I set my watch alarm for 3:00 pm so I can stop and pray the Chaplet each day. I also love to pray the Rosary every day. My favorite book and movie is the Lord of the Rings. I also like Braveheart. For recreation, I enjoy fishing (for fish, but also for men).

If I was given a million dollars to spend, the first thing I would do is purchase a Harley Davidson "Fat-Boy" motorcycle. I’ve always had this dream of bringing the Gospel to my brother bikers. I grew up as a cowboy but also like to ride the "steel horse." I would give the rest of the million dollars to the Church, probably for a building project at our parish.

A great man once said, “the more I learn, the more I realize how little I know.” I think the greatest wisdom is in being humble. If we are humble, the Holy Spirit will infuse us with greater wisdom. Wisdom will tell you to stay close to our Blessed Mother. Go to her often and lean on her for support. Wisdom also reminds us that "all things are possible with Christ."

 

Father Ted Pfeifer - Retired Oblate Missionary to Mexico

I am a son of the Rio Grande Valley. My birthplace, Alamo, Texas, is just a few miles north of the “Great River,” the Rio Grande. Born three years into the great depression, I was the fifth child of eleven and first born son. During the depression, my parents lost everything, including the family farm and home. My early years were a mixture of attending school and working on a farm. We knew no nightlife because there was nothing to do in Alamo. Our family rarely if ever missed a day of kneeling down and saying the rosary together. During my early years God protected me and my siblings from rattlesnakes, rats, car accidents and even a gila monster.

I went to St. Anthony’s Apostolic School in San Antonio, a minor seminary for teenage boys considering the priesthood. While I had a tough time with Latin, I made All-City in football. As I prepared for ordination, my brother, Mike, took his first vows and prepared to enter the scholasticate for seven years. I was ordained in 1959 and was assigned to Holy Family Parish in Corpus Christi. Three years later I volunteered for the missions to Mexico and was assigned to the mission of Tehuantepec in the state of Oaxaca, Mexico. Tehuantepec is an isthmus, 120 miles wide, in the southernmost part of Mexico. The area was a remote, isolated and mountainous region inhabited by a variety of indigenous tribes, traversed mostly on horseback or on foot.

When I arrived in Tehuantepec, the Second Vatican Council had already brought changes to other parts of the world, but they were just starting in this part of Mexico. Spanish had replaced Latin, and this seemed difficult for many to accept. Many times, it was easier for the people to learn than it was for us priests. The church the Oblates received in 1958 had been abandoned since the Mexican Revolution in 1910. Some priests had been driven off, but God in His divine mercy had kept the faith alive among so many of the people. Except for the Pan-American Highway, this very large diocese had very few roads. Most of our travel was either on foot or horseback or by mule or donkey. The climate was extremely hot in the lowlands and very cool in the mountains. Typically, a trip from the lowlands into the high mountains would take about two days on horseback. Many villages and small pueblos were along the way in the lowlands; some were villages of 100 people or so, while others had 1,000 to 2,000 people. All were farmers, but those living close to the Pacific were fisherman as well.

Priests in the 1950s and 1960s couldn’t visit the pueblos often. When they did come, everything was done in one to three days – Masses, baptisms, sick calls and some Communions – with hardly any instructions. They would return again perhaps in six months, or maybe in a year. In 1972, we built a small clinic with six rooms and a bath. Besides caring for sick from all the pueblos, we delivered hundreds and hundreds of babies, many of whom are now in their forties. We helped string electrical wires and improve the roads. Around 1985, the government built a small, narrow paved road.

There were many duties to occupy a missionary’s days – Mass, confessions, baptisms, marriages and visits to the sick. Meetings and time are important to catechists, and difficulties are always present. In days past, all this could take two days. The sick needed medication, and there were babies to be delivered, all without electric lights. Candles or lanterns were the only light. The dirt floor is covered at times with paper. The mothers in labor are very patient; they suffer, but do not show much pain. Life has been very difficult for them. Some things about these people have always impressed me. Ladies prepared flowers for church and for Mass each day. It gave me great joy to see this. Though strapped themselves, neighbors planted for the poorest and sickest. These acts of charity prompted me to reflect on my own life. The Lord speaks in many ways. These were the days of calm and peace.

But that was about to change. Trouble was brewing, though it didn’t happen all at once. It was gradual. In the early 1980s, drug cartels began moving their operations from northern Mexico to the remote mountain valleys in the state of Oaxaca. There was quite a temptation for the people to cooperate with the drug lords since money and food were scarce. The Indians had little idea of the harm being done in other places by the drug trafficking. Even “Mexico” was a distant place for them. They were the ones who took all the risks in growing poppies and marijuana. Visitors from outside our pueblos began coming to visit, mostly at night. Daily flights of small planes came over the area. At night, the lights would go out. Trucks that had not been in the area before were now coming. Machine guns were being introduced in the area, packed in boxes and moved by dollies. I asked some men what the guns were for, but they didn’t answer. I knew it could not be for something good. Problems began. There were murders. At first, many people didn’t know why the poppies were being grown, but it soon became evident what was happening and why the planes were in the area. We were on the drug smuggling route. Marijuana can be grown anywhere, but poppies need a cool climate. The mountain climate in Tehuantepec is perfect for growing poppies for heroin.

In February 1982, while on a daytrip in the truck, we encountered groups of people who told of being shot at and threatened. My first thought was, Don’t get involved with this dangerous situation. I knew that some families had been burned alive in their houses. I asked my companion on the trip, Father Joe, to hear my confession, and I prayed: Have mercy on me, O Lord, and forgive me all my sins Forgive me all the times I have been inconsiderate to others. Forgive me for my sins in my past life. Father Joe gave me absolution, and I commended myself to God and our Blessed Lady, Mary. We continued on our trip into toward trouble. Fear enveloped me. I knew people were hiding in houses and would not come out because of fear. We drove to the house where we had heard that shots had previously been fired. As I walked to the door, a man stepped halfway outside, calling, Padre, Padre – pronto, pronto (“Father, Father – Hurry! Hurry!”). Shots rang out, hitting the man as we ducked inside. Inside lay two teenage boys who had been shot and were bleeding, one in the face and the other in the chest. The mother and five young children were all screaming for help. I was terrified and didn’t know what to do. The mother and children were hanging on to me and screaming, “They are going to kill us! They are going to burn us!” I could hardly believe this was happening to me. I knew that if I went outside, I would be shot. There was no choice. I got away from those holding on to me and went out the door. On trembling knees that could hardly stand, I went to the driver’s side, from which the shots had been fired, keeping my hands in the air. I couldn’t see these people, who were behind nearby rocks. I called out to them, “In the name of God and the Blessed Virgin, I am the priest and I wish you no harm. There are people inside who are bleeding. In God’s name, don’t shoot. In God’s name, don’t shoot.” I was beside myself, not knowing what to do. The pickup had to be turned around. Climbing inside the vehicle, I tried to start the engine, but it was dead. This could not be happening, I thought. This wasn’t real. With God’s grace we were able to load the injured man and boys into the back of the truck. As Father Joe drove to town, I tried to help the injured but the man died before we could get there.

Deaths and drugs continued. Families were warned not to interfere with the planting of marijuana and the poppies for heroin in their fields. At night and alone, people would come to share with me what was happening. The newly elected man in charge of looking after one of the poppie fields would come to see me at night. He revealed to me that he had told some drug lords they could not plant any drugs on the lands belonging to the pueblo and planned to report them to authorities. Shortly after this, several men took this man away a, where he was tortured and murdered. His wife, seven months pregnant, came to tell me what had happened. Out of fear, not many people went to get his body. Two months later, I delivered her baby, her thirteenth. This mother had all these children to care for and now her husband had been murdered.

People were afraid to travel and to go out after dark. The hauling of truckloads of drugs was a daily event. Every day, planes were flying in with guns and leaving with drugs. Frequent murders of innocent people continued. In one case, a man with a wife and five children were being sought by the drug cartel. One afternoon, the children were left alone at home when six vicious killers, all armed with machine guns, went to the house looking for the man. Not finding him, they shot the children with their machine guns. Four were riddled with bullets. Only the baby, sleeping in a chicken basket in the corner, escaped their notice and survived.

I began keeping a list of those who were murdered. Families told me of the names and dates of the murders – and also, many times, the names of those responsible. I began keeping a list of all this information with places, names and dates. When the list grew to 150 incidents, I gave it to the proper authorities in Mexico City. I was scared, but I also remembered who had sent me there. I knew there was danger ahead; the only question was where and when it would strike. It didn’t take long to find out.

In March 1987, while on a routine day trip alone on the Pan-American Highway, I heard what sounded like the truck exploding. Then, as pieces of upholstery fell from above my head, I realized that someone had fired at me from the other side of the road. I could smell the gunpowder. When I later stopped to examine the truck, I found twelve bullet holes in the roof, just above my head. I continued on to Oaxaca where I phoned my provincial who told me to catch a flight to Mexico City. That night, I didn’t sleep. I kept hearing the shots over and over again in my mind. Arriving in Mexico City, I went to the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe and went to confession. Then I sat down and pondered the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe. I have no idea how long I spent looking at it. I cried, and I said to her, "Mary, my Mother, please tell me what to do. I must know." Inside, I was hearing, Don’t be afraid. Go back to the pueblos. I am your Mother.

I spent six more years in Quiechapa serving the people. Murders were still frequent, and heroin was still being grown. So many people had been killed that we had asked the killers’ families to turn in their weapons to us. I had collected about twelve automatic rifles and pistols. The arms had one thing in common: all had been used to murder others. What were we to do with all these weapons? The congregation built a large fire in the yard of the church and gathered around. "As a protest against these murders, I have invited you to destroy the guns with the sledge hammers and then to burn the pieces in the fire," I told the congregation. "They will kill no one again."

The generosity and courage of these simple people amazed me. One day, I heard the church bells ringing. It must have been around 3 p.m. – a strange time, I thought, to be ringing the bells, but it was signaling an emergency. A murderer was angry at me for having spoken out against the killings and the violence. On the high side of the pueblo, many women had gathered to stop him as he walked toward the church with his rifle. The women stopped him and sent word to me not to leave my home until he was gone. Perhaps he had been drinking or was on drugs. In any event, he left and did no harm to me, but I was afraid. Those brave ladies remained until he left.

I finally had to leave Mexico when my health deteriorated and forced me to retire. I am recovering from a stroke and live at the Oblate Madonna Residence. I thank God for the years he granted me to serve the poor and abandoned. I thank God for the gifts he loaned to me. I thank God for each servant I have met on my journey through life.

 

Most of the stories about Father Ted were taken from his autobiography "When the Wolves Came". For more information or to purchase a copy of his book, contact his sister, Judy, at judith.pfeifer@harlandale.net.

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