The Priesthood

Through the sacrament of Holy Orders, a priest is configured to Christ in a specific way: to teach in his name, to shepherd his people, and, above all, to make him sacramentally present in the sacraments. The Catechism of the Catholic Church puts it directly: “the priest, by virtue of the sacrament of Holy Orders, acts in persona Christi Capitis” — in the person of Christ the Head. Pope St. John Paul II wrote something similar: priests are “a sacramental representation of Jesus Christ, the Head and Shepherd” of the Church.

A priest doesn’t stop being human, or stop needing grace himself — he goes to Confession like anyone else, wrestles with the same weaknesses, and depends daily on God’s mercy. What changes is that, through no merit of his own, Christ acts through him in a real and specific way: absolving sins, and above all, making the Eucharist present at Mass. Everything else in a priest’s life — teaching, counsel, presence at a hospital bed — flows from that.

The most important thing a priest does is celebrate the sacraments, and above all, the Holy Mass. The Church teaches that it is precisely in the Eucharistic assembly that priests “exercise in a supreme degree their sacred office.” Everything a priest is ordained for finds its high point at the altar.

St. John Vianney, the Curé of Ars — the patron saint of parish priests, canonized for his decades of quiet, faithful ministry in a small French village — used to say simply: “The priesthood is the love of the heart of Jesus.” He meant that the priest exists to bring Christ’s own love to people, concretely, through the sacraments, not through his own cleverness or charisma.

St. Teresa of Calcutta put the stakes plainly when she once addressed a gathering of priests: “At the word of a priest, that little piece of bread becomes the body of Christ, the Bread of Life.” She spent her life serving the poorest of the poor, and she still said this — because for her, and for the Church, nothing a priest does compares to it.

This is why, whatever else changes in my life after ordination, the daily offering of Mass will be the center of it.

At its heart, the Mass is the same sacrifice Christ offered once for all on the cross at Calvary, made present again, sacramentally, on the altar. The Catechism describes the Eucharist as “the source and summit of the Christian life” and explains: “The sacrifice of Christ and the sacrifice of the Eucharist are one single sacrifice… The victim is one and the same: the same now offers through the ministry of priests, who then offered himself on the cross.”

That’s a strong claim, and it’s the reason the Mass has such a central place in Catholic life. Christ isn’t re-sacrificed, as though Calvary weren’t enough — his one sacrifice, offered two thousand years ago, is made present to us today, so we can unite ourselves to it here and now, not just remember it as history. The Catechism calls it a “memorial” in that sense: not a re-enactment, but a making-present.

When you come to my ordination — and, potentially, first Mass — you’ll be present at an ordinary parish Mass in one sense — and, in another, at the same sacrifice offered on Golgotha.

Catholics believe that in the Eucharist, the bread and wine truly become the Body and Blood of Christ — not a symbol of him, not merely bread that reminds us of him, but Christ himself, whole and entire. The Catechism states it in the Church’s classic formula, going back to the Council of Trent: in the Eucharist “the body and blood, together with the soul and divinity, of our Lord Jesus Christ and, therefore, the whole Christ is truly, really, and substantially contained.”

This is called the doctrine of the Real Presence, and it is a challenging teaching. When Christ explained it to his disciples, many of them walked away and no longer followed him (cf. John 6:66).

But this beautiful gift is the reason why so much care surrounds the Mass: why the tabernacle in a Catholic church has a candle burning beside it, why people genuflect or kneel, and why we are required to confess our serious sins before receiving Communion — or, simply, cross our arms over our chest to indicate that we'd like a blessing instead of receiving Communion at a particular Mass.

Confession — the Sacrament of Penance and Reconciliation — is where Catholics bring their sins to God and receive his forgiveness through the ministry of a priest. The Catechism acknowledges that “Only God forgives sins.” But it goes on: Christ “entrusted the exercise of the power of absolution to the apostolic ministry,” and bishops and priests, by virtue of Holy Orders, “have the power to forgive all sins” in his name — as instruments through which God himself acts.

So the priest isn’t the one doing the forgiving in the sense of supplying something of his own — he’s a minister, a means Christ established so his forgiveness would reach us in a real, spoken way, and not stay locked up as a private feeling between you and God. Pope Francis has made a point of returning to this again and again in his preaching: “God never tires of forgiving.”

In the Latin (Western) Catholic Church, priests do not marry. This is a discipline rather than an unchangeable doctrine — some Eastern Catholic and Orthodox traditions do ordain married men — but for Latin-rite priests like me, celibacy is embraced “for the sake of the kingdom of heaven,” in the Church’s phrase, echoing Christ’s own words in Matthew’s Gospel.

It’s not a rejection of marriage, which the Church honors as a sacrament and a good, and it isn’t primarily about avoiding distraction, though it does free a priest’s time. At its heart, celibacy is meant to be a sign: a visible, bodily way of saying that the Kingdom of God is real and worth giving your whole self to, undivided. The Second Vatican Council’s decree on priests describes celibacy as “a sign and a stimulus for pastoral charity, and a special source of spiritual fecundity in the world.” In other words, celibacy isn’t meant to make a priest less capable of loving people — it’s meant to free him to love an entire community the way a husband loves a family.

After ordination, I’ll be incardinated as a priest of the Prelature of Opus Dei — meaning Opus Dei, not a diocese, is responsible for my assignment and formation, under the authority of the Prelate (currently Msgr. Fernando Ocáriz) and always in communion with the local bishop wherever I serve.

In practice, this means my ministry will look a little different from that of a typical parish priest. Most Opus Dei priests are not assigned to run a parish; instead, they offer spiritual direction, hear confessions, give retreats and days of recollection, and celebrate Mass — for members of Opus Dei, but just as much for anyone who comes seeking it. Some Opus Dei priests do also serve dioceses directly, by agreement with the local bishop, in parishes, universities, or other posts — so it depends on where I’m eventually needed.

St. Josemaría Escrivá, the founder of Opus Dei, described the priesthood he wanted for the priests of the Work in a homily called “A Priest Forever”: “Christ Himself is placed in the hands of priests who thus become the stewards of the mysteries — of the wonders — of God.” Whatever particular assignment I eventually receive, that’s the job: to help ordinary people — students, professionals, families, whoever crosses my path — meet Christ in the sacraments and in the ordinary circumstances of their own lives, which is the heart of what Opus Dei has always tried to teach.

I understand that many of you will not be able to attend the ordination in person. The first and best way to share in it is prayer: offering a Rosary, having a Mass said for my intentions, or simply remembering the day — Saturday, 21 November 2026 for the diaconate; Saturday, 22 May 2027 for the priesthood — in your own prayer.

You can also follow the ordinations via live streaming. The link will be posted on the Opus Dei website (opens in new tab) about a week before each ordination.