By Marivic Mercene

“We need to prepare ourselves for persecution.”

Fr. Brendan Kelly’s words hung in the air, heavy and unsettling. I had asked him how our two mission priorities—Biodiversity Protection and Migrants and Refugees—shape his ministry in Don Victoriano, Misamis Occidental. His answer wasn’t theoretical. It was rooted in years of living with and learning from the Subanen people, of planting trees on once-idle soil, and of watching a forest slowly coming to life. His response brought to mind Dr. Gerry Ortega, the environmental advocate gunned down in Palawan—proof that this kind of care can indeed cost a life. I felt a chill run down my spine.

Bernie, Columban Animator in Mindanao, and I arrived in Don Victoriano after a scenic 1.5-hour drive along winding mountain road. The air grew cooler as we climbed higher, and the surroundings greener. At one point, I asked Bernie to stop the car. I got out, looked around, and took a few photos of the beautiful scenery. Amazed, I closed my eyes and thanked God for His wonderful creation. Fr. Brendan welcomed us into his home—the convento—surrounded by trees, a place that felt quietly sacred.

After settling into our assigned rooms, Father Brendan gave us a tour of the area: the convento, the old church now being renovated into a function hall and  the current church. When he first arrived here thirteen years ago, he told us, the surroundings were bare. The sun beat down hard. He started planting—slowly, steadily. Today, there are 55 species of trees growing around the mission area: native ones, and some exotic species like Caribbean mahogany. The trees have become his quiet companions. As we stood under their shade, he spoke of their names, uses, and origins with such ease that I asked what he might have been if not a priest. He smiled and said, “A scientist.”

He could have been. But the life he chose—a missionary’s life—led him to serve people who, like many indigenous communities in the country, are often left at the edges of development.

The Subanen people have lived in these lands long before the roads were paved, before the land was carved for tourist trails or plantations. Their knowledge of plants, rivers, and seasons is deep, though slowly being forgotten. Father Brendan spoke about this loss with sadness. “When I first came,” he said, “the old people knew the names of trees, where to gather herbs, what was medicinal, what was poisonous and should be avoided, what was safe to eat, what was sacred. The young ones now… they don’t know these anymore. Sadly, all they know is Tiktok”

In his kitchen, we talked about many things. The window near the sink opened up to a peaceful view—trees gently moving with the breeze. He told me about the time he looked up while doing the dishes and saw an eagle sitting on a branch, watching him. That image stayed with me. Mission, it seems, is not always about big gestures. Sometimes, it is simply about being present—day after day—in a place you’ve come to love, and knowing that the people you have come to serve are also shaping you, teaching you, and walking with you on this shared journey of faith and life.

But love is not without risk.

Father Brendan’s words on persecution were not delivered with drama or fear. It was quiet, direct. “Considering how many environmentalists around the world have been killed for taking a stand,” he said, “it should come as no surprise that the price for making that stand is persecution—if not now, in the future.”

In the Philippines, that’s not a distant idea. We’ve seen it happen. Non-profit organization Global Witness reported in 2022 that the Philippines is Asia’s deadliest country for land and environmental defenders, with 281 deaths over the past decade.

Here in Don Victoriano, the threats may not be as visible, but they’re here, nonetheless. Large-scale development projects are getting closer. Roads meant to open access to tourists often ignore the rights of those already living in these mountains or laws mandated to protect the area. Trees are cut. Communities displaced. Politicians profit. Indigenous knowledge is swept aside.

In this context, planting a tree becomes an act of hope. Standing with the Subanen people, and not simply for them, becomes a witness to another way of being Church—words I first heard from Fr. Michael Martin, who introduced me to the Columbans. His quiet conviction and deep respect for local cultures helped shape my own understanding of mission as presence and accompaniment.

There is nothing loud about Father  Brendan’s ministry. But it speaks.

It speaks through the renovation of the old church and familiar spaces—not to erase history, but to make room for new gatherings and stories to unfold.
It speaks through the way he listens to elders and helps young people rediscover the richness of their culture and the wisdom at risk of being lost.
It speaks through the trees that now shelter his home—and perhaps, one day, those who follow after him.
It speaks through what others might call sacrifice—but for him, it is simply the way he cares for the people he has chosen to serve.
It speaks through his quiet readiness to face discomfort, even eviction by the very leaders who are supposed to protect him, the parish, the land, and the land’s inhabitants.
And it speaks, too, through the steady generosity of his family, friends, and Diocese in Ireland—whose support continues to sustain his mission.

In fact, it spoke to me too—a guest who, through my conversations with him, came to realize how much I still needed to learn—not just about customs, but about the kind of humility needed to truly honor another people’s way of life.

As I left Don Victoriano, I carried his words with me. Prepare for persecution. Not because we are seeking it. But because to truly walk with those at the margins—and to defend this beautiful, fragile earth—will someday cost us something.

But it is worth it.