A Homily for Mom

These past weeks, I have tried to be more faithful to my weekly visit to my mother every Sunday evening. She is 79 going on 80 and has Parkinson’s disease. Mercifully, her variety of Parkinson’s doesn’t involve tremors. But she is weak, weaker than I have ever seen her before. She can barely stand up by herself, easily loses balance, shuffles rather than walks, with the help of a cane. She often falls, I am told. I catch her sometimes just slumped forward in her chair, looking so tired. At times, I can barely understand her: inexplicably to me, she sometimes seems to lose even the strength to open her mouth to speak, and so mumbles responses to my questions. I have to guess what she is saying, and occasionally, like tonight, I really have to struggle to make out what she wants to communicate.

Last Sunday, she asked me to pray for her. I said I do, always. I do.

I wanted to share a homily I preached on her 75th birthday five years ago. It says a lot about what I feel when I pray for her.

Today, we give thanks to our loving God for the gift he has given us in Mommy, who came to this world 75 years ago. I did some calculations and I figured that Mom got married to Daddy at the age of 26, in February 1955. She gave birth to Atchi at the age of 27, so she has been a fulltime mother for 48 years out of her 75, 48 years that have not always been easy. That means two thirds of her life has been spent really living for us, her children. Two thirds of her life has been given to living out the difficult vocation of motherhood.

 

Our readings tonight help us appreciate the gift of our mother and her love for us.  You see, if you listened to the readings carefully, you will see that even God places enormous value on this precious thing called a mother’s love. In the first reading, he compares his own tender, faithful love to the love of a mother. When Israel complains that she has been forsaken, God says, No: “Can a mother forget her infant, be without tenderness for the child of her womb?” If you know how a mother loves, God tells Israel, you could never imagine me abandoning you. In the Gospel, Jesus is dying on the cross and looks upon his beloved disciple, so sorrowful and lost. And so he hands over to his closest friend the most valuable person in his life, his mother. It is as if Jesus is saying, “I have nothing more precious to give you than this woman who has loved me so much and will now love you in turn.” If God values a mother’s love so much, perhaps, this evening we too can try to appreciate this mother, our mother’s love for us.

In the brief time we have at this Mass, I just want to say two simple things in appreciation of Mom’s love for us: first, that it is a love that gives us a home; second, it is a love that has taught us to love.

First, I think Mom’s love gives us a home. What do I mean? Not just a physical home, our houses in Silencio and Acropolis. Recently I read a mother describing her feelings as she watched her young son sleep. This is what she wrote: 

            I sit on the edge of my son’s bed. His face is smooth with sleep. The glow of the night light stands vigil against the monsters that lurk beneath his table. As I stand up to leave, I feel my heart, pulled out of my breast, stretched to span the widening distance between us. Before he was born, I did not know how I could ever let him in. Now that I have, I don’t know how I will ever let him go.

I love those last two sentences, because they capture so perfectly a mother, our mother’s love: “Before he was born I did not know how I could ever let him in. Now that I have, I don’t know how I will ever let him go.” 

Mom carried each one of us siblings in her womb for nine months, but even after she let go of us to enter the world, I know she keeps each one of us in her heart. When she welcomed us into her womb, she welcomed our whole lives after that, with all its ups and downs, its joys and sorrows, into her own heart. They have become her ups and downs, her joys and sorrows for 48 years.

Mom often confides in me her worries and complaints about each of us. My answer has usually been: Mom, bahala na siya or bahala na sila. He or she is old enough. He or she has his or her own life. It’s only recently that I realized that this was very easy for me to say, because I am not a mother. While what I say is true, in a sense, you can never tell a mother to cut this ongoing care and concern for the lives of her sons and daughters from her heart. It’s like telling the sun not to rise or the sea not to rush to the shore. Whether it’s a little thing, like wondering whether I will have a jacket for Europe, or a big thing, like Paul’s tumor, I know Mom keeps our lives in her heart, and that when she prays, she brings each one of us to the Lord. That’s what I mean when I say, that Mom’s love gives us a home. It means that, in this world, we know we have a place where we will always belong. Despite the occasional tampuhan or misunderstandings, which are part of life, we have a home in her heart and prayers.

Second, I think Mom’s love has taught us how to love. What do I mean? Let me be concrete. When I see Atchi’s very real thoughtfulness in trying to get just the right pasalubong for each of us, or that same thoughtfulness in Dickie’s very careful wrapping of gifts and making of special Christmas tags, I think to myself:  they got this from Mom, who always thoughtfully made sure that when we grew up, we were always specially remembered on birthdays, on Three Kings, on Christmas. When I see Ako John generously providing Mikey with all the books and gadgets that will develop Mikey’s intelligence and talents, I think to myself: he got this from Mom, who made sure too that we grew up in a house full of good books, who made sure we got the best education, that we would develop our talents and gifts. 

When I see Peter or Franny taking the trouble to take their not always so well behaved kids out on trips out of town, to Tagaytay or Baguio or the provinces, I think to myself: they got this from Mom, who with Dad, took the trouble to fill our young minds and hearts with good memories, who would drive us when we were small to watch “The Littlest Angel” display in front of the old Coke building or the COD display in Cubao or brought us in the old station wagon to Baguio or to the beach. When I see Stevie buying food for us, and taking pains to get really good food and make sure there’s always more than enough, I think to myself: he got this from Mom, who made sure that we never knew hunger or want while we were growing up, who saw to it that we grew up with an always abundant table, and with such a rich variety of eatables in the house. 

When I see Paul facing his brain tumor with such quiet, uncomplaining courage and dignity, I think to myself: he got this from Mom, who has carried sickness for more than a decade without complaint or demands from others. Actually, when I see myself, trying to be a parent now to 54 seminarians, and I see my care for each one, and yet also my tendency to be strict and somewhat directive in what I feel they should be doing, I know too where I got that from!  The wonder of Mom’s love is that it has become unconsciously contagious, and it is her love, living in us with which we face life and the next generation.

A friend of mine had a poster in his office that said something like this: A parent’s love is there to give children roots and wings. I guess what I’ve been trying to say is that Mom has given us both: roots, a home in her heart and in her concern and prayers; wings, in our own ability to love and care for others, which we learned from her, and which we now take on our own very different life journeys.

Mom, tonight, at this Mass, in the presence of the Lord, we want to thank you for your very precious love, which is our home, and which is now our own capacity to love. And our prayer tonight is that you feel tonight that the love you have given us is being returned to you with such gratitude. Often, I know you feel we don’t show it enough, but tonight, please pay attention to all the little details, and to how much we all want to make this special for you, so that you know in your deepest heart that you are loved and appreciated by your children. Life is not perfect; this side of heaven, it will never be; we struggle with our different personalities and concerns, and we sometimes fight or seem to neglect one another; but tonight, I pray the Lord may make you know that your seventy five years of life are cherished and valued by us, and that we love you. May this knowledge give you the inner peace and the happiness you deserve after forty-eight years of mothering. Happy birthday, Mom, from all of us, with much love and prayer! 

October 3, 2003

The Pope's Important Call for Unity in the Church

The homily the Holy Father preached yesterday at St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York addresses one of the most painful problems of the Church in the United States, but also in other parts of the world, including the Philippines: polarization in the Church. The hardening of positions into ideological and mutually hostile divisions between so-called "conservatives" and "liberals" among Catholics is one of the most terrible wounds of the Church today. 

Even the categories of "conservative" and "liberal" are unhelpful. They over-simplify very complex and nuanced positions. (For example, the popular (mis)characterization of Benedict as "conservative," hardly captures the complexity and radicality of his thought.) They allow one to be easily and unfairly dismissive of those whose ideas are different from one's own, without having to go through the laborious work of dialogue, dialogue which is, in the end, an imperative of charity. 

 

When the mindset of "black and white," "us versus them" is appropriated by individuals or groups in the Church, when those who have different points of view are immediately and conveniently labeled as either "unorthodox" or "fundamentalist," dialogue becomes impossible, unity is destroyed, and scandal is created. One only need read the blogs of polarized individuals and groups. The vituperation, anger, arrogance, intolerance and blindness one often finds takes one's breath away. One wonders how the young would ever be attracted to such a Church.

That is why the Holy Father's homily is deeply significant. Just as he has courageously and honestly named the problem of sexual abuse, so he has named and confronted the terrible scourge of polarization in the Church. This is not a Pontiff who will indulge in comfortable denial for the sake of peace and bella figura ("a good image."). He names the problem plainly and clearly:

"For all of us, I think, one of the great disappointments which followed the Second Vatican Council, with its call for a greater engagement in the Church’s mission to the world, has been the experience of division between different groups, different generations, different members of the same religious family." 

He points out the challenging and difficult way forward: the path of conversion and dialogue:

"We can only move forward if we turn our gaze together to Christ! In the light of faith, we will then discover the wisdom and strength needed to open ourselves to points of view which may not necessarily conform to our own ideas or assumptions. Thus we can value the perspectives of others, be they younger or older than ourselves, and ultimately hear "what the Spirit is saying" to us and to the Church (cf. Rev 2:7). In this way, we will move together towards that true spiritual renewal desired by the Council, a renewal which can only strengthen the Church in that holiness and unity indispensable for the effective proclamation of the Gospel in today’s world."

Why is the task of healing division and fostering unity anew so vital? The Holy Father explains using the image of the stained glass windows of the Cathedral. "From the outside," he says, "those windows are dark, heavy, even dreary." But, "once one enters the church, they suddenly come alive; reflecting the light passing through them, they reveal all their splendor." So it is, the Holy Father says, with the Church: "It is only from the inside, from the experience of faith and ecclesial life, that we see the Church as she truly is: flooded with grace, resplendent in beauty, adorned by the manifold gifts of the Spirit." 

 

The problem is: how do you draw people into the Church? The Holy Father admits that "this is no easy task in a world which can tend to look at the Church, like those stained glass windows, 'from the outside': a world which deeply senses a need for spirituality, yet finds it difficult to 'enter into' the mystery of the Church."

Thus the need to overcome the ideological hostility and division in the Church, for amidst all this angry mutual excommunication and bitter condemnation, "Perhaps we have lost sight of this: in a society where the Church seems legalistic and "institutional" to many people, our most urgent challenge is to communicate the joy born of faith and the experience of God’s love."

This is a constant theme of Benedict in his many homilies and discourses. The world needs to see the joy that comes from embracing the Gospel if it is to receive the Gospel as the Word of life which responds to its deepest longings. Thus, he exhorts the seminarians and young religious present:

Act as beacons of hope, casting the light of Christ upon the world, and encouraging young people to discover the beauty of a life given completely to the Lord and his Church. I make this plea in a particular way to the many seminarians and young religious present. All of you have a special place in my heart. Never forget that you are called to carry on, with all the enthusiasm and joy that the Spirit has given you, a work that others have begun, a legacy that one day you too will have to pass on to a new generation. Work generously and joyfully, for he whom you serve is the Lord!
 

That we may overcome divisions in the Church through dialogue, and that together we may "communicate [to the world] the joy born of faith and the experience of God's love": this is the prayer the Holy Father's homily inspires.

Christ our Hope: Audio of the Pope's Homily at Washington Stadium

Below is the Vatican Radio recording of the Holy Father's homily at the Mass he celebrated yesterday at the Washington National Stadium, before a congregation of about 50,000 people.

The homily is a moving message of hope, including a courageous and humble admission (the third public mention) of the terrible pain and shame caused by abuse in the Church. It calls the Church in America (and indeed in all parts of the world) to work for healing, to remain firm in hope even amidst the "groaning" of this present time, to overcome the divisions of polarization in the Church, and to continue proclaiming the Gospel which is a response to world's deepest search for freedom, authentic happiness and "the fulfillment of its deepest aspirations." It is permeated by a profound longing that the Holy Spirit renew the face of the earth and the Church.

The Holy Father has surprised and consoled so many by his great-hearted, humble and hopeful deeds and acts: in his meetings with the bishops, with the victims of abuse, with University Presidents. We continue to pray for the Holy Father in his mission, as successor of Peter, of witnessing to the Resurrection, and of confirming the brothers and sisters in faith, hope and love.

Audio of the Benedict XVI's Address to the US Bishops

From the Vatican Radio podcast, here is an audio clip of the Holy Father's encounter with the American bishops. I include here only the question and answer (apparently previously prepared) section. The Holy Father answers three questions: his assessment of secularism, his comments on a "quiet attrition" by which Catholics gradually distance themselves from the practice of the faith in the Church, his advice on the issue of decline of priestly vocations.

If one can get past the somewhat heavy German accent of Pope Benedict, and listens in a more meditative manner, one will find much here that is deep, interesting and thought-provoking. I am particularly taken by the Holy Father's insistence that one of today's great challenges is "recapturing the Catholic vision of reality and presenting it in an engaging and imaginative way."

Gounod's Papal March

The celebated French composer Charles Gounod composed the Inno Pontificale or Marcia Pontificale for the silver jubilee of the priestly ordination of Pope Pius IX. It was first performed, to great acclaim, on 11 April 1869, by seven pontifical bands and a chorus of a thousand. In 1949, on the eve of the Holy Year in 1950, Pope Piux XII declared this the official papal anthem.

In the Philippines, particularly in the Cebuano speaking areas of the Visayas and Mindanao, this rousing anthem is often sung at solemn occasions such as ordinations as Yutang Tabonon, which is a prayer for the Philippine nation and Church.

I thought of sharing this hymn as a way of accompanying the Holy Father's visit to the United States, and of asking for prayers for his safety and the fruitfulness of his mission. This visit is, to my mind, an act of courage.

Despite the caricatures and misinterpretations of his character and message in the sometimes religiously tone deaf press and media, Pope Benedict, particularly through his homilies and encyclicals, speaks with the erudition and nuance of an intellectual, the courage and compassion of a shepherd, and the depth and insight of a man of obviously profound prayer and faith. He has reminded us of what is most essential: the love and hope of the Gospel, so badly needed by ourselves and our world, so graciously and unfailingly offered to us by God in Christ.

Fathers of Fathers

Last week, I had dinner with a couple of former college seminarians from my time as Rector of San Jose Seminary. One, now in Law School, was accompanied by his girlfriend; the other, a high school teacher, came with his wife and his soon-to-be-one-year-old son. "Lumaki na ang pamilya mo, Father," one of them said. The teacher said, "Father, may apo ka na." And when we said our farewells, the wife of the former seminarian instructed her child, "Bless lolo."

That same night, I woke up from a dream I have now forgotten. The only feeling left was concern about my mother, who is going to be 80 this year, has Parkinson's disease, and who needs companionship and care, more than I have been able to provide.

I suppose this is what it means to be in mid-life. It is a bittersweet feeling: to watch the generation you nurtured become nurturers in turn; at the same time, to become the parent of your parent. You feel that you are in the middle of generations, bearing responsibility for those who have come before you and those who come after you.

There's a beautifull song from an award-winning Off-Broadway revue called Closer than Ever, that captures this feeling poignantly for me. Entitled Fathers of Fathers, the song is sung by three men, at different stages of their lives as fathers.

The first verse is sung by a young father, as he holds, perhaps for the first time, his new born son:

Hey Billy, my baby,
Hey kid, look at me.
It’s clear you’ve got your mother’s eyes,
But who do they see?
The nurse just called me “Father.”
Well, hell, I guess that’s what I am.
But what makes her think I’m a family man?

Those fathers of fathers,
Fathers of mothers,
How can you know what it’s worth?
For all my aspiration
Are you to be the indication
That I walked the face of this earth?

The second verse is sung by an older man. He is alone because his children have grown up and left home:

My children, I miss you,
How much you can’t know.
I laughed with you, I cried with you,
Helped each of you grow.
I kissed you every bedtime,
Your laughter woke me every dawn.
Then one day I woke And you’d grown and gone.

And fathers of fathers,
Fathers of mothers,
Strange how kids measure your worth.
They’re here and then they scatter,
But in some way they make it matter
That I walked the face of this earth.

The final verse, perhaps most moving for me, is sung by a man at the bedside of his critically ill father:

Hey father, I love you,
I pray you’ll pull through.
You cared for me, it’s my turn now
To take care of you.
I’ve tried to show my children
The kind of strength you showed to me.
I feel such a longing to be a son,
Instead now I’m one of

Those fathers of fathers,
Fathers of mothers,
What man can say what it’s worth?
This commonest of pleasures,
Why should it be a thing that measures
That I walked the face of this earth?

That's where I am now, I suppose: I've become "a father of fathers, a father of mothers." It's a strange yet wonderful place to be in, a place of responsibility and pride, of loss and letting go, of being right smack in the middle of life's mysterious ebb and flow.


Note: If wish to listen to the song Fathers of Fathers, you will find it posted on my Music site.