George K. Werner (former education minister)
I begin by expressing my sincere appreciation to Archbishop Gabriel Blamo Jubwe and his leadership team of the Archdiocese of Monrovia for their timely, transparent, and pastoral communication in this moment of grief. In times like these, clarity, compassion, and steady leadership matter deeply—not only to the Church, but to all of us who feel this loss so personally.
The news of the sudden and deeply distressing passing of Rev. Fr. Alphonsus B. Mombo and Rev. Fr. Roland G. Biah has shaken many of us. And as we now learn that investigations are ongoing, we are reminded that grief is not always simple—it carries questions, weight, and a longing for understanding. Yet even in this uncertainty, we hold on to faith, to truth, and to the dignity of their lives.
For me, this loss is not distant.
There are some places in life that are more than locations—they are sanctuaries. Places where you are not a guest, but family. Where the door is always open, the meal is always shared, and conversation flows easily—about life, about faith, about the burdens we carry and the laughter we need to survive them.
For me, those places were their parishes.
With Father Mombo and Father Biah, I could walk in unannounced, sit without ceremony, eat without formality, and speak freely. Their priesthood was not distant or guarded—it was human, warm, and deeply present.
And beyond the parishes, they showed up.
They came to the moments that mattered. They came to my celebrations—including my birthdays—not out of obligation, but out of friendship. They understood that ministry is not only about standing at the altar, but about standing with people in the ordinary and meaningful moments of life.
Because that is how they lived.
They spent their lives attending to others—preaching at Masses, blessing marriages at weddings, standing with families at funerals, and walking with people through both joy and sorrow. They were present in the full arc of human life—faithfully, quietly, consistently.
And perhaps that is why this loss feels so heavy.
Because men who spent their lives showing up for others are no longer here for us to show up to.
Father Roland Biah lived his ministry outwardly—among young people, in parish life, in the daily rhythm of the Church’s engagement with the world. He was accessible, energetic, and committed to shaping lives in real time.
Father Alphonsus Mombo, in his quiet strength, worked at the heart of the Church’s future. As Rector of St. Charles Lwanga Pre-Major Seminary, he was forming young men who will themselves become priests. His work was less visible, but no less profound. His legacy will live on in every life he helped shape.
Together, they represented something powerful—the Church as both presence and preparation. One serving the now, the other building the future.
And then, suddenly, they are gone.
There is a particular pain in losing men like this—not only because of who they were, but because of how present they were. You do not prepare for their absence. You do not imagine a world where their laughter will no longer fill a room, or where their presence will no longer mark the moments that matter.
Their passing has stirred the entire Archdiocese—and for some of us, it has left a very personal silence.
I will remember them not only in vestments, but in moments.
Not only in sermons, but in conversations.
Not only in their roles, but in their friendship.
There is a deep sadness in knowing that I can no longer expect to see them show up at those familiar gatherings, those celebrations, those simple moments that now carry even greater meaning.
But there is also gratitude.
Gratitude for the meals shared.
For the heartfelt conversations.
For the laughter.
For the times they showed up—again and again—simply because they cared.
Some lives are written in books. Others are written in people.
Their story lives in the youth they guided, the seminarians they formed, the communities they served, and the friendships they nurtured.
I count myself fortunate—deeply fortunate—to have known them not just as priests, but as friends.
They spent their lives being there for others.
Now, we must learn to live with their absence.
And carry forward the light they left behind.
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord,
and let perpetual light shine upon them.
May they rest in peace. Amen.
