Truth today

By Teresa R. Tunay, OCDS

(The author writes the column, "And that's the truth", in The CBCP Monitor, the official newspaper of the Catholic Bishops' Conference of the Philippines).

“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers!” seems an odd piece of advice coming from a media person, but that is exactly what I say whenever I’m asked to give media education seminars anywhere, anytime.

My audiences include students, professionals, seminarians, workers (from janitors to managers), cloistered nuns, parishioners, etc., but the two segments that I try to handle with extra care are the students and the cloistered nuns. The students—because they are young, idealistic and impressionable; and the nuns—because they have very limited contact with the outside world they are called upon to pray for. I base my observations on the questions they ask, the comments they make, their reactions to stimulus during our interaction.

Students would by their very youth tend to be naïve and unconcerned and yet, upon peer pressure, would “take a stand” on issues, parroting arguments and wisecracks picked up in media. “Taking a stand” and sounding knowledgeable give students the veneer of sophistication they sincerely think impresses others.

By their very calling, cloistered nuns are allowed only very little exposure to media, and yet, a number of them would sincerely take sides on any current political issue, emboldened by the information ingested as truth from people who come to them to ask for prayers.

Innocent and trusting, both young people and sheltered women of God could be in danger of being misled and used by unscrupulous entities with hidden agenda. These entities could take advantage of the students’ idealism, and use the latter as pawns in their power games by feeding them with “the truth” and spurring them into action outside of the school’s walls. These unscrupulous entities could also use their friendship with the nuns to lend credibility to their cause and shield their selfish intentions from public scrutiny—for, indeed, who would question the petitions of these guileless, prayerful women?

The thing is—the students and the cloistered nuns are not that aware of the fact that media agencies are there primarily for business, and that media’s zeal in exposing the truth could be powered by vested interests. They are not in a position to know the inside story, nor are they trained to read between the lines. More often than not, they are swayed by what they read in the papers.

What is more saddening to note is that people in general seem to have become less and less conscientious in seeking the truth; we do not want to bother, to investigate, to dig into the motives beneath the truth being told—or sold—by media. We simply lap it up. Advertisers use appealing visuals and their brand of truth to lure consumers into buying their stuff. Reporters chasing after scoops could file stories filled with half-truths—sensational and saleable half-truths. Columnists and radio-tv commentators could pontificate about the truth when in fact they are merely being truthy—because truthiness lends them an air of authority and omniscience.

“Truthy” and “truthiness” are relatively new words coined by our times, and both appear in the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) with “truthiness” being defined as a derivative of “truthy” which OED first came up with in 1800. “Truthiness”, popularized by American comedian Stephen Colbert, was even honored as “Word of the Year” in 2006 by Merriam Webster Dictionary which gives it two definitions: “truth that comes from the guts, not books” and “the quality of preferring concepts or facts one wishes to be true, rather than concepts of facts known to be true.” In the same year, Canadian Parliamentarian Ken Dryden in a speech delivered in the House of Commons captured the meaning of “truthiness” when he defined it as “something that is spoken as if true that one wants others to believe is true, that said often enough with enough voices orchestrated behind it might even sound true, but is not true.”

It is with such truthiness that we are daily being bombarded by media—celebrities’ amorous or amorphous philosophies; politicians’ peculiar perspectives; half-baked activists’ platitudes; rebellious bloggers’ devil-may-care assertions; literary best-sellers’ pronouncements and popular entertainers’ endorsements. Everyone has his or her own brand of “truth” to peddle, media agents continue to rake in the profits, while fence sitters—apparently stunned by overpowering “truths”—are unwittingly dragged into the descent toward moral incoherence.

That is the sad fact about truth today. It is being reduced by media to truthism. Worse, they are elevating truthism to the level of truth.

Nowadays, anyone with media access can manipulate facts and espouse the concepts he sees or wishes to be true until he gets others to believe it as truth. When truth today is simply a press release from Malacanang, what a pregnant actress utters with conviction about her ex-lover actor, the viewpoint a Senator or a Congressman states with a clenched fist, or the venom godless militants sputter about bishops who would rather keep silent—and no one questions the loud, the self-righteous and the shameless—we all suffer. The truth as revealed in, by, and through Jesus Christ gets buried under an avalanche of half-truths and relativism.

The power of media is almost immeasurable. The power of misused media is devastating. We only have to open our eyes to its influence on our little children and we will see how far-reaching its harmful effects can be on society. What other institution can stand up to media and annihilate the insidious evil therein? The government? The military? The schools? No, but the Church can—because the Church is in government, in military, in education, everywhere, and it is the body of Christ. Are we doing enough—enough—to use media to make the immutable, absolute and discoverable Truth overpower the truthism in our midst? Yes? Or No? Indeed, the truth(ism) hurts. And that’s the truth.

Teresa on Mother Teresa

(A note from the author: The following article was published in the Philippine Daily Inquirer a week before Mother Teresa [Blessed Teresa of Calcutta] was beatified, thus it may seem dated now, but I am including it here on the request of readers who found the lessons therein timeless and of universal value. I'd appreciate your feedback. Thank you. THE Carmelite)

By Teresa Reyes Tunay


ROME, ITALY, October 12, 2003—The first time I read about Mother Teresa, in the early 80s, I got curious. Why would a nun—already safe, saved and fulfilled in her vocation—still want to leave her Congregation in order to carry a heavier cross? She was outstanding as a missionary nun assigned as teacher in India when from the window of her relatively comfortable room she would see sick old people dying unwanted in the streets and be moved by a desire to ease their pain. While retaining her religious name “Teresa”—after the Carmelite saint Therese of the Child Jesus—she shed her old Loreto habit and donned the white sari symbolizing her oneness with the poorest of the poor around her.

In God’s own time Mother Teresa founded the Missionaries of Charity: together with her Sisters they would pick up the sore-infested old folks practically rotting away in Calcutta’s streets, bring them home, and care for them until death so they would know the love of Christ and die with dignity.

When I heard that Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity had reached the Philippines, I wasted no time to serve as a volunteer at their Home for the Dying Destitute, that place in Tayuman where the Sisters would load their pick-up with the old, sick and homeless old people gathered from Manila’s streets. I knew that I would be enriched by the experience as volunteer, cleaning toilets, hanging laundry, feeding and bathing patients, trimming their hair or nails, giving them a backrub, talking to them, cheering them up, trying to give them the love their own families would not give. Thus, I was no longer a stranger to the Sisters when they announced that Mother Teresa was coming to visit the Philippines.

“I must meet this person,” I promised myself, although I must admit that half my eagerness was out of journalistic curiosity—in this day and age someone like Mother Teresa would be a rarity and make a good story. But most of all I had hoped I would be given a peek into the soul of this diminutive Albanian nun whose name I could not even pronounce the same way twice: Gonxha Agnes Bojaxhiu.

And it came to pass. As fate would have it, the interview that I had wanted turned into more of an intimate exchange between two Teresas. I never imagined, however, that Mother Teresa would leave such a deep and lasting impression on me more than any other human alive, nor cared that she would one day be elevated to the altar of the blessed in the Vatican, as she will be on Sunday, October 19.

Upon seeing Mother Teresa, I almost forgot about journalism. I heard and saw her speak to the crowd—she impressed me. But I didn’t want to interview or photograph her, write a story, whatnot. I just wanted to listen on and on. I sensed that she would be more than just a scoop for me, so I simply asked to be blessed by her (“Mano po!”). She obliged and then gave me much, much more: she held my hand, and as we walked she spoke to me as though nobody else mattered at the moment but me. I got hooked.

Her intensity amazed me. Since then I wanted to see and listen to her again and again, wherever and whenever possible, so I could dissect her mind—how could this busybody be so focused on and loving towards a stranger like me? Having been inspired and touched by her, I even wrote her Calcutta house to apply as a month-long volunteer there. My application was politely declined, with a handwritten note that I stay and continue to volunteer in Manila where I was needed more. The Calcutta house was already crowded with volunteers from all over the world, while there were not enough in Manila. I was disappointed for a while but as time passed, as I read and heard more about her work, I slowly understood why I was turned down—it had to be so.

There was no need to meet Mother Teresa another time, after all, in order for her to live on in me. That first impression was to last, forever offering me new insights and inspiration in my own journey to God. In Tayuman, not once did I take my eyes off her as she addressed the crowd. It was simply a marvel how that little nun, physically unattractive by any standard, could hold her audience spellbound by simply talking about Jesus.

Mother Teresa wasn’t pretty as some nuns I’d remember from childhood who appealed to me because they resembled the Virgin Mary in my imagination. Small and slightly hunched, Mother Teresa had a face so badly creased, a peasant’s hands, and a nose so big it could be a caricaturist’s delight, yet when I was with her there was nothing else I’d rather look at but her—there was nobody else more beautiful. She was so saturated with Jesus’ presence that when she’d speak, Jesus would come alive through her words—Jesus, Jesus, only Jesus, as though even she herself did not exist at all.

As she spoke to her audience, her blue eyes which were simply out of this world would be focused most of the time on some distant horizon, as though their blue was but a reflection of the sea and the sky. Those eyes were piercing, her gaze was penetrating in its purity, like a laser beam cutting through your flesh and bone to expose your very marrow. I did not want those eyes to gaze at me because they possessed a meekness that seemed to strip my soul bare—it seemed impossible to hide anything from them.

That fateful meeting where she held my hand and spoke to me like an intimate friend uncovered for me a kinship between us that was to go beyond a celebrity-journalist connection. Knowing Mother Teresa further by the witness of people whose lives she had touched—notably the British journalist and agnostic Malcolm Muggeridge who asked to be baptized into the Catholic religion after a momentous encounter with Mother Teresa—all the more convinced me that we shared something more than just our name. I was to realize soon enough that that my fascination with Mother Teresa was rooted in the fact that we had been wooed by the same Lover. There was a great difference, though—Mother Teresa’s heart was already totally His, while half of this Teresa’s heart was still inhabited by lesser loves.

Although we were both “world citizens” our world citizenship diverged where heaven began. As she would say, “By blood, I am Albanian; by citizenship, an Indian. By faith, I am a Catholic nun. As to my calling, I belong to the world. As to my heart, I belong entirely to the Heart of Jesus.” There she was when we met, already strolling with Jesus while I was still attempting to rise, on wobbly knees, from crawling. Thus I looked up to Mother Teresa and appointed her my “spiritual nanny.” Of course, she was not aware that she was one of those teaching me how to walk. By her witness and example conveyed to the whole world by media, I gradually absorbed lessons on walking with Jesus.

On detachment from worldly goods: Mother Teresa and her Sisters had only rickety pickups serving as ambulance. A wealthy man took note of this and gifted Mother Teresa with a limousine for her personal use. The humble nun raffled the limo off and with the proceeds bought ambulances. The raffle winner in turn raffled it off again and donated the proceeds to Mother Teresa’s poor. We ordinary mortals would have jumped with joy and thought how loved we are by God that He made us win a car.

On seeing Jesus in every person: Mother Teresa saw, respected and loved Jesus in each of them; thus it was easy for her to embrace the poorest of the poor, the filthiest of society’s unwanted. She felt privileged to dress their wounds and clean up their mess because she was doing it for Jesus. No doubt inspired by St. Therese, a spiritual daughter of St. John of the Cross who taught that if we want to love Jesus we must expose ourselves to the smelly, the ignorant, the ugly in our midst. By doing so, Mother Teresa was being Jesus who was surrounded by lepers and attending to the sick. How many of us—polished and perfumed people of the world—would bother to look for Jesus outside of our comfort zones?

On the value of discomfort: in all of Mother Teresa’s houses, the words “I thirst” are written close to the crucifix. Chapels have no pews or comfortable seats; instead, the floor is lined with native mats where the Sisters would sit or kneel on at prayer. That is how they stay awake with Jesus, to offer their discomfort as their share in His suffering, to quench His great thirst for the love of people who have all but forgotten Him.

On trusting in Divine Providence: one day, the Calcutta community’s coffers were empty, and so was the pantry. There wasn’t even enough bread for the day’s last meal, and they were sure the morrow would be a bigger headache. Undaunted, Mother Teresa calmly led the Sisters to pray that the next day might be better so as not to starve the patients. That very night, a truckload of bread arrived, an unsolicited donation from a bakery chain. Little miracles like this have become commonplace in Mother Teresa’s houses that you can’t help being reminded of the day Jesus fed over 5,000 people from five loaves and two fish. Her example shone in a world where Christians worshipped Christ on Sundays and worried to death for bread the rest of the week.

On simplicity and contentment: Mother Teresa’s Sisters wear no shoes, only cheap rubber thong sandals, but they are by far the happiest community of nuns I have seen in my whole life. They want for nothing—what the poor can’t have, they do not want to have. Sometimes I wish the rich and famous women in the Philippines would realize that they could help solve our country’s problems if they would only give up at least one pair of their Manolo Blahniks for Jesus’ sake!

On time management: with the demands of her work among the needy, you would think Mother Teresa would have no more time to waste on “doing nothing”. On the contrary, this “idle time” is Mother Teresa’s trysting time with God, and she would exhort her nuns to faithfully keep their appointments with Jesus day and night. Sitting still and emptying themselves at prayer time is fundamental to their mission. It is when they fill themselves with Jesus, that they may in turn pour out His love on thirsting humanity.

On joy being the fruit of the Spirit: in all the years I have served as a Mother Teresa volunteer, I have yet to see a Sister lose her cool. No matter how difficult a patient is—and unwanted, sick and old people can be unnerving, mind you—the Sisters would be not only calm and collected but cheerful as well. Not a trace of impatience or irritation in their countenance—an enviable fruit of unceasing surrender to Jesus that forms a vital part of Mother Teresa’s legacy to her daughters and to the world.

Over 18 years have passed since Mother Teresa held my hand and whispered to my soul. Did she see the leper or the bleeding woman in me? I’m sure she did, but she also saw Jesus, and that was what brought tears to my eyes, tears that only Mother Teresa saw.

On October 19, I am supposed to be there, at St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, to witness Mother Teresa’s elevation to the altar of the Blessed. Although I had at one point vaguely wished I could be bodily present on that joyous occasion, a reality check prevented me from wanting to be there—it is a luxury a simple writer like me can ill afford.

But as circumstances would have it, a previously planned working trip to Rome was cancelled on the 11th hour, leaving me with a Schengen visa with nowhere to go. And whether it was fate, luck, coincidence or Mother Teresa responsible for my assignment, I do not really care to know. Until I’m there—I surmised—right before the altar when it happens, I can not believe I’m going. It didn’t really matter whether I go or not—if for some reason my trip didn’t push through, I promised to be with Mother Teresa’s poor in Tayuman on Oct. 19.

But I am here now, in Rome, awaiting that day, and I know that wherever Mother Teresa finds me on Sunday, her piercing blue eyes will smile at me.

END

The Secular Carmelite in the Media Profession

By Teresa R. Tunay, OCDS

I am a Carmelite, and a media person. After my profession as a journalist has fed me, clothed me, paid my bills, etc. for nearly four decades, I can now say: this is where God wants me to be. Nay—intended me to be, long before I was a glint in my father’s eye.

Long before I “became a Carmelite”, even prior to college, I had what you might call a “private consecration.” I would “tell God” at prayer: “My teachers say I can write, but tatay says writing won’t feed me. If it’s true that I have a ‘gift’, only You could have given me that. So I want to use it for the good. I consecrate my pen to You. Use me.”

I said it, then forgot about it. I wasn’t even particularly zealous—and I doubt if by then I had already memorized the Ten Commandments. What would you expect from a teenager who couldn’t even decide what college course to take? But I did become a journalist in due time, and 25 years after that I became a Secular Carmelite—to the amazement of incredulous college mates who would hear of it.

But my life story is not the point of this exercise, although the above flashback gives me leverage to publicly thank God for—well, having led me to become what I am: a writer, journalist, editor, et al, who “happens to be” a Carmelite as well.

A Carmelite in the media profession—being one and the other dovetails perfectly. A Carmelite is supposed to be a prophet, a role that doubles its strength when the Carmelite is also in media. Mass media multiply the prophet’s voice millions of times over—radio, tv, print. Can you imagine the impact that could create? And the responsibility placed upon the prophet’s shoulder?

A writer should always be hungry

It is both challenging and frustrating to champion The Word in an industry that trades and thrives on words. I have always believed that a writer—a wordsmith—should never ever be “satisfied.” In order to bear good fruit for humanity, a writer should always be hungry, literally and figuratively hungry. Hungry for truth. Hungry for justice. Hungry for the good. Hungry for life. There should always be a thirst burning somewhere within him, a “lack” in his life that would spur the writer on to aspire for the highest ideals. He should never be content with the way things are, never be self-indulgent, never be the rich young man in the Bible—or he will lose his salt.

Media is one of the professions where being a Carmelite is put to acid test. For how else could one better grapple with the forces of darkness permeating every nook and cranny of the industry if not through a vigorous interior life? What forces of darkness? Why, the gifts, the payola, the bribes, the power trip, the ego massage, the applause, the subtle whoring going on “in the pursuit of truth”! Because the Carmelite prays, he knows that The Enemy of Truth is not the Abu Sayyaf, nor the government, the NPA, GMA, the military, overzealous clergymen or whoever else media points its finger at in today’s headlines—it is the Prince of Lies himself who worms his way into our hearts and minds to sow confusion, to deceive and mislead, to divide us, to spread evil in the guise of good through mass media. Because the Carmelite prays, he is given the grace to resist temptation and to fight these forces of darkness. But let a reporter tell that to his editor and he’ll be dismissed as stupid—and maybe transferred to the obituary page.

Technical skills, praying skills

Thus, the Carmelite in media would do well to water down his “Repent! Repent!” script and learn to package The Word in a language acceptable both to the masses and to the editors. Sometimes he even has to use gutter talk in order to link man with God, to "de-bone" theology and make it palatable for the masses. Doing this takes much more than technical skills; it’s not just a matter of using the right language for a certain audience, or the right words on the right occasions. It is enveloping the right ideas with the right words on the right occasions—somewhat like sugarcoating a bitter pill. To arm oneself for that, one needs “praying skills” as well. Opening up and listening to God, and hanging on even when God refuses to talk. How else would one know the right ideas if one does not listen to God?

It is said that one who doesn’t listen to God can have nothing worthwhile to say to man. This truth, a Carmelite media person knows by heart, just as he knows that his boss is not the publisher, the editor-in-chief, the show’s producer or the advertisers—his boss is Jesus. His superiors may be human, but his boss is the carpenter from Nazareth. By believing and living this truth, the Carmelite media person preserves his integrity and freedom as servant of The Word. But to walk your talk here, again, calls for a deep connectedness to the Beloved Master who admonishes His followers to “Seek first the kingdom of God…” This is easier said than done.

It is tempting to think that Jesus does reign in your heart simply because you say so. Your public can see through your lip service. And even when they don’t, your conscience will disturb you if you’re a true Carmelite. Allow me to cite two concrete examples, my own trials.

The two trials by fire

First, when I left my post as Editor of Mabuhay, the inflight magazine of Philippine Airlines. Everybody said I was stupid for resigning because it was a plum position, something that some colleagues might have clung to until death for the glamour and the perks it gave: salary in US dollars, international travel every other month for free (with $250 per diem to boot), a gold American Express Credit Card for unlimited representational expenses (which I never needed to use because others were always footing the bill), etc. The reason I resigned? I was enjoying it so much I was beginning to neglect my own “baby”, Blue Collar, a value-formation magazine for marginalized youth which didn’t give me money but which fulfilled me as His servant. To keep me, the Mabuhay management offered to hire a Managing Editor for Blue Collar at their expense, but my conscience wouldn’t allow it—it was my presence that Blue Collar needed to survive, and so I resigned. This happened four years before I joined Carmel.

Nine years after I joined Carmel, something similar took place. I resigned as Editor-in-Chief of Woman Today, then the strongest women’s weekly magazine in the country, turning my back on the Three Ps—Prestige, Power, Perks. I was enjoying a hefty salary, a company car for my personal use, a vibrant social life, gifts overflowing—but I saw the signs, the writing on the wall, and resigned, again, causing everybody to think I was stupid. If I didn’t let go when I did, I would have fallen, ensnared by worldly glitter, serving the gods of consumerism and fattening my own ego. Where would God be in my life then?

In both instances, I made my choice after much agonizing over an uncertain future. But each time brought me calm after the storm, a peace that is beyond words. I know Carmel sustained me, for though I was “not yet a Carmelite” while in Mabuhay, Teresa de Avila and Juan de la Cruz were already my "idols" (since college days). At Woman Today, I as a professed Carmelite was by then aware of the solidarity we enjoy with Carmel’s saints and the graces obtained by the intense desire to be united with God.

How our Carmelite Saints inspire me

Now these two great saints Teresa of Jesus and John of the Cross continue to be my inspiration and guide as a media person. On light moments I imagine our Holy Mother Teresa to be the ultimate 21st century Carmelite journalist with her uncommon common sense, self-confidence, scintillating personality, devil-may-care ways that disguise her holiness. Street-smart but docile to the Spirit, St. Teresa of Jesus stands witness to the truth—so sorely needed today—that yes, it is possible to be one with God without looking or behaving like a sour-faced, wilting medieval nun. Her social savvy and a Christ-centered pragmatism would get things done, perhaps in unorthodox ways at times, but no one could find fault with her for she is, in her heart of hearts, of Jesus, living up to her name.

Our Holy Father John is my quiet strength, particularly when I’m making ethical or moral decisions. His asceticism, capacity for suffering in times of trial, and unassailable love for God are there to goad me until I am empowered to enter the silence of nada and emerge from it free to be nothing and nobody. When faced with a choice between two morally-correct paths, St. John of the Cross inspires me to take the one that is more difficult to tread. And that is perhaps why my abovementioned crucial decisions in my media career made me look stupid: the world can not embrace John of the Cross. People tend to avoid the rough road—sacrifices, sufferings, anonymity—especially in media where many practitioners can be vicious in their pursuit of power and influence. This frail-looking saint who suffered in the hands of his brother priests is a giant in my eyes, a model of steadfastness and detachment.

Media work is never “ordinary”. By its very nature it makes of the media practitioner a special person. Whether or not the media person deserves being seen as special is beside the point; the fact remains that he or she stands to be intoxicated by the attention or esteem the public tends to reserve for media people. In order not to succumb to such temptations to vanity, I look to St. Therese of the Child Jesus who was perfectly content being unknown, loving God and enduring neighbor through the myriad trials of ordinary life. Moved by her example, I occasionally drop all deadlines, leave all “important concerns” behind, put on my grimiest sneakers and nondescript clothes so I can be lost in places like Quiapo, Baclaran and Divisoria. It is so good to rub elbows with the masses—to eat lugaw with the tricycle drivers, chat with the tinderas, hear of their woes or joys, to do something nice to people who can’t give me anything in return. For me, this down-time—a break from a world where relationships are mostly utilitarian—is both humbling and elating, keeping me attuned to the public pulse, and therefore to the heartbeat of God.

The fire of Elijah

And when even John of the Cross can’t help me, there’s one more great saint to count on—Elijah. Yes, I do get moments of exasperation especially now that my work as a media officer at the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of the Philippines exposes me to vulnerabilities and eccentricities of men of the cloth. It’s tough dealing with tri-media reporters and their demands and prejudices on a daily basis, to be there to facilitate understanding between two parties (media and Church) who sing a tune and speak a language different from each other's. Specifically on days when media men misrepresent bishops’ thoughts or misquote them, put words in the latter’s mouth, I feel like throwing in the towel. My inner devil would nudge me, Why bother? Why the heck can’t you just take off and enjoy life?

So I sometimes waver, not from lack of conviction but from the thought that no matter how hard I kcik and scream, my voice will just be drowned by the booming and screeching noises of The Enemy anyway. This job no longer occupies me with travel, celebrities and the frothy elements of living, but The Enemy is even more ferocious here as Truth itself is at stake and the fight throws me directly into the arena with the false prophets of our day. And let me tell you false prophets abound in both media and Church. I question myself, "Am I up to the job? " and I get cold feet. Then, Elijah’s fire heats me up—the fire God sent upon the prophet’s water-drenched sacrifice on Mount Carmel. I enter the fire and let the flame surround me—I should not even think of myself, whether or not I’m up to the job, I should just do it like a real descendant of the zealous Lolo Elijah and leave the rest to God!

For the Carmelite in the media profession, the only surrender must be the surrender of self to God in order to be used as a channel of His love for man. Here I am, Lord, use me. Long long before I discovered Carmel, in that “private consecration,” I offered my pen to God and asked Him to use me. Now that I’m in Carmel—scapular, pin, mantle and all—it’s no longer a “private” thing. I ask you now, fellow Carmelites: In the practice of my media profession, am I being a true Carmelite?

(NOTE: The above article, written with Secular Carmelites in mind, came out in the Jubilee Publication marking the Diamond Anniversary of the Secular Order of Discalced Carmelites' Manila Community on July 16, 2006)

Light from the empty tomb

“May mga penitensya pa ba sa Pilipinas?” emailed a friend, an Ateneo graduate, living abroad for many years now. As a child she used to gawk at them in her hometown in Pampanga. She commented that these “masochistic flagellants” reflect a pervasive sense of worthlessness that infects the national consciousness which in turn keeps the country in stagnation. This friend (who has a yen for psychoanalysis) thinks Filipinos are “used to suffering” and enjoy being victims, thus they have endured centuries of injustice to their own detriment. She sees poverty and ignorance as the main culprits in the country’s state of affairs and thinks the solution lies in educating the people and eradicating graft and corruption. Of course, I emailed her a piece of my mind as well. It follows:

I observe that the flagellants come from the lower socio-economic echelons and would not be in a position to analyze their penchant for blood-letting in the same way an Atenean probably would. Yes, they looked at the forsaken Jesus and probably identified with the man on the cross but—I would venture a guess—not out of a deep sense of victimhood as a people. Their horizon is within arm’s reach, or baranggay-wide in some cases, and they wouldn’t be bothered by history, let alone link their present condition to a past of indignities the colonizers subjected their great great great grandparents to.

As a growing girl and later on as mainstream media person I myself had been privileged to get acquainted with a handful of them. That’s practically all I’m basing my observations on—person to person contact. Most, if not all of them, live a notch above or below poverty line. They can barely make both ends meet but they can always persuade Aling Belay at the corner sari-sari store to spare them a bottle of “lapad” or “quatro cantos” (read “ Marka Dimonyo ”) at the end of each harrowing day. And for them every godforsaken day is harrowing. When you are poor and ignorant, it is hard to believe you have any choice.

But their self-immolation is a choice, their choice— Vatican pronouncements notwithstanding. They flagellate themselves because it’s a panata, a vow to be honored year after year as their way of expressing remorse for their sins. They are happy that way. They may feel worthless in their sinfulness but not hopeless in their blood-letting. Being whipped and nailed on the cross is for them reliving the pasyon ni Hesus— peculiar, perhaps, but it is their imitation of Christ .

These Holy Week “masochists” are by no means the sole barometer of our national spiritual climate. It would be myopic—not to mention unjust—to say that Filipinos bear in their collective psyche the “sense of worthlessness that has made them endure centuries of injustice … and that keeps the country in a perpetual state of stagnation.”

Let me ask you: How many flagellants do we have every year? Hundreds? How many get “crucified”? Two? Three? For every penitent bleeding himself clean during semana santa, how many pleasure-seekers troop to the beaches oblivious of the pasyon? If we have “masochists”, we also have “hedonists” by the thousands; is it a feeling of worthlessness that drives them to escape the dour Holy Week spirit? For every dozen who choose holiday over holy week, how many hundreds of thousands of Filipinos stay put in the city—flocking to the churches for the Seven Last Words, going on a visita iglesia with families and friends, attending the Easter vigil vibrating with anticipation, as though awaiting the very birth of Christ itself? Can you honestly say that we as a people have in our core this “sense of worthlessness”? Is progress elusive because we are “used to suffering”? Gotcha!

As a people, we are where we are—and no president or Poncio Pilato can save us—not because we are used to suffering but because we are afraid to suffer for Christ ’s sake! Sa totoo lang, tita, we run away from the Cross! Those who are already suffering from poverty and ignorance are caught in a rut because those who are in a position to help them out are unwilling to suffer with them. Our concept and practice of charity even tends to perpetuate the status quo when do-gooders help the poor to placate their conscience while the poor use their poverty as an excuse for their slothfulness. That’s the real picture: rich and poor alike, educated or not, refuse to walk the extra mile to unite and improve things for the country! People are too comfortable in their own little worlds to bother looking at the big picture, much as less to work towards building the Kingdom of God !

So you see, even though poverty and ignorance is our problem, it is a mistake to think that money and education alone can liberate us from these twin evils. We still find in all economic levels people who are never satisfied with the money they are making—they feel impoverished if they cannot have more, more, more. We have more and supposedly better schools now than our grandfathers who were raised on caton ever did, and yet we still encounter soul-searing ignorance even among our Ph Ds.

Thanks to Lea Salonga and Manny Pacquiao, our masses can now proclaim they are “proud to be Pinoy”—we’ve come a long way from “feeling worthless,” haven’t we?—and yet our flagellants have remained with us for centuries now, like indelible footprints of a bygone era. And in our collective ignorance we blame anything but ourselves for the moribund state our country is in.

We are in the dark and we do not know it. The solution to the problem of poverty and ignorance is not a flawless political system, a better economy or even more education. What we need is: illumination. Illumination to dispel the darkness of ignorance and to enable us to see the divine behind our material poverty. We need illumination from the empty tomb to see our own sins before those of others.

Easter is upon us. We say Allelujah! to the Risen Christ but do we really believe in Him? Believe in Him enough to want to make ourselves channels of His light and love? We say “Peace be with you!” but are we willing to wage war on our inner demons, to mean what we mouth in order to spread the peace of Christ all over our land?

In this “only Christian nation in Asia ,” there are poor people among the moneyed, ignorant ones among the schooled, and greedy ones from rich and poor alike. Which reminds me of Jeremiah 6:13-14, For from the least to the greatest of them, everyone is greedy for unjust gain, and from prophet to priest, everyone deals falsely. They have treated the wound of my people carelessly, saying ‘Peace, peace’, when there is no peace.

Peace will come upon our land when the illuminati—those to whom more is given—take up their Cross, follow their Master, and bring the light of the Risen Christ to the people not by the words they are saying but by the life they are living. It may appear that hoi polloi are still in flagellation mode, stuck on the level of the pasyon, but the true illuminati know in their hearts that whatever is happening is the best that can happen at the moment, for nothing escapes the compassionate eye of God. And that’s the truth. END

(NOTE: The above article first came out in the author's column, "And that's the truth", which comes out regularly in The CBCP Monitor, the official publication of the Catholic Bishops' Conference of the Philippines. It is written by a Filipino for a Filipino audience)

Split-level Marianity

“The Filipinos have a split level Christianity.” Over the decades this claim has been repeated so loudly and so often that its message now seems taken for granted. Briefly, it means Filipino Christians wear one mask inside the church and another outside of it, exhibit one type of behavior on Sunday and a different one from Monday to Saturday.

Now, the month of May and traditionally of Mary, another facet of our split-level Christianity surfaces: our irrespressible veneration of the Blessed Virgin Mary, back to back with our appalling disregard of the virtues she embodies.

It behooves me to think there must be thousands of Marian organizations in the Philippines and yet… how authentically “Marian” have we become? We remember her every six hours in the Angelus or Regina Coeli, every day in the rosary, every week in novenas, every month in her myriad manifestations. And every year over the centuries we have celebrated countless fiestas, held congresses, dedicated shrines, and organized jubilees—all for Mary. We release balloons on her birthday, and in Intramuros we hold processions of favorite and cherished Marian images every year.

This month, in churches all over the country—up to the humblest kapilya in far flung barangays—we honor Mary with flowers offered each day, culminating in two popular events in our calendar: the Santacruzan and the Flores de Mayo. After more than 400 years of all that show of love and devotion for our Blessed Mother, one would imagine the Filipinos to be by now a shining model of Christian discipleship. But are we?

How attentive have we grown to the writing on the wall, to the warning signs enveloped in images we are exposed to daily? Do we remember Mary when we watch those scantily clad “bombs” and “babes” gyrating on noontime TV shows? (Mary who?) Do we care that advertising billboards studding our highways reduce women to the level of sex objects? (Aw, come on!) Are we aware of the standards some of our magazines are setting to determine the value of a woman? (Yes, now you may text your votes for the sexiest cover girl in XXX Men’s Magazine). How are the women in these media clad? (Definitely not Mary-like!) What are they selling? (Worldly goodies.) What thoughts, desires, and emotions do they spawn in us? (The stuff of which confessions are made.)

Are we concerned about the values our showbiz “goddesses” are transmitting to our young women by their example? How do we reconcile these images (of Filipino women) with our fervor for Mary? How does this nonstop image-barrage by media affect our devotion to Mary? Shouldn’t our devotion to Mary somehow influence the public depiction of women in our midst?

Sometimes it’s embarrassing to realize that “non-Marian” countries or cultures are even more Marian in their regard for certain virtues we Catholics are supposed to uphold, such as modesty, for one. Buddhist temples in Thailand, for example, do not let in women visitors wearing shorts, sleeveless dresses or plunging necklines. Temple guards at the Islamic al-Aqsa shrine or Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem cover such improperly dressed tourists with gowns made for the purpose. (In contrast, note what some of our women wear to Mass in this “only Catholic nation in Asia.”) Newspapers and magazines in Islamic countries—even the more “liberal” or “progressive” ones like Egypt—do not carry photos of women exposing their bodies, such as fashion models in revealing clothes and beauty contestants in swimsuits. Here in our Mary-loving land, those beauties always get front page exposure in print media, and certainly, even jeepney-riding Filipinas are getting bolder and bolder in fashion, flaunting their navels and tattooed hips for all the world to see.

What ought to concern us is the effect of this “split-level Marianity” on young girls today—who will be tomorrow’s women and mothers. Show two images of woman to your 5-year old daughter—one of Our Lady and the other of a noontime TV dancer—and see which of the two will put a sparkle in her eye. Your guess is as good as mine. Attend a fiesta night in a remote barrio and you’ll find that live entertainment will most likely be provided by young girls dancing “Itaktak mo!”

We hope this split-level Marianity is but a passing thing, and that there are more true-blue Marian devotees than are apparent among us. It is laudable to give Mary a special place in our celebrations, but we also wish for everyone to savor the company of Mary in contemplation. With the Filipinos’ penchant for celebrations we sometimes forget about the long-range effects of our actions, like when we release balloons on Mother Mary’s birthday and choke Mother Earth in the process. With child-like and typical ningas-cogon glee we watch the balloons fly to the skies, not knowing that next day the deflated balloons could land in the ocean and cause death to marine creatures that ingest them.

We know that the imitation of Mary could provide the solution to our many ills. We fully trust that we shall one day be granted the grace to be “other Marys”—the soul of humility, modesty and compassion—remaining docile to God’s will while defying the judgment of men. Until that day comes we will in good faith just close an eye to our split-level Marianity. We carry on with our processions in her name, flaunting our fantabulous carrozas of her images while overlooking the probability that because we cannot imitate her, we make her imitate us: we can not be poor and simple like Mary, so we dress her up in gold and diamonds like us. The picture borders on the ridiculous, but our sense of humor will see us through. And that’s the truth.

A New Year Story: Signs of the Times

For a change from New Year’s Resolutions that never seem to resolve anything anyway, let’s begin 2007’s truth-telling in a lighthearted mood.

Travel not only broadens your horizons and expands your waistline—it also brings you funny moments at the most unexpected times and places, especially when you count on signs to find your way around. I for one find some signs so amusing or downright hilarious that I collect them, either jotting them down in a memo pad or photographing them whenever possible. Friends who know of my unusual “collection” contribute to it, too; so, enjoy what I have to show after 30 years of periodic globetrotting. (A word of caution, though: many of the signs here are Strictly For Adults Only).

Let’s start in Paris, where a cozy hotel reminds guests to: PLEASE LEAVE YOUR VALUES AT THE FRONT DESK.

A rather apologetic sign at a hotel lobby in Bucharest says with all good intentions: THE LIFT IS BEING FIXED FOR THE NEXT DAY. DURING THAT TIME WE REGRET THAT YOU WILL BE UNBEARABLE.

Across from a Russian Orthodox monastery in Moscow, a hotel welcomes tourists with this sign in the lobby: YOU ARE WELCOME TO VISIT THE CEMETERY WHERE FAMOUS RUSSIAN AND SOVIET COMPOSERS, ARTISTS, AND WRITERS ARE BURIED DAILY EXCEPT THURSDAY.

Very politely, a hotel in Tokyo has this sign in its rooms: GUESTS ARE REQUESTED NOT TO SMOKE OR DO OTHER DISGUSTING BEHAVIOURS IN BED.

Elsewhere in Japan, a hotel’s Instruction Sheet for using the air conditioner says: COOLES AND HEATES: IF YOU WANT CONDITION OF WARM AIR IN YOUR ROOM, PLEASE CONTROL YOURSELF.

And speaking of self-control, see this reminder in the rooms of a Zurich hotel: BECAUSE OF THE IMPROPRIETY OF ENTERTAINING GUESTS OF THE OPPOSITE SEX IN THE BEDROOM, IT IS SUGGESTED THAT THE LOBBY BE USED FOR THIS PURPOSE.

So as not to tire guests having to iron their own clothing, a hotel in Yugoslavia tacks this warm reminder on the rooms’ door: THE FLATTENING OF UNDERWEAR WITH PLEASURE IS THE JOB OF THE CHAMBERMAID.

With the same concern for guests, a hotel in Japan posts this in the rooms: YOU ARE INVITED TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THE CHAMBERMAID.

In case a chambermaid is unavailable, and the guests’ lack of care in ironing their clothes results in fire, this hotel in Vienna shows foresight with this sign: IN CASE OF FIRE, DO YOUR UTMOST TO ALARM THE HOTEL PORTER.

Mindful of its guests’ safety, a notice in the rooms of a Chiang-Mai hotel in Thailand cautions: PLEASE DO NOT BRING SOLICITORS INTO YOUR ROOM.

Solicitors invading the rooms may not be a problem for a hotel catering to skiers in Austria, but some of its rowdy guests might be, thus the warning: NOT TO PERAMBULATE THE CORRIDORS IN THE HOURS OF REPOSE IN THE BOOTS OF ASCENSION.

Sightseeing is made more enjoyable when you’re also “sign-seeing”. Look at this one posted in Germany's Black Forest: IT IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN ON OUR BLACK FOREST CAMPING SITE THAT PEOPLE OF DIFFERENT SEX, FOR INSTANCE, MEN AND WOMEN, LIVE TOGETHER IN ONE TENT UNLESS THEY ARE MARRIED WITH EACH OTHER FOR THIS PURPOSE.

A zoo in Budapest advises enthusiastic tourists with this sign: PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS. IF YOU HAVE ANY SUITABLE FOOD, GIVE IT TO THE GUARD ON DUTY.

This one in a Third World cemetery is well meaning, but still manages to tickle the imagination: PERSONS ARE PROHIBITED FROM PICKING FLOWERS FROM ANY BUT THEIR OWN GRAVES.

A sign at a Bangkok temple wags its finger at insensitive tourists: IT IS FORBIDDEN TO ENTER A WOMAN EVEN A FOREIGNER IF DRESSED AS A MAN.

Bars and restaurants offer their share of funny bone ticklers. Here’s a nutty one from a Tokyo bar: SPECIAL COCKTAILS FOR THE LADIES WITH NUTS.

A cocktail lounge in Norway, meanwhile, shows such care in protecting the innocent: LADIES ARE REQUESTED NOT TO HAVE CHILDREN IN THE BAR.

In a restaurant in Rome, this sign implies there are 521 days a year: OPEN SEVEN DAYS A WEEK, AND WEEKENDS TOO.

A Nairobi restaurant notice matter-of-factly states: CUSTOMERS WHO FIND OUR WAITRESSES RUDE OUGHT TO SEE THE MANAGER.

Restaurant menus also offer humor besides nourishment: Note this one from a Swiss restaurant in Fribourg: OUR WINES LEAVE YOU NOTHING TO HOPE FOR.

And from a quaint restaurant in Poland’s countryside: SALAD A FIRM'S OWN MAKE; LIMPID RED BEET SOUP WITH CHEESY DUMPLINGS IN THE FORM OF A FINGER; ROASTED DUCK LET LOOSE; BEEF RASHERS BEATEN IN THE COUNTRY PEOPLE'S FASHION.

A new type of omelet seems a specialty in a roadside restaurant in Luxor, Egypt: WE SERVE OMELETTE WITH EGGS.

Roadside reminders are another source of travel fun. Right here at home, a sign cautions motorists in Tagaytay: PLEASE DRIVE SLOWLY. 6 PEOPLE DIED HERE BY ACCIDENT.

To wake up sleepy local tourists on the road to Malolos, a billboard advertising chicken feed boasts: PALAKIHAN NG ITLOG.

While you fill up at a gasoline station in Tarlac, an invitation painted on its wall says: DROP IN. THIS IS A GOOD PLACE TO TAKE A LEAK.

Travel agencies do their part in making your trip mishap-free—as this one from Czechoslovakia: TAKE ONE OF OUR HORSE-DRIVEN CITY TOURS. WE GUARANTEE NO MISCARRIAGES.

Sometimes travel agents’ enthusiasm leads to ambivalence, like this long-winding claim noted at a tourist bureau in Padova, Italy: THIS HOTEL IS RENOWNED FOR ITS PEACE AND SOLITUDE. IN FACT, CROWDS FROM ALL OVER THE WORLD FLOCK HERE TO ENJOY ITS SOLITUDE.

Sometimes, too, airline ticket offices may not be the most helpful of places; see this sign in Copenhagen: WE TAKE YOUR BAGS AND SEND THEM IN ALL DIRECTIONS.

The Japanese countryside is so beautiful even its travel tips can get to be poetic, as this one found in a car rental brochure in Tokyo: WHEN PASSENGER OF FOOT HEAVE IN SIGHT, TOOTLE THE HORN. TRUMPET HIM MELODIOUSLY AT FIRST, BUT IF HE STILL OBSTACLES YOUR PASSAGE THEN TOOTLE HIM WITH VIGOUR.

There’s more on the list, really, but I guess this is enough gasser for the day, lest some extra-sensitive reader ask, “What’s a column like that doing in an august, dignified paper for bishops?” Well, as any honest-to-goodness church person can tell you, bishops wouldn’t be able to endure being bishops if they didn’t know how to be human and laugh once in a while. And that’s the truth.

(NOTE: This article first appeared in the author's column "And that's the truth" which appears regularly in The CBCP Monitor, the official publication of the Catholic Bishops' Conference of the Philippines.)

Of love and cloud watching

By Teresa R. Tunay, OCDS

Once upon a time, a little girl aged five was looking out the window watching cloud formations.

Cloud-watching was a game her mother had taught her earlier on; their house, situated on the highest point of the street, afforded them a good view of the town and the city beyond, and, of course, of the huge expanse of the skies above. Mother and daughter would—on late afternoons before sunset—scan the skies for cloud formations that resembled creatures on earth. Her mother would say, “Look for an elephant!” and the little girl who had never been to a zoo would look for the animal as she had seen it in a coloring book. Happy that the girl would quickly find the elephant, the mother would snap, “Very good! Now, look for the bear!” and the little girl would find it fast, too, for she had seen a bear in the flash cards of her teacher-aunt.

Now, that particular afternoon she was cloud-watching alone, the clouds were sparse and the sky was a beautiful blue. There were no “animals” but still, the little girl saw in it a sea, as the clouds looked like foamy waves coming up the shore. She hoped, though, that clouds would thicken and swell so that even a few rabbits would appear, but they did not. Her eyes were getting tired and her eyelids heavy from the long wait, but the little girl did not give up. Then, she noticed images slowly forming from nothing and then moving in the blue sky, as though a movie was playing before her. One of two images was herself, the five-year old girl, wearing a long white tunic, sitting on the lap of Jesus, playing with his beard!

The little girl could identify Jesus from the many stampitas her grandmother kept as markers in her bible, and from the calendars from the lumber company tacked ubiquitously on the walls of their house. This Jesus moving in the sky was the one whose heart was exposed, but his heart was as big as a dinner plate, and the little girl was playfully sticking her finger in it. She noticed that it felt and looked like a pin cushion, being soft and made of red satin. “Why is your heart very big?” she asked Jesus. Came his reply, “Because it has to have room for everyone.” The little girl, still touching and exploring Jesus’ heart, remarked, “It is very soft…” Then, Jesus hugged her tight and she hugged him, too, although she wanted to complain that he was too big for her arms to hug tight.

When Jesus let go, the little girl noticed that her own heart was outside of her chest, too, though it was a regular heart, not as big as Jesus’. She was surprised, however, that it was bleeding although she felt no pain. Jesus read her mind and said, “When you hugged me, your heart was pressed against mine and got wounded by the thorns around my heart.” The little girl looked at Jesus’ heart which was no longer a big pin cushion but already a real heart outside of his chest, ringed with thorns and bleeding, like the one she saw in stampitas and calendars. She glanced at her heart, too, and noticed that the blood was coming from two little wounds. A smiling Jesus continued, “Now you see why you are wounded but you do not feel the pain because I am the one bearing all the pain— because I love you.”

The images slowly faded away and the little girl’s attention returned to her cloud-watching. Did she fall asleep?, she wondered, for what transpired was similar to dreaming. No, she was merely watching, and in fact she noticed that everything seemed to happen in a wink. In fact, the clouds that looked like foamy waves, had not shifted at all! But the little girl had no doubt that the movie-like story she saw was real, not a dream. However, she did not feel a need to tell anyone about it.

Many many many years later, when the little girl had grown into a woman who was to go through a lot in life, the picture of this heart episode wormed its way into her consciousness. Just as the heart has its own memory, it also has its own reason beyond reason, and now, the woman whose heart as a little girl received two wounds from His Heart knows and believes: Jesus is wounded by both those who love Him and those who do not love Him. Knowing He is wounded causes her heart to bleed, too, but He spares her from the pain because in her imperfect love for Him, feeling that pain herself would cripple her in her efforts to love others. Jesus’ love is such that He wants her heart to have room for everyone, too! Behold the Heart that loves all of us!