Lust

(A very dated reflection - evidently so - but hopefully still apt. It's probably no coincidence that it was written right about this time of the month last year, because somehow, during this season of Lent, I thought it would be appropriate to share. :-) )

I have a new phone. It’s nothing special, just a 7650. Oh wait, what am I saying, it IS special. I wouldn’t be writing about it otherwise!

See, it’s the phone I’ve always wanted. It took me a while before I finally could call one of those babies my own, but it was well worth it…I love this phone and all the stuff it can do and how it looks with all its pretty colors. But most of all, I love how it became mine.

I first saw a 7650 up close when Ney tried to take my picture with his brand new one sometime in January of last year (funny how I even remember the time – 9:30 a.m. – and place – Starbucks at the Mega Strip). At the time I didn’t need a new phone: my 8310 was still serving me well. But I was immediately “in crush.” Later that year, when I really, really wanted one of those hi-tech PDA-camera-phones and was ready to retire my old faithful Nokia, I impulsively got myself an Amazing Phone upon the expert advice of tekkie friends. Thinking back on it, I actually settled…on something I had imagined to be “better,” but wasn’t really – not in my book anyway. No matter how amazing it was, and how many more features it had, it just wasn’t a 7650. So my poor new smartphone suffered the fate of most things that are the object of immediate gratification – I promptly lost interest and left it to gather dust at home. Until it found a new home with my friend Tiboy, who only last week rather jokingly suggested that I trade my AP for his - you guessed it - 7650. You can imagine how happy the two of us came out of that bargain! Oh yeah, and Tiboy and his good-as-new AP are thrilled too. Heh heh…

But seriously. Good old Oswald Chambers once spoke about a familiar evil, and not just in its traditional connotation: “Dejection stems from one of two sources – I have either satisfied a lust or have not had it satisfied. Lust means ‘I must have it at once.’ Spiritual lust causes me to demand an answer from God, instead of seeking God Himself who gives the answer. What have I been hoping or trusting God would do? Is today ‘the third day’ and He has still not done what I expected? Am I therefore justified in being dejected and in blaming God?”

I think that the reason why lust is so dangerous - and ultimately disastrous – is because it is all about getting what WE want, without a minute’s consideration of what God wants for us. Or perhaps in selfish disregard of it. Even the most innocent of desires can be horribly destructive if we attempt to pursue them without submitting them to Him. And even when we do, we get impatient and act upon them anyway when He does not immediately gratify, no matter how desperately we want (or think we want) something. If my little phone experience is any indication of what happens when we act upon our wants on our own, whether or not we satisfy them, the result is that we are eventually left frustrated and unfulfilled – especially when we’ve allowed ourselves to “settle” for less what He had actually planned. Only when it is in consonance with what He wants, and in His own masterful timing, does the fulfillment of our dearest desire perfectly come to pass – indeed, I believe that sometimes we are made to patiently wait in order for us to determine whether we genuinely desire something, or whether the “want” is fleeting and will fade over time.

For He knows the deepest desires of our hearts even before we do; in making Him our joy will He give them to us (Psalm 37:4). Through the years He has been faithful with this, in my life: weeding out the temporal desires and heightening – while eventually fulfilling - the genuine: from the big desires to the littler ones like His gift to me of the phone I “crushed” on. And now that He is my joy, my one desire is that all my will and my wants coincide with His, so that I never “settle” for anything less!

“I rely, my whole being relies, Yahweh, on your promise. My whole being hopes in the Lord, more than watchmen for daybreak; more than watchmen for daybreak let Israel hope in Yahweh.” (Psalm 130:5-7)

23 February 2004

Promises

This week, I've been thinking a lot about promises. Not just God's promises to me, but about my promises to Him...and how He has always managed to hold me to them.

A couple of weeks ago, I was having a profound conversation about God, spirituality, and mission with Father Edgar of Kabayan (did I ever mention that this time last year I did not know even one priest on a personal level, not considering my Tito Father Dante who is family and thus does not count? The first time I was to actually "meet" and become friends with a priest was the same occasion I met and befriended a bishop! Anyway, more about that next time). We were talking about my conversion, and, when I mentioned a long-standing half-hearted "labas-sa-ilong" pact I'd made with God in 1994, the good Father said, "Ah, no wonder...you made a promise to God? He'll make sure you keep it."

How was I to know that the "promise" I made to God during that Mission Mass so long ago - a promise I knew I'd never keep as soon as I made it - would turn out to be the deepest desire of my heart ten years later? If we were to believe that He is a "bargaining" God, He sure kept His end of the deal: not only did I pass the Bar, sanity intact, but He made sure I did with flying colors and a not-too-shabby ranking that my best friends still like to brag about to this date. He gave me ten years of cutting-edge, cut-throat, intellectually and financially fulfilling legal practice, with some fantastic media work thrown in on the side. But when all my dreams came true (because, according to Sir Francis Drake, my dreams were small and few), it was time to live His dreams for me.

Come to think of it, He's managed to hold me to many of the promises I've made to Him, big or small, no matter if I've initially fumbled and broken them time and again. But it is only through His grace that I manage to squeak through.

On November 9, 2002, after 16 years of chain-smoking a maximum of three packs a day, I promised to quit if my best friend showed up at his Life in the Spirit Seminar. He did, and, only through God's sustenance and despite many urges and temptations, I haven't had a cigarette since.

During the Easter Vigil of 2003, I "died" to my favorite sin and resolved to give up the ugliest part of myself that was killing my soul...and, only through God's abundant grace and sustenance, haven't fallen for that again since.

While in line to have my Bible signed by the great Catholic convert and apologist Steven Ray, I signed up for a weekly Holy Hour against abortion and promised to devote my Thursdays, from 8-9 p.m., to praying the Holy Rosary. I'd been unwittingly derelict in that particular promise until this last Thursday, when, after coming from a meeting in Magallanes and en route to picking up a friend at The Fort, I felt a compelling desire to adore God as He is present in the Blessed Sacrament. I didn't have to go as far as my intended destination, San Miguel in Bonifacio, because I found myself in an intense hour of prayer at the Adoration Chapel of Sanctuario de San Antonio. And that hour was precisely timed, because, although I'd wanted to stay a longer, I was suddenly drawn to a notice reminding visitors to vacate the chapel at 9 p.m. because of the nightly cleaning. Which was just as well, considering that my friend, who was supposed to be working 'til 10 p.m., texted that he was free an hour earlier. It was only then that I was reminded of the weekly hour of prayer I'd signed up for!

Finally, only today in the wee hours of the morning, en route to Abra and in a not-entirely-pleasant mood, I woke up to a pit stop, and found myself alone in the SUV while the tires were being checked for air. I looked up and saw a figure in rags crouched in the corner amidst the garbage under an electrical post. I - or anyone else for that matter - would have missed him, if not for the keen eyesight the Lord had gifted me with at that particular moment. I was definitely not in the mood to see this pathetic creature covered with grease and dirt, much less to reach out to him; I was on a weekend "vacation," for crying out loud! But at the same time, my heart sent out a silent prayer to God, for guidance as to what to do (in a more conscious, wakeful state I would know exactly what to do, but I was sleepy, cranky, and tired!). It didn't take Him more than 30 seconds to remind me that whatsoever I did to the least of my brethren, I did to Him, and of the promise I'd made to always respond when He beckoned. Before I knew it, I was out of the car, lunchbox of daing na bangus, ginataang puso ng saging, and rice in tow (I'd carried my home-packed dinner just in case we didn't find any Lenten-Friday-friendly eateries on the way...God's beautiful plan indeed kept that meal especially reserved for this man!), approaching the dirty figure with mottled hair who was pawing in the refuse for his very late evening meal. For a split second I thought that if he looked up as I neared him, he would snarl like an animal and pounce on me...but God gave me the courage to draw near and tell the man of the good meal that was before him. The poor child of God looked up, with clear eyes, not quite understanding, but nevertheless without intimidation, and as I could not quite bear to stay on longer, I walked away. Promise fulfilled, maybe not as much as I would have wanted, but nevertheless, He held me to it.

I know now that God holds us to the promises we make to Him, oftentimes by His grace alone. :-)

WhattaDay

As always, whenever I need affirmation or reassurance from God as to where He wants to take me and in which direction He is pointing me, I take a day off to immerse myself in the first mission He led me to. And, as always, He did not fail to fill me with His grace and steadfast guarantee that things are indeed in His hands and all will be well, as long as He is in the driver's seat.

I don't know if I've mentioned it in any of my reflections, but a handful of people know that this year, I've given the Lord carte blanche over my life. For the first time in my life, I have no schedules set in stone, just vague plans pencilled in. I've given God supreme authority over my life's Filofax. And as I hold in my heart the truths of Romans 8:28 and Jeremiah 29:11-13, I'm pretty excited over what He has in store. In the last couple of months, He's given me brief glimpses of the "cards" He holds in His hand, but oftentimes there's just light enough to take the next step.

I needed that light yesterday, more than ever, and I sure got it. I went back to Montalban for the first time since December, to accompany Kuya Joe Dean on his weekly visit and to spend time with some of the children I love and miss so much. Much to my surprise and delight, one of the other volunteers and a potential land donor couldn't join us, so it was just me and Kuya again. It's been a while since I've had a one-on-one with Kuya, but these are the rare occasions that never fail to bless me tremendously. I always feel so honored every time I get to spend time with him, because he is the closest living thing to the kind of Christian I would like to be.

His every move is a prayer, and he always prays aloud with such clarity. He's the one who taught me to thank God aloud and sing to Him without shame or reservation any time I feel like it (although when he himself starts to sing, I'm still a little timid to join in). And since almost every little thing he does is for the glory of the One he has given his life to, God's response is so very, very evident. I always tell people that if they want to see a miracle, all they have to do is spend time with Kuya Joe Dean as he goes about his mission. His very life is a miracle in itself, but God's movements are resplendently demonstrated in the exercise of his faith, a faith that strives for absolute communion with God's will.

Since God's will was what I was seeking out, I drew close to Kuya's light, hoping to be warmed by the glow of the Spirit working in him. And I was. I got to see my "kids," to help out however I could, to visit the relocated boys' new household and witness how much the former Delta rugby boys have changed. I got to meet two new friends - religious sisters so excited to share in God and Kuya's work to shelter street girls in a new household. And, best of all, I got to see and hear God through one of the greatest servants He has on earth, as we started to talk about God's plans for me. It was enough to make me want to weep - which I always seem to do in the presence of holiness - but somehow I was a little too embarassed to do so. What Kuya told me during the course of the trip back to Project 6 reassured and confirmed God's plans for me, and gave me the big dose of the encouragement I needed just then. Today I am still on shaky legs in following the direction I'm pointed towards, but He is my solid ground and sure foundation and He has never failed to pick me up and guide my way...indeed, as He told me in the midst of worship last night, "Walk in faith." And so the next chapter of my mission begins...

When I got back to the center, I was pleasantly surprised to have a special someone drop by - Sister Daisy, and whattaDay indeed she is! It was her birthday, and, being such a generous soul so radiant with the love of God, she shared her happy day with the kids and streetparents at He Cares (and the celebration continues on Saturday!). WhattaDay - there are very few new female friends I can truly look up to and be great friends with (a theory that I share with my longtime girl friends is that as women get older, we have less patience for the frivolities and familiar "tactics" employed by other females because we've been-there-been-that-style-mo-tita ourselves) and Day is definitely one of them. She has the authenticity I value most in any person, male or (especially) female. And that authenticity shines through in the way she chooses to live her Christianity - as well as in her choice of a husband. O ha, san ka pa? :-) I love you Day...once again, you showed up at the right moment; you are one of those constant and happy reassurances that God has sent my way.

Whatta day, Whatta Day!

Masters and Patrons

"Even though the poor are often rough and unrefined, we must not judge them from external appearances nor from the mental gifts they seem to have received. On the contrary, if you consider the poor in the light of faith, then you will observe that they are taking the place of the Son of God who chose to be poor. Although in his passion he almost lost the appearance of a man and was considered a fool by the Gentiles and a stumbling block by the Jews, he showed them that his mission was to preach to the poor: 'He sent me to preach the good news to the poor.' We also ought to have this same spirit and imitate Christ's actions, that is, we must take care of the poor, console them, help them, support their cause.

"Since Christ willed to be born poor, he chose for himself disciples who were poor. He made himself the servant of the poor and shared their poverty. He went so far as to say that he would consider every deed which either helps or harms the poor as done for or against himself. Since God surely loves the poor, he also loves whose who love the poor. For when one person holds another dear, he also includes in his affection anyone who loves or serves the one he loves. That is why we hope that God will love us for the sake of the poor. So when we visit the poor and needy, we try to be understanding where they are concerned. We sympathize with them so fully that we can echo Paul's words: 'I have become all things to all men.' Therefore, we must try to be stirred by our neighbors' worries and distress.

"It is our duty to prefer the service of the poor to everything else and to offer such service as quickly as possible. Charity is certainly greater than any rule. Moreover, all rules must lead to charity. With renewed devotion, then, we must serve the poor, especially outcasts and beggars. They have been given to us as our masters and patrons." - St. Vincent de Paul

Coming Down From The Mountain

I just came down from the mountains, and from one very intense mountaintop experience. It’s still difficult for me to find the right words to describe the last week, so I’ll put off any attempts until a more appropriate time. But an entry from my mind’s journal should suffice for the moment: “What more can you ask for in a place where God is so palpably present – in the Blessed Sacrament only and always a few steps away from your bedroom, in the silent mountains and the streaming sunlight and the sentry of ten trillion stars, in the kind hospitality and warmth of the locals and your mutual recognition of the face of Jesus in each other?”

It’s almost impossible to come down from the mountain after an experience like this; God knows how we tried to delay the “descent” until the last possible moment. But, as always, we must “come down.” Not a very pleasant experience after seeing the world from God’s vantage point, high above the ground, way past the clouds, and witnessing what must be the closest thing to the dawn of creation, when He divided light from darkness and saw it was good. And yet the step down is a necessary step, if we choose to continue on this pilgrimage towards Zion, the only mountain we can truly call home.

My own pilgrimage has brought me to a place as far removed from the beauty of Kabayan, Benguet and its people, as possible. The streets and slums of Quezon City are dark, ugly, and oppressive, and evil comes in a multitude of guises. But this is where God has called me to “come down” in this particular portion of my journey home to Him, and this is where He has asked me – and perhaps some of you as well – to look for His presence. For He is there in the faces of the hungry, just as He is in the majesty of the sunset; He is there in the wounds of the oppressed, just as He is in the symphony of the rustling pine trees; He is there in the naked, the shackled, the unloved, just as He is in the breathtaking symmetry of the constellations. In fact, He is even more present in the most pitiful and pathetic of His creations than in the most glorious…because He Himself said so. To love the sunset and the stars and all the other wonders of His creation is perhaps the easiest thing to do – loving the “uglier” works of His hands, and looking for His beautiful presence beneath the soot and grime and rugby, is a little more of a challenge.

And so I’m back home in the “ugliness” of traffic-congested, air-polluted, star-deficient (except perhaps for movie stars?) Quezon City. “What’s the point?” was the chorus repeated over and again as we resisted the descent to the drudgery of urban life. But as I got back to the work that God would have me do right now, I got the point. The occasional mountaintop experiences are but brief glimpses of what it must be like to be on THE ultimate mountaintop, inspirations to buoy us on to continue this difficult journey. In the meantime, we must make our way through the valley until we make our final ascent to Mount Zion to watch the glorious sunrise with Glory Himself.

(This old song is not only secular, but very seventies. I kept singing it in my head before “coming down” to QC, apparently for good reason: it captures a lot of what I realize right now about seeing the beauty underneath the beastliness.)

Hardcore Poetry
Tavares

It depends on who is looking at the tenement walls
Whether he's coming home or passing through
You can walk the streets and find so much to criticize
But that would be the easy thing to do
'Cause there's beauty in the concrete
If you see it with your heart
The sidewalks only hurt you
If you hate them from the start

This is a song not necessarily sweet
I'll pass it on to folks that I never will meet
And if my words don't make history
Just call it hardcore poetry

You can blame the world if troubles come
And knock at your door
Let your weakness cut you down to size
If you find some fault with everything surrounding you
Maybe it's your narrow-minded eyes
'Cause there's music in the city
If your ear is to the ground
Only nonbelievers never hear a single sound

This is a song not necessarily sweet
I'll pass it on to folks that I never will meet
And if my words don't make history
Just call it hardcore poetry

Mission (Part One)

I remember the moment well, just as if it happened only yesterday. I was so high on the Holy Spirit, so in touch with God, so much in love with the Healer of my many hurts and infirmities. And I was so thirsty for His Word that I no longer cared what anyone thought about my reading a Bible right in the middle of UP Coop canteen, as I was eating lunch by myself.

“Ate, ate.”

I looked up from the fascinating words of scripture and saw that a pre-teen girl had seated herself on the bench in front of me, and was now eyeing my meal.

Go away, I’m reading God’s word! The thought silently went through my head as I tried to pretend I wasn’t sharing the table with anyone.

“Sige na, ate,” she repeated, and this time I felt a familiar twinge of annoyance. She didn’t look very impoverished at all; in fact, she looked like she had cleaned up earlier that day, and was even wearing a pair of good looking jeans. The rising irritation grew as another young lady, apparently a friend of my seatmate, joined us at the table with a tray of half-eaten food scored from another table.

“Patawad ha,” I managed to squeak out, as I returned to the Psalms or Malachi or whatever the heck I’d been reading at the time, and to the rest of my lunch. I couldn’t enjoy it very much anyway with the two little mendicants in front of me eating leftovers and constantly eyeing my own P50 meal, so I picked up the pace and chewed as fast as I could, quickly taking my leave without a second glance at the kids. I’m pretty sure they managed to clean up the leftovers on my tray even before I’d gone out the door.

Conscience is one of the most unpleasant necessities in life. Mine is particularly irritating in that it nags me to Kingdom come and won’t quit until I acknowledge and give in to it (it’s God’s voice, after all, so He can afford to be pushy). In this particular case, my conscience didn’t hit home until many hours later, and even then I had a (feeble) defense. I just wasn’t ready to help, at that particular moment. Maybe someday soon, when the Lord would prepare me better.

Thinking back, I can only say…what a crock.

At that particular point in time, I was almost done with my second reading, cover-to-cover, of the Bible. I could quote scripture at the drop of a hat. I’d received some of the greatest teachings and instruction from talks, exhortations, and retreats – I’d even given a few myself. I could even unabashedly worship the Lord from the frontlines, with the best of His worship warriors.

But faced with a hungry child, I had no idea what I was supposed to do, or if I should do anything at all.

One of my favorite spiritual analogies is that of the Dead Sea and the River Jordan. The former is called such because it continually receives deposits from other bodies of water but does not give anything out; it can hold no living thing in its salty, over-mineralized waters, and thus it is “dead.” On the other hand, the Jordan receives water and minerals from other bodies of water, and likewise gives out what it receives through various tributaries. Unlike the Dead Sea, the River Jordan is teeming with life.

I was unwittingly turning into the Dead Sea in my self-centered, comfort-zone Christianity, and God was carving out tributaries to keep that tragedy from taking place. In the next few weeks, He bombarded me with all sorts of situations and circumstances to soften up my salt-saturated hardened heart. The one recurring character He put in the forefront of all these was His “little pencil,” that modern day saint who lived and loved in the streets of Calcutta and carried the Lord’s light into the darkest corners of destitution. Everywhere I looked, there was Mother Teresa. Her life story left me bawling; her life’s work left me ashamed and inadequate. I knew I could never do what she did, so I wept many, many sorrowful tears over my incapacity. One time, in prayer, during one of those weeping sessions, I implored God for the grace to do what His “little pencil” did. Little did I know that I had asked Him for something He was all too willing to give.

It was almost 7:30 on a Tuesday night, and I was rushing to get to a bible study session at Christ the King in Greenmeadows. We were studying the Old Testament, there was going to be a quiz, and our session leader was notoriously tough on latecomers. My usual traffic route was jammed, so I had to look for an alternative way – and when I found it, I had a sudden hankering for a Vietnamese sandwich dinner. I parked my car, placed my order, and crossed the street to a convenience store to buy drinks. As I did, a woman met me from across the other end, sidling up uncomfortably close, while mumbling, “Ma’am, barya po.” I was horrified by the stench that surrounded her like a cloud of putrefied perfume, and avoided her as fast as my feet could take me. This time, my conscience was quick to rise up and cuff me on the neck. I tried to seek out the same woman as I made my way out of the store, but I still had no idea what to do, or if I had the courage to do it. Once again I wept, in frustration, for what I did not and could not do. All these last days I had so looked up to what Mother Teresa was doing, but when faced with what I needed to do for one single person in my own city, I was once again at a loss.

But then it was if the Lord said, just do it.

(To be continued)