Homily for Tuesday of the First Week of Lent Preached on February 20, 2024, at the Saint Thomas Aquinas Chapel, Saint Meinrad Seminary, St. Meinrad, Indiana Readings: Isaiah 55:10-11; Psalm 34:4-7, 16-19; Matthew 6:7-15
Prayer is very personal. I pray for food to sustain me every day (cf. Mt. 6:11). I pray for forgiveness for my faults (cf. Mt. 6:12). I pray that I may not be misled by temptation (cf. Mt. 6:13). I pray that I may be delivered from evil (cf. Mt. 6:13).
Prayer is very personal. But as Jesus has taught us with His prayer, it is not meant to be individual. It’s “Give us” (cf. Mt. 6:11), not “Give me.” “Forgive us” (cf. Mt. 6:12), not “Forgive me.” “Lead us not” (cf. Mt. 6:13), not “Lead me not.” “Deliver us” (cf. Mt. 6:13), not “Deliver me.”
Prayer is very personal, but it’s not individual; it’s always communal. Even when I retreat to my inner room (cf. Mt. 6:6), there’s someone out there praying with me, there’s someone out there praying for me, there’s Someone up there who listens to me (cf. Mt. 6:6, 8). But Jesus is also subtly reminding me that I can’t pray only for myself. There are many out there who desperately need to eat today. There are many out there who long to be forgiven. There are many out there who are hurting too much to forgive. There are many out there who are succumbing to temptation. There are many out there who are trapped by evil. They, too, need me to pray for them. They, too, need me to pray with them. They, too, need to know that Someone up there is listening to them.
By shifting the personal pronoun from the singular to the plural— from ‘me’ to ‘us,’ from ‘my’ to ‘our’— Jesus is gently teaching all of us that none of us ever have to be alone, none of us ever have to be orphans, none of us have to be forgotten or forsaken by our brothers and sisters everywhere or by our Father in Heaven (cf. Mt. 6:9). None of us are ever all alone, not when we pray.
Homily for Wednesday of the Thirty-third Week in Ordinary Time, the Memorial of Saint Cecilia, Virgin and Martyr Preached on November 22, 2023, at the Saint Meinrad Archabbey Church of Our Lady of Einsiedeln, St. Meinrad, Indiana Readings: 2 Maccabees 7:1, 20-31; Psalm 17:1, 5-6, 8, 15; Luke 19:11-28
There are ten servants at the beginning of this parable. Each one is given a gold coin (cf. Lk. 19:13). But only three come forward to give their reports to the master (cf. Lk. 19:15-21). Where are the other seven?
Earlier in this Gospel, ten lepers meet Jesus. They beg Him to take pity on them. Each one is healed on their way to the priests. But only one returns to give thanks to the Master (cf. Lk. 17:12-16). “Where are the other nine?” (Lk. 17:17)
Everyone receives something. But only a few render an account; only one renders thanks. Where are the others?
On this eve of Thanksgiving Day, it makes me wonder what—or who—matters more: the gift or the Giver?
Parable of the Talents (2013) Oil on Canvas by Andrei Nikolayevich Mironov (born 1975).
They want her to get closer to God. So, Joachim and Anna follow the example of the prophet’s mother in the first Book of Samuel (cf. 1 Sm. 1:22, 24-28). They bring their daughter, Mary, to the temple. It is there that she spends her childhood and grows in God’s grace.
He wants to see the Lord (cf. Lk. 19:3). So, Zacchaeus follows the example of children. He climbs a tree to get a glimpse from above (cf. Lk. 19:4). It is there that the Lord finds him and tells him of His desire to stay at his house (cf. Lk. 19:5).
Jesus Encounters Zacchaeus (ca. 1170-1180) Illuminated Initial from German Gospel book Present location: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Munich, Germany.
“The Lord is in His holy temple” (Ps. 11:4). The Lord’s house is a good place to find Him. But often, He goes out to meet us wherever we may be: at a customs post (cf. Lk. 5:27), by the roadside (cf. Lk. 18:5), up a tree (cf. Lk. 19:4, 5), on the way to Emmaus (cf. Lk. 24:13-16), away from everything we would rather not face, away from everyone we would rather avoid. No place is too scandalous for Him. No place is too remote. No place is too high. No place is too lowly. Wherever we may be the Lord desires to meet us.
Pay attention, then! Today, salvation is on its way (cf. Lk. 19:9). Who knows? He just might be right around the corner.
Jesus is approaching Jericho. By the roadside, there is a blind beggar who needs His help (cf. Lk. 18:35). Jesus stops by the side of the road to listen to him and heal him (cf. Lk. 18:40-43).
There is another traveler headed for Jericho. By the roadside, there is a man left for dead who needs his help (cf. Lk. 10:30, 33). The traveler stops by the side of the road to care for this man’s wounds and bring him to safety (cf. Lk. 10:34).
There are two travelers headed for the same city. Each one stops by the side of the road for someone who needs his help: one is blind while the other is left for dead. But both of them share the same name: Neighbor (cf. Lk. 10:37).
The Blind Beggar (1882) Oil on Canvas by Jules Bastien-Lepage (1848-1884) Present location: Musée des Beaux-Arts, Tournai, Belgium.
Homily for the Thirty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time Preached on November 12, 2023, at the Saint Thomas Aquinas Chapel, Saint Meinrad Seminary, St. Meinrad, Indiana Readings: Wisdom 6:12-16; Psalm 63:2-8; 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18; Matthew 25:1-13
What was I thinking when I signed up to preach this Mass?! I should have checked the readings before I put my name down. Then, I would have discovered that the Gospel for today features my least favorite parable: the Parable of the Ten Virgins, or, as some would call it, the Parable of the Closed Door.
I hate this parable! It’s hard to make sense of it. The Lord says, “Stay awake” (Mt. 25:13). Yet, everyone in the parable falls asleep (cf. Mt. 25:5). Even the wise virgins have their share of shut-eye. The bridegroom probably also has overslept. After all, it took him until midnight to get to the banquet (cf. Mt. 25:5-6).
The door is locked (cf. (cf. Mt. 25:10). The virgins knock (cf. Mt. 25:11). But the Lord doesn’t open the door (cf. Mt. 25:12). What ever happened to the promise in chapter seven: “Knock and the door will be opened to you” (Mt. 7:7)?
The virgins have run out of oil. But their companions do not share their supply with them. At the end of this chapter is another parable with the admonition: “For I was hungry, and you gave me no food” (Mt, 25:42). Well, those virgins could very well say, “We ran out of oil in our lamps, and you gave us no oil. You left us out in the dark.”
But, above all, I hate this parable because I expect a warm welcome from a gracious host at a wedding banquet. What do I get instead? A slammed door to my face from a bothersome bouncer. I hate this parable!
I prefer parables that have a prodigal son being feasted by his father at his return (cf. Lk. 15:22-24). I like parables about shepherds finding that one lost sheep after an exhaustive search in the wild (cf. Lk. 15:4). I want a parable about a stranger being a neighbor to an enemy left for dead on the side of the road (cf. Lk. 10:30, 33-35). I prefer parables where the unexpected and perhaps even the unthinkable happens. I prefer parables where grace seems to sneak up on us.
That’s what I hate about this parable. It’s a parable about the expected. It’s no different from a professor who says on the first day that any student who does not submit a paper on the given deadline will fail the class. A grad student goes into labor as she is finishing her paper. She fails to meet the deadline. Her grade: an F. Harsh. Heartless. Hateful! The foolish virgins make it back to the door. They have waited the whole night with the other five. We don’t hear those five interceding on their behalf. Still, the bridegroom would not let them in. There is no reversal. There is no adjustment. There is no leeway. It just seems so heartless. It’s all judgment. Where is the grace?
I don’t see it in the bridegroom. He’s a bouncer! I don’t see it in the wise virgins. They’re selfish! I don’t see it in the foolish virgins. They’re basically freeloaders. Where is the grace?
Parable of the Ten Virgins (1954) Altarpiece by Tove Marika Jansson (1914-2001) Present location: Teuva Church, South Ostrobothnia, Finland.
Then, it occurs to me that there is one other character in this parable who has been overlooked. Someone cries out at midnight, “Behold, the bridegroom! Come out to meet him!” (Mt. 25:6) Who is this voice crying out at midnight? Who is this alarm who wakes up both the wise and the foolish to meet the long-awaited bridegroom? Who alerts everyone that the deadline is near? The parable doesn’t tell us. But, if not for this voice, the virgins would not have known that the bridegroom is coming. If not for this voice, they would have slept through the night. If not for this voice, the bridegroom would have missed the welcome from the wise.
I find this helpful in reading this parable. Often it helps me to see myself as a character in a parable. I know I’m not the bridegroom. That’s the Lord! I’m not as prepared as the wise. I’m also not a slacker like the foolish. Yet, I can see myself more as the voice who alerts everyone that the Lord is near (cf. Mt. 25:6). I can see myself as the voice who invites everyone to meet Him. I can see myself as an alarm clock for the Kingdom.
I can alert everyone about the Lord’s coming through my preaching of the Gospel. But I can also signal to all that the Kingdom has already begun in my life by preferring nothing to the work of God (cf. Rule of St. Benedict 43:3), by recognizing and serving Him when He appears in the guise of the guest and the least (cf. Mt. 25:40), by continually feeding the flickering flame of my faith with the anointing oil of His grace. I can be an alarm clock that chimes: “Behold, the bridegroom! Come out to meet him!” (Mt. 25:6)
Perhaps, there’s one other reason why I hate this parable. This parable is an alarm for all who are falling asleep. And I hate alarms! They disrupt my sleep. They rouse me with their reminders. They make me get up and get going. I hate alarms, but, Lord, do I need them! Without an alarm, I would miss out on a lot.
What was I thinking when I signed up to preach this Mass? I certainly didn’t expect a wake-up call. But I also didn’t expect to be challenged to be a wake-up call. But that’s what I’m called to be today: I’m called to be a wake-up call for both the wise and foolish, crying out in the dark: “Get up and get ready! The Lord is near!”
Homily for the Solemnity of All Saints Preached on November 1, 2023, at the Saint Thomas Aquinas Chapel, Saint Meinrad Seminary, St. Meinrad, Indiana Readings: Revelation 7:2-4, 9-14; Psalm 24:1-6; 1 John 3:1-3; Matthew 5:1-12
Before me is the blank wall of the Church of All Saints. I have been given complete liberty to decorate it any way I please. This tells me that this is a dream because no pastor in the history of the Church has ever enjoyed that much artistic freedom. Right next to me are Fr. Denis and Fr. Guerric.
“Just say the word,” Fr. Denis chimes in, “I know somebody who can paint over every square inch of that wall. Name the artwork, pick the time period, and we’ll make it happen.”
“I don’t know,” Fr. Guerric interjects. “I would rather put a big wooden crucifix at the center and not crowd the wall with clutter. There is something beautiful about a blank canvas.”
Thankfully, the two senior monks move to the peanut gallery where they continue their discussion about sacred art. I approach the sanctuary, and I pick up the Book of the Gospels, hoping to find some inspiration. I open the book and flip through the pages. Here it is: The Gospel for the Solemnity of All Saints.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven” (Mt. 5:3).
I look up from the page, and right at that moment I see figures appearing on the blank wall. It’s as though an invisible hand is drawing open the drapes to give me a glimpse into the eternal.
I see Katharine Drexel in the habit of her Blessed Sacrament sisters. She is surrounded by schoolchildren: some African-American; others native American. All of them are showing her their brand-new pencils. I recall the pencil stubs in her now-closed shrine in Bensalem, Pennsylvania. She would trade the kids’ pencil stubs for brand-new pencils. She would use those stubs to write return letters on the blank side of old correspondence. She beams as she admires the artwork that her students have drawn with their brand-new pencils.
I keep reading the Gospel.
“Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Mt. 5:4).
Mother Cabrini appears on the corner of the wall. She is in the middle of a crowd of Italian immigrants. A young widow whom she has assisted approaches her and introduces her children and grandchildren. “This one’s a teacher,” she says. “That one’s a doctor; that one’s a priest.”
“Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land” (Mt. 5:5).
I watch as the lepers of Molokai ask their priest, Damien de Veuster, to sit on a chair. Each one takes his and her turn to wash his tired feet, dry them with a towel, and kiss them.
“Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied” (Mt. 5:6).
An aged Vincent de Paul is assisted around by orphans as he meets the multitude whom his society has helped. They are dressed in their best hand-me-downs and thank him for the meals that helped them tide their lives over jobless days and homeless months.
“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy” (Mt. 5:7).
I marvel at John of God being carried on the shoulders of the plague victims whom he had picked up from the streets and cradled on their deathbeds.
“Blessed are the clean of heart, for they will see God” (Mt. 5:8).
There’s Maria Goretti being presented with a beautiful gown. The gown has been hand-sewn with details of white lilies. by Alessandro Serenelli. The criminal lust that was once in his eyes has now been replaced with a look of chaste love.
“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God” (Mt. 5:9).
I think that’s Stanley Rother, the shepherd who would not run away, welcoming his flock from Santiago Atitlan.
“Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven” (Mt. 5:10).
That looks like Margaret Clement, Thomas More’s foster daughter. There she is with her milk-can where she hid the meat that she fed to the Carthusian monks being starved to death by King Henry VIII. It is now the monks’ turn to serve her at table at the Lamb’s high feast.
“What do you see?” Fr. Denis asks, noticing my eyes fixed on the sanctuary wall. “I see a great multitude of saints,” I answer. “There’s a host of holy men and women rejoicing that they are in the company of the countless unnamed saints whom they have prayed and worked hard to lead to Heaven.”
Communion of Saints (2002) Detail from the North Tapestries Gallery by John Nava (born 1947) Present location: Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels, Los Angeles, California, United States.
“Anyone whom you recognize?” Fr. Guerric inquires.
“I think that’s Miss Marcelina Torres, my grade school religion teacher. She never got married,but there she is, surrounded by a huge family. That one is the religious sister whom she prepared for her first Holy Communion. Those are my classmates who later taught catechism at their home parishes. The others I recognize as upperclassmen with their families.”
“Do you see yourself there?” Fr. Denis asks. “Do you see any of the priests whom you’ve taught? The couples whom you’ve prepared for marriage? The parishioners whom you anointed on their sickbeds? Do you see Armbruster and Rosko still vested in their switched dalmatics?”
“Well, Father,” I reply. “It’s a vision of the Paradiso, not the Purgatorio.”
We laugh at my response. After a brief silence, Fr. Guerric adds quietly, “Well, you still have time.”
I stare at that wall, bright and white like a baptismal garment. I guess Fr. Guerric is right: There’s something beautiful about a blank canvas, something beautiful about a slate wiped clean: it promises so many possibilities.
Homily for Friday of the Twenty-fourth Week in Ordinary Time Preached on September 22, 2023, at the Saint Thomas Aquinas Chapel, Saint Meinrad Seminary, St. Meinrad, Indiana Readings: 1 Timothy 6:2-12; Psalm 49:6-7, 8-10, 17-20; Luke 8:1-3
Next stop: Capernaum. That will be easy. The synagogue is right next to Simon’s house (cf. Lk. 4:38). We can count on his mother-in-law to put on a spread for us after Jesus finishes preaching (cf. Lk. 4:39). Maybe, while we’re there, we can hit up one of Levi’s friends for a banquet. Those tax collectors sure know how to party (cf. Lk. 5:29). I know, I know: the Pharisees and scribes will get upset about it (cf. Lk. 5:30). But what they don’t understand is that it’s always a chore to get a table anywhere for thirteen grown men. Jesus might be able to fast for forty days in the desert (cf. Lk. 4:1-2), but these Twelve are always hungry. They would snack on heads of grain while walking through a field on a Sabbath (cf. Lk. 6:1). They would cozy up to a kid with a lunchbox in a hungry crowd of five thousand (cf. Jn. 6:9). They would always wonder what they are having for dinner after listening to a parable about yeast (cf. Lk. 13:20-21), or a banquet (cf. Lk. 14:16-24), or a fattened calf (cf. Lk. 15:23, 30).
So, it shouldn’t shock anyone that there are women in their retinue (cf. Lk. 8:1-3). It shouldn’t come as a surprise that there are “many others who provided for them out of their resources” (Lk. 8:3). Someone has to feed these boys. Someone has to do their laundry. Someone has to pay for their lodging as they travel up and down the country.
Feeding the Multitude (1433) Illumination on Parchment by Daniel of Uranc. Present location: Matenadaran, Yerevan, Armenia.
It shouldn’t surprise anyone that the Twelve need all the help they can get. But Jesus?! Jesus is supposed to be the Messiah: the Son of God (cf. Lk. 9:20)! How could God let His Son have “nowhere to rest His head” (Lk. 9:58)? How could God let His Son rely on the kindness of people? How could God let His Son be so poor (cf. 2 Cor. 8:9)?
I’ve heard Jesus preach about the Kingdom of God (cf. Lk. 13:18, 20), but I’ve yet to see Him wear a crown of gold. I’ve watched him feed a crowd of five thousand (cf. Lk. 9:14-17); yet He would only pray for His daily bread (cf. Lk. 11:3). I’ve heard that He silenced a storm at sea (cf. Lk. 8:23-25), but His enemies He would not shut down. Clearly, this must be the Son of God! Then, why would He need me for anything?
Next stop: Capernaum. That will be easy. What will be difficult is to understand why the Son of God would insist on choosing a sinner like me to provide Him with anything.
Homily for the Feast of Saint Matthew, Apostle and Evangelist Preached on September 21, 2023, at the Saint Meinrad Archabbey Church of Our Lady of Einsiedeln, St. Meinrad, Indiana Readings: Ephesians 4:1-7, 11-13; Psalm 19:2-5; Matthew 9:9-13
“As Jesus passed by, He saw a man named Matthew sitting at the customs post” (Mt. 9:9).
Everyone else saw a man who was occupied at his day job: a clerk buried in ledgers and lists, a publican busy with tolls and taxes. Everyone else saw a collaborator with the enemy, a traitor to his own people. To the Romans, he was nothing more than a Jew; to the Jews, he was worse than a Roman. Everyone else saw a sinner headed for hell.
As He passed by, Jesus saw something else. He saw a man who was fed up with material things and hungry for something more. He saw a fertile field ready to receive the seed of His Word (cf. Mt. 13:8). He saw a saint in the making.
Everyone else looked at the man sitting at the customs post with judgment in their eyes. As Jesus passed by, He looked at that same man but gazed at him with love and mercy. “He said to him, ‘Follow Me.’ And he got up and followed him.” (Mt. 9:9). All it took for Matthew to walk away from everything was one look.
Money might buy everything. But mercy? Mercy could steal a soul for Heaven with just one look.
The Calling of Saint Matthew (ca. 1539-1540). Oil on panel by Jan Sanders van Hemessen (ca. 1500-ca. 1566). Present location: Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, Austria.
Homily for the Memorial of Our Lady of Sorrows Preached on September 15, 2023, at the Saint Thomas Aquinas Chapel, Saint Meinrad Seminary, St. Meinrad, Indiana Readings: 1 Timothy 1:1-2, 12-14; Psalm 16:1-2, 5, 7-8, 11; John 19:25-27
“At the cross her station keeping stood the mournful Mother weeping close to Jesus to the last” (Stabat Mater).
She stood at the foot of the cross (cf. Jn. 19:25). She stood. She did not sit on a rock after the long uphill climb to Calvary. She did not lie on the ground, faint from watching the suffering inflicted on her Child. She “did not grovel in the dust” (cf. St. John Henry Newman, Meditations and Devotions, ed. WP Neville, 60) or beg the crowd on her knees to spare her only Son. The evangelist is very clear: she stood by the cross with her sister and the Magdalene (cf. Jn. 19:25).
I understand why she wanted to bethere, despite the fact that being there would have broken her immaculate heart into a thousand pieces. I understand why she wanted her Son to see herthere, to urge Him to fulfill His purpose now that His hour had come. I understand why she stayed to the bitter end. She wanted to be with Him to the last as she had been there from the start.
She stood at the foot of the cross (cf. Jn. 19:25). How did she not collapse from the weight of her sorrow? Where did she find the strength to stand by the cross of her Son?
I remember my grandfather’s funeral several years ago. I presided over the burial at the cemetery at Holy Mary while my grandmother Dionisia stood by the grave of her husband of 66 years. She was able to stand because someone was holding her up. My uncle Alex had his arms around her waist while my grandmother rested her tear-stained face on his shoulder. My grandmother did not collapse from the weight of her sorrow because she had someone to lean on. She did not rely on her own strength to endure her pain and her loss. Her own strength was not enough. She needed someone to be strong with her.
Crucifixion, Isenheim Altarpiece (ca. 1512-1515) Detail from the Altarpiece by Mathias Grünewald (ca. 1470-1528) Present location: Unterlinden Museum, Colmar, Alsace, France.
She stood at the foot of the cross (cf. Jn. 19:25). But the Sorrowful Mother was not standing there all alone. She was being held up by the disciple whom Jesus loved. Or, better yet, both of them were holding each other up, trying desperately to hold it all together while everything was falling apart right before their very eyes. As the Lord gazed down from the cross, He saw His mother resting her tear-stained face on the chest of the disciple whom He loved. That disciple had rested his own head on the chest of the Lord at the Last Supper (cf. Jn. 13:23-25). Perhaps the Lord was doing more than entrusting His mother and His disciple to each other. Perhaps He was pointing out to them: See: you have each other to lean on. “Behold, your son” (Jn. 19:26). “Behold, your mother” (Jn. 19:27).
She stood at the foot of the cross (cf. Jn. 19:25). She stood. She stood by her Son. But she didn’t stand alone. She didn’t have to stand alone. Her Son would not let her stand alone. “He said to His mother, ‘Woman, behold, your son’” (Jn. 19:26). Her Son would not let his disciple stand alone. “He said to the disciple, ‘Behold, your mother’” (Jn. 19:27).
There is no pain, there is no sorrow, there is no cross that the Lord expects us to withstand on our own. He gives us Himself. But He has also given us each other.
Homily for the Commemoration of All Souls Preached on November 2, 2022, at the Saint Thomas Aquinas Chapel, Saint Meinrad Seminary, St. Meinrad, Indiana Readings: Isaiah 25:6, 7-9; Psalm 23:1-6; 2 Corinthians 5:1, 6-10; Luke 24: 13-16, 28-35
April 25, 1998, at my maternal grandparents’ 50th Wedding Anniversary Party at Sa Libis ng Nayon, Angeles City, Philippines. Standing, left to right, are my maternal grandparents: Dionisia “Apung Neni” de Guzman-Flores and Anacleto “Apung Kitung” Gania Flores. Seated, left to right, are my Mom: Amelita Flores-Zamora; Mama: Victoria Simbillo-Zamora; and me.
I didn’t cry at Mama’s funeral. I didn’t shed a tear when I received the news of her death. I didn’t weep when I dashed a handful of dirt at her casket. I didn’t cry for months after her burial, and—if I was going to be honest—it bothered me.
It bothered me because people thought that I didn’t care. In a culture where mourning was an Olympic sport, one’s wails, one’s tears, and one’s swooning from sorrow were the measures of one’s love for the deceased. There were no wails from me. There were no tears, and, thankfully, no swooning.
My cousin Gilbert came up to me after the funeral and told me that he was shocked that I was able to hold it together. I told him that somebody had to. I. Had. To. I had to because I was presiding and preaching the funeral Mass. If I couldn’t keep it together, we would’ve never made it to the cemetery.
I discovered something about me that day. I discovered that I had the ability to delay my grief. Apparently, I knew how to hit the snooze button on my sorrow and be a priest for my family. As soon as I heard that Mama died, I knew that I couldn’t be a mourner; I had to be the minister. And, as the minister, I made sure that Mama got the funeral she deserved. I made sure that I preached with conviction: “On this mountain the Lord of hosts…will destroy death forever. The Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces” (Is. 26:6, 8). See: not a tear in my eye! Somebody had to show that death wasn’t going to get the better of us I decided that it was going to be me.
Several months after her funeral, I was going through some old correspondence. I found a letter from Mama, the only one that she had sent me during her life. In the letter, she complained about her health and enumerated all sorts of excuses why she couldn’t travel from Minnesota to Kentucky for my priesthood ordination. Then she listed a litany of names two pages long. “Say a Mass for them,” she wrote. I read the list. There was her sister, Angelita, who died from ovarian cancer. Darang Lita scolded me after I got lost during one of our big family vacations in Baguio. There was her brother, Jesusito. Bapang Situk had a different wife on every other island in the archipelago. He needed a novena of Masses to save his soul. There was her father, Faustino, Apung Tinu, whom I never knew. Her stepfather, Bernabe, Apung Bebing, who taught me how to pump water from the deep well. There were aunts, uncles, cousins, and neighbors on that list: names that I knew and names that were new to me. I stared at that letter, one of the few mementos that I had from her, and I lost it. I was a bawling mess.
Who knew that a letter could break me?
I was crying. I was crying because I knew that I’d never receive another letter from her again. I was crying because she was never going to shove another banana cue into my mouth, even as I complained that it was not sanitary to eat the deep-fried brown-sugar-covered plantain from the street vendor. I was crying because I couldn’t pick up the phone and hear her correct my pronunciation of Niagara Falls. She had been there, and she had seen the spelling, and it said: Nah-yah-gah-rah Polls. I was crying because this woman who wasn’t my birth mother took me in after my Mom lost it when my baby brother died and raised me with her seven kids—my first cousins— and to her dying day called me her son. I was crying because I remembered that her widowed mother couldn’t afford to send her to school. She told me that she would squat right outside the window of a classroom and there learned how to read, write, and do her arithmetic. The ground was her notebook; her finger was her pen. This was the woman who paid for me to go to Catholic school every time my parents said that they couldn’t afford it. I was crying because I found out from her letter that she never learned how to use punctuation marks. I was crying because I realized that this woman who taught me how to pray the rosary had made it to only one of my Masses: her funeral.
But I was also crying because I knew that that wasn’t true. I knew that she never missed any one of my Masses since her funeral. I knew that she was there every time I whispered her name in the remembrance of the dead. I was crying because I could see her gathering our family around the altar: Lola, my grandmother, who taught me how to pray, my great-grandmother Alejandra, Apung Anding, who taught me how to play cards, my baby brother Emir who left us when I was two, every name in her list and every Zamora, Flores, de Guzman, Soriano, Torres, Antonio, Gania, Gonzales in the afterlife. I was crying because I knew that wherever she was she was telling everybody: “That’s my boy!” I was crying because I could see her applauding my preaching to poor Ambrose and Augustine, and those two Church Fathers had to clap along because they had never known the fear of God until they had met my Mama’s eyes. I was crying because I knew that, even in the afterlife, Mama could find ways to embarrass me.
It was then that I understood that not all tears for the dead were shed in sorrow. Some tears were shed for joy. Others were shed in thanksgiving; still others in praise to God.
I remembered the prophecy of Isaiah: “On this mountain…the Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces” (Is. 25:6, 8). At first, I thought that it meant that God would remove every reason to shed tears. But then, I realized that that wasn’t the promise. The promise was that God would be there to wipe the tears away. He won’t get rid of the tears. Rather, He’d be there to put His hand on our faces and tenderly wipe our tears away.
Who knew that I’d ever need to hear that? I needed to hear that because I’d surely be a crying mess when I got to see Mama again.
Better than a Thousand Elsewhere 