Clean our souls

Health is wealth—it is true.  Ask those who have lost it, and you’ll know how sickness reduces one to a pathetic level of poverty that’s worse than mere economic want.  That is why when we are blessed with good health we should do our best to preserve it by using moderation in everything we do: no overeating, over-drinking, overworking, over-playing, over-worrying—no over-anything.  But there are those who—over confident of their “great health” and “fantastic immune system”—dismiss sound  health advice; when they finally fall ill and are put on a diet they would continue indulging their appetites, reasoning that “Me gamot naman eh!” (There are medicines anyway!).  This attitude afflicts many people whether they are learned or not, rich or poor, male or female, clergy or consecrated persons.  Then, when science or their doctors give up on them, they run to Padre Pio, or buy a pilgrimage to Lourdes, or light candles in some other popular shrine—begging for miracles.  I actually know of a few terminally ill persons who zealously did so, only to die without receiving the miracle they prayed for.  It is sad to see them die with eyes open and mouth gaping wide, still hoping for healing. 

The healing of the leper by Jesus (Mark 1: 40-45) is a story with many layers to it.  Usually, we see only the level that is readily visible, and that’s the kind of miracle people are wont to pray for—instant healing.  But isn’t it rather disrespectful to live carelessly—apart from Jesus—and then to ask Him to free us from the disastrous consequences of our carelessness?  It is, of course, unjust, but we Christians are taught that there is also God’s mercy to beg for, and so we go down on our knees and try to feel sorry for our sins.

Like the leper we ask Jesus to “clean me”.  Unlike the leper, our skin may be clean but our souls may not be.  Perhaps the leper’s skin is filthy but his soul is pure—who can say?  Note how he recognizes the Lord’s power, aware of his own deplorable condition.  And so the leper says, “If you wish, you can make me clean.”  Humble in his helplessness he leaves it entirely up to Jesus to make him whole again.

When we ask God to heal our bodies, why not first implore Him to help us clean our souls?  And so we humbly say, as the leper does, “If you wish…”

An open letter to my daughter, the nun

My dearest daughter:  Let me begin this letter with a plea for pardon.  I am aware that what I am about to say may sting you, and yet in conscience I believe that my silence might hurt you more.  I have spent countless nights turning these thoughts over and over in my head—specifically since last Christmas when for a few days we had the privilege of having you at home with us and enjoying all those family reunions and parties—agonizing over how I could share with you my observations without sounding like a meddler.  I do not know how it happened but after you had gone and life went back to normal, bits and pieces of those holiday moments with you would flash back to mind, very much like a silent movie trailer challenging me to listen to what was left unsaid.

Strangely I would catch myself seeing you not just as a nun but also as a daughter I had given up for good, for God.  In fact, I would see through your religious habit the tomboyish grade-schooler, the spunky papa’s girl, the teen-ager beginning to notice boys and scare them away with her high IQ, the budding young woman we had hoped to give us brilliant grandchildren in time, and the radiant “bride of Christ” crowned with roses on her “wedding day.”  As the women’s lib generation would say: “You’ve come a long way, baby!”  Maybe your mom is just getting old and worrisome, but I cannot help singing to you along with Diana Ross your own favorite song, “Do you know where you’re going to?”

Where you are going, my daughter, is my rightful concern, too, in spite of the security you enjoy within the convent walls.  Your being a nun creates expectations in others, whether you like it or not—expectations which, by the nature of your vocation, you may not just take for granted.  The public expects you to be different—because they believe you to be several notches above us in virtue or holiness.  You are aware of this, as your numerous anecdotes about receiving special treatment from strangers reveal.  We, your family, have our own expectations, too, that in the spirit of fairness must not be ignored.  Like all others, rightly or wrongly we do believe you are somehow morally superior to us, after all, you have “given up everything” for God.  As a consecrated person, do you not feel obliged, for love of God, to be what people expect and believe you to be?  And does not God have expectations of you as well?

I hope you will not take offense at my temerity, but for now I do not want to call you “Sister”; instead I just want to think of you as Nina, my daughter who happens to be a nun. I as the woman who brought you to this world feel morally obliged to speak out now, for I do believe God has expectations of me, too.  I may not have a Ph. D. as you do, but child, if your two doctorate degrees teach you to dismiss as grumblings the observations of one who has given birth to and raised six children, then I will not think twice about twisting your ear so you can hear your mother ask, “Do you know where you’re going to?”

As a much younger nun, you were a perfect blessing to us, I’d dare say.  You were much easier to get along with, for one.  You were a model of congeniality and humility for all of us; your nephews and nieces adored you and listened eagerly to your bible stories; your cousins sought your advice; even our house help revered you as you would always volunteer to do the dishes, sweep the floor or change the curtains while vacationing with us.  Your father and I secretly felt very proud of you as we did not have any doubts anymore that you were in the place God had called you to be.  But last Christmas, I sensed a disconnect between that young nun and the 45-year old “Superiora” you are now.  What bothers me is you seem unaware of the effects your ways now have on others.  Or, do you care at all? 

Take, for example, that time when, besides the lechon paksiw and other holiday take-home food you had been given, you asked for the unopened bags of chips and chocolates.  Did you not notice the furtive glances from those at the table as you—loading them into a huge bag—were saying “Walang ganito sa kumbento eh!”  I was quiet lest you think I was depriving you of a little luxury, but I was thinking, “My child, if they don’t give you junk food in the convent, there must be a good reason for it.”  It alarms me as your mother to realize that your appetite for such “goodies” has made you forgetful of your doctor’s warning about the threat of diabetes—and your very own concern about weight gain.

I also noticed something in your conversation.  While it was good that you sounded very well informed about world news—and your nieces and nephews said  you were “cool” to be abreast of internet trends and social media—I missed the way you used to make us see mundane affairs in the light of the gospel.    It was something only you in the family could do—lead us to the Lord through your insights as a daughter of the Church.  Years ago I had felt sure your higher studies, your travels abroad, your interaction with anointed men, and your assignments to important posts would make you an even better story-teller, enriching our lives and drawing people closer to the Lord, but last Christmas I saw that it did not happen.  At one point you even expressed dissatisfaction over the homily of a bishop.  If I had been blind (and therefore could not see your religious habit), I could swear I was just listening to a college professor who may not even be Catholic at all!  I felt sad. 

I as a mother also felt sad for your siblings when you acted disappointed since none of them could accommodate your request for a ride back to your convent.  I know they had done that for you willingly before, but people’s needs change, and so do their priorities, and it upset me that you, Sister Nina, were too insensitive to empathize with them.  They now have growing families, with countless familial duties to cope with, but because they—not even your kuya—could not directly beg off and risk displeasing you, they had to rely on me, your mother, to plead for your consideration.  When I suggested you take a taxi instead, and you snapped, “Such a small favor to ask, and no one can help?  You know I’m afraid to take taxis!” I seethed inside and managed to stifle a curt “Afraid?  So where is your God?”  That night I couldn’t sleep.  I wondered what traumatic thing you had suffered that made you dread taxi rides; you used to take taxis, jeepneys, buses, and tricycles without fuss before you entered the convent.

Your religious habit opens many doors for you—you know how our people hold priests and nuns in high esteem.  People believe you are “malakas kay Lord” and count on your “hotline to God” to obtain favors for them.  But not all of those whom you help are poor, and those who are not have rewarded your friendship and intercession with gifts only the well-off can afford—like iPads, gadgets, branded bags and shoes, etc.  Has this gotten into your head?  Subtly ignited a sense of entitlement in you?  Or am I just guilty of inordinately taking your religious vows more seriously than you are?  Nina, my child, forgive me if I have been too harsh on you, but I only wish to let you know that with what I have seen and heard of you now, I am missing the young nun  we all knew many years ago who by her purity and simplicity spoke to us of a divine reality to strive for in this life.  I have a few more years left before I join your father in the afterlife.  I pray you will look for that young “bride of Christ” and find her still alive in the core of your being, because when I am finally reunited with your father, I am sure he will ask about you; I do not want to have to tell him, “I am sorry I lost her.”