by Father Jonathan Dizon
For many years, I have tried to return to my home country, the Philippines, at least once a year. These visits let me reconnect with family, especially as my parents grow older, and take a much-needed break from ministry before burnout sets in.
I specially make time for the ocean, which I deeply miss while living in landlocked Kansas. During my last two visits, I moved from snorkeling — my previous favorite hobby — to something more challenging: freediving.
At first, freediving seemed like a simple adventure — a way to enjoy the sea and the beauty of creation. But the more I practiced it, the more it felt like a retreat. It requires silence, patience, trust and attention to one’s breath.
It asks me to slow down, release unnecessary tension and notice what is happening beneath the surface. It became a kind of prayerful descent, reminding me that the spiritual life also requires surrender, stillness and courage to go deeper with God. Unexpectedly, this quiet lesson from beneath the sea would lead me to deeper gratitude at the altar.
During a recent trip to the Philippines, I joined a freediving expedition to a remote government-protected island. Since the trip extended through the weekend, I told the organizers that I would celebrate Mass and that the other divers were welcome to attend. They asked if the park rangers could also join. Their work had kept them far from the regular rhythms of parish life, and some had not been able to attend Mass in months.
Surrounded by the beauty of creation, yet separated from the ordinary availability of the sacraments, their longing for the Eucharist became painfully clear. Hearing this saddened me and led me to ask: Do we, as Catholics, sometimes take for granted our ability to go to Mass regularly?
In many places, we are blessed with weekly or even daily access to the Eucharist. Yet that very availability can dull our wonder. The Mass is not simply part of a Catholic routine; it is a gift many people long for, sacrifice for and sometimes go without for months.
For some Catholics, missing Mass is the unfortunate consequence of another obligation or an unavoidable scheduling conflict. For these rangers, however, the absence of the Eucharist was not indifference but a painful reality shaped by distance, duty and circumstance.
How often do we speak of Mass as an obligation before we speak of it as a gift? How often do we forget that what is easily available to us may be something others hunger for?
Those of us with regular access to the Eucharist can become familiar in a way that is no longer grateful.
As a priest, this realization struck me deeply. I am not only a presider at Mass; I am also a servant of the eucharistic hunger of God’s people. And those who cannot come regularly to the altar still belong to the church’s prayer. Their absence should not be invisible to me, and their longing should fuel my pastoral zeal.
This trip renewed my gratitude for every altar, every congregation, every opportunity to make Christ present and for every soul waiting faithfully to be nourished by him. Freediving taught me to venture beneath the surface; that island Mass reminded me to go deeper . . . into gratitude for the Eucharist and into service of those who hunger for it.
