Royal Terror 18 August 2007

So Jesus said, “Leave her alone..” – John 12:7

I once worked for a top official in Malacañang who may have aspired for Osama bin Laden’s throne as the world’s terrorist par excellence.  Diminutive and wizened, she always ate me for breakfast.

She barked orders like a marine drill sergeant with a bad case of migraine and diarrhea.  She wanted things done – immediately, and all at the same time!  She had red marks all over the letters I wrote, making me feel witless by the time she deigned to sign them.  And she enjoyed cutting me down to size in front of my colleagues who would fidget uneasily while she maligned my pedigree to hell and back.

Yet I kept my cool all those times that she made me jump through hoops.  I never shouted back or called her names or walked out on her.  I couldn’t even hate her.  In truth, I pitied her.  So much.

You see, for all her intelligence, for all her power and for all her money, she couldn’t get the better of me.  Despite the things she did to humiliate me, my officemates continued to show me respect while they avoided her like the plague.

If she knew my secret, she would’ve known all her efforts were futile.  If she had asked, I could’ve told her that she was fighting the Lord, who was fighting for me.  Crazy woman! – Lizza V.

Reflection: For the Lord is my tower, and He gives me the power to tear down the walls of the enemy.  In the difficult hour, He will crush the devourer, and bring the powers of darkness underneath my feet.

Be my shield and my fortress, O Lord, for in You I trust.

Reflection written for the 05 April 2005 Catholic reading (Isa 42:1-7; Jn 12:1-11), published in Didache, a daily devotional published by the Shepherd’s Voice Publications.

Moral High Ground 18 August 2007

“I say to you, whoever is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment.” – Mt 5:22

He is my closest friend, one of the persons I admire.

A committed Christian, he has never failed to seek the “common good” in everything that he has done and still does.  His concern is a better society for the Filipino, where ordinary Juan dela Cruz can dream big dreams and watch them happen.

Yet, he holds so much anger in his heart.  At the government for promoting the interests of an elite few; at public servants whom he bitingly calls trapos; at bureaucrats whom he accuses of corruption; at the karaniwang tao for their failure to see the “big picture.”  And his programs?  He has designed several, all of these pioneering, simple and doable, but he has yet to see one implemented.

It is not my place to judge.  Yet I see the anger in the eyes and in his tongue and it lashes at others whom he considers “misguided” or “unfit”.  There could have been opportunities for partnership that would have turned these wonderful projects to reality but he rejected them.  Always, he claimed irreconcilability of values.

Intellectual pride.  Self-righteousness.  Or just plain personal differences.  Whatever it is, all I know is that I hesitate and avoid becoming involved in these projects for fear that I will be judged misguided, unfit or immoral and thus prove unworthy of this “high calling”. – Lizza V.

Reflection: Anger is often the result of a judgment: when you have judged someone beyond redemption and thus unworthy of your association.

Lord, grant me the gift of mercy that I may understand why people do the things that anger me so.  Help me to see that what they have done, I can also do.

Reflection written for the 05 March 2005 Catholic reading (Ezk 18:21-28; Mt 5:20-26), published in Didache, a daily devotional published by the Shepherd’s Voice Publications.

Convicted 18 August 2007

“So they went off and preached repentance.” – Mark 6:12

I’ve always been the rebel – often without a cause.  I’d always do the exact opposite of what others pressured me into doing, even if it killed me.  Sort of cutting my nose just to spite my face.  This has become such a habit that I do it unconsciously, so when well-meaning friends advise me on the right thing to do, I always end up dong the wrong thing.  And often, when I do something wrong, I never own up to my fault.

Except when this friend of mine begins to “advise” me.

He never gets on his high horse and sermonize like a preacher on a pulpit on what I’ve done wrong.  He never utters a word.  When I start a fight, he is the first to make peace.  When I become so full of myself that I become stifling, he heaps praises on me – and means them, too!  When I refuse to help him in the chores, he graciously, happily does them for me.

And that’s how he convicts me.  I see my wrong through the right he does, and I am driven to apologize and make up for what I have done.  The proud rebel disappears and in its place is a repentant friend trying to make amends. – Lizza V.

Reflection: Is your life a living witness to Christ’s call to repentance?  Or is it a strident blaming machine?

Convict me of sin, Lord, when I become so full of myself and so self-righteous.

Reflection written for the 05 February 2005 Catholic reading (1 Kgs 2:1-4, 10-12; 1 Chr 29:10-12; Mk 6:7-13), published in Didache, a daily devotional published by the Shepherd’s Voice Publications.

Touched…Transformed 18 August 2007

“…they brought to him all who were sick with various diseases and racked with pain, those who were possessed, lunatics, and paralytics, and he cured them.” – Matthew 4:24

My old life was one panorama of pain.  The angst of a teenaged girl, face riddled with pimples, rejected by peers and shunned by crushes.  The confusion of a rebellious daughter whose father never told her, even now, that she was loved.  The constant doubts brought on by loneliness and aloneness, the outside looking in.  The distinct stigma of one who never belonged to anyone or to any group.

And I fought back, the only way I knew how; I rejected the world that was rejecting me.  People never saw me smile.  Arrogance was the clothes I donned every morning and never took off at night.  And I chewed out anybody else who dared to tell me I was wrong.  I was like a person born upright yet carrying the hump of a hurting, fuming hunchback everywhere I went…unfriendly, angry, hostile.

Then one day, God came quietly and silently into my life.  No fanfare.  Like a cool breeze in the midst of a humid afternoon.  He clamed my rebelliousness and softened my tough exterior.  He took away the sting of rejection.  Soon, I started not to care if people loved me or hated me.  I learned to smile in the face of indifference.

My old life?  The aches and pains are fading fast from my memory now. – Lizza V.

Reflection:  There is life after pain.  Expose your hurts to God and the cool breeze of His loving will transform that angry welt into a faded scar.

Lord, I’m so new at sharing my pain, but would you please help me focus on You instead of the aches I feel?

Reflection written for the 05 January 2005 Catholic reading (1 Jn 3:22-4:6; Mt 4:12-17, 23-25), published in Didache, a daily devotional published by the Shepherd’s Voice Publications.

Discipline vs. discipling 17 August 2007

Perhaps, the hardest part of single parenting and in fact, parenting in general, is the discipline of the kids.  There’s always the temptation of chucking it and just letting the kids run wild.  But we love our kids and we want them to have a better life so we subject them and ourselves to the rigors of discipline, like it or not.

Often however, we mistake punishment for discipline.  So do our kids.  They hear discipline and they think a well-placed spank on the backside or two weeks’ grounding.  We think of discipline and, whether we admit it or not, we also see the same scenario.

The dictionary defines “discipline” as “to train by instruction and practice, especially to teach self-control to.”  On the other hand, punishment is defined as “a penalty imposed for wrongdoing.” 

Clearly, the two are very disparate things.  Punishment is just one of the measures available to parents.  Other methods include rewards, reinforcement, consistency, modeling and praise.  There are no magic formulas, no “either/or” methods that will prove most effective.  You will have to determine which works best for you and your kid.

However, one thing is certain, you have to communicate your expectations clearly to your children – whether in tidying up rooms, doing the chores, homework, everything.  Like most adults, they cannot read your mind.  And mind you, don’t expect them to understand you the first time either.

What is important is that, if your kids responded positively to your guidance, you reinforce this by rewarding them with acknowledgement or praise for a job well done (hugs, kisses, high-fives…it need not be expensive).  If not, then an unmistakable reprimand should be given immediately.  This will highlight the gravity of their infraction.  If your warning goes unheeded, then that’s the time you impose the appropriate punishment (no TV, grounding) to enforce – quickly – your instruction.

Moreover, it is essential to your child to see that you mean what you say.  Don’t warn or threaten punishment if you’re not serious in enforcing them.  When kids see that you lack the power to put into effect what you said, they will only keep testing your limits to see if they can get away with it.

Sometimes, though, despite all your good intentions and the best methods, being the sole disciplinarian for the single parent will feel like unbridled dictatorship.  This was the case with my friend, Andre*, a single dad with two grown boys.

“My mother and sister essentially looked after my sons while I did the breadwinning,” he says now of his experience.  “I was only called upon to intervene when they needed straightening out.  So the kids looked at me more as an executioner rather than a father.  When I weaned my sons of their care, I found a deep divide between us.  It felt like we were enemies!”

Being a committed Christian from a covenanted community, Andre knew that he was accountable not only for their physical well-being but also for their spiritual growth.  So he brought his family to counseling.  Their advice: the three needed time together to interact.  But for a father who’s been away from fatherhood too long, he didn’t know where to begin.

He sought guidance not only from the elders of the community but also from God whom he recognized as the head of the family.  He maintained a regular prayer time, and during these moments, he would conscript his kids to pray with him.  Andre made it a point that they attended Mass and spent weekends doing things together.

He also instituted a frequent “huddle time” with the boys to discuss each other’s expectations.  Each huddle time would result to agreements to do this or that, to be this or that.  Most of the time, though, the boys broke their pacts.  So when that happened, they returned to the huddle where they negotiated and ironed out new agreements and new ways of doing things that were acceptable to all concerned.

In short, he discipled them.  Like Jesus to the Twelve, he took care of their feeding as well their learning.  In all these circumstances and situations, Andre was with the boys – suffering with them, striving with them, learning with them.

“We still have a long way to go,” he admits now.  “My eldest still has to appreciate my authority but I know that God is at work and I have to trust that in time, He will put order into my family.”

Published as a sidebar in the Special Section of the August 2003 issue of Kerygma on single parenthood.

Just how single is single parenthood? 17 August 2007

Traditionally, single-parent families mean having just one parent directly taking care of the children and providing for them.  Usually, the parent is either separated, widowed or unmarried.  A closer look will reveal that today’s single-parent household also includes one where the other parent is too far away to provide hands-on assistance (which is true for our OFWs) and one where the other parent may still be physically present with the family but is essentially a rotten source of support.  Some examples –

Eileen* became a single parent because her two kids were always watchful about how she would be able to survive Daddy.  “Daddy” was an irresponsible husband who often beat her to assert his “rights.”
 
“I couldn’t afford to stand still,” she now says.  “I had to put a roof over my kids and food in their mouths.  All the precious seconds were spent working to pay all the bills so I didn’t have time for self-pity.  I worked and worked and worked.  The good thing is, I have always had the Lord to help me.”

Eileen started by focusing not on herself but on her kids, providing for them and looking after their well-being.  They were baby steps, but little by little, she was able to change the way she thought and gain a sense of self-worth and a sense of peace by what she has accomplished.

Grace*, whose whose father, James*, is a perennial alcoholic.  James is drunk most of the time and was fired from work because of his inability to stay sober.  He’s never had any job since and we’d always find him with his drinking buddies the whole day.  His wife is left to provide and care for their kids, and therefore, by today’s evolving definitions, Grace’s family is a single-parent family.

Published as a sidebar in the Special Section of the August 2003 issue of Kerygma on single parenthood.

From Darkness into Light: The Rhodora Molina Story 17 August 2007

I was my lola’s favorite apo and just before we went to sleep at night, she would tell me stories about our family.  And through her, I came to know my own life story spanning the years and months before I was born.

Unwanted Third

My father has never been a man of prayer.  If at all, he only prayed during desperate times.  His desire for a male child to carry on his name was a desperate prayer so the first time my mother got pregnant, he went on his knees and appealed for a boy.  His appeal was denied and his eldest daughter was born.  Undeterred, he appealed a second time and was denied yet again. 

The third time my mother got pregnant, he took the bull by its horns so to speak.  He announced that his third child was going to be a boy and acted accordingly.  My grandmother said he started buying baby stuff meant for a boy.  However, when the komadrona (midwife) announced sometime at dawn that I was a girl, he lost his last shred of hope.

Without any word, he went out of our house, looked for a solitary place and got himself roaring drunk.  Around midnight, while he was trying to find his way home, he happened to glance at the marquee of this movie theater in town:  Rhodora.  It was the title of the movie that was showing at that time.

When he got home, he announced that I was to be called Rhodora, the name for his unanswered prayer.

A Deep Longing

As I grew up, I had this deep longing, almost palpable hunger, for my father’s love and attention.  However, he favored my older sisters. 

They were the ones who were praised for some good behavior or other.  They were the ones who did the right things.  Me?  I could never do anything right and my older sisters capitalized on it.

I was always the one who got to do the chores they were supposed to being doing.  I was always the one who got blamed.  I was always the one whom my father whipped with a big, leather belt when I did something wrong.

To avoid all these unpleasantness at home, I sought comfort from my classmate’s parents.  They treated me as their own, favored child.  They were always there when I needed a shoulder to sob on.  From them, I received the full and satisfying blessing that I should have been receiving from my parents but didn’t.

I resented it when my father had to relocate our family because of our meager earnings.  That meant leaving the only people who loved me.

Bad Influence

In 1982, after my father’s death, I encountered the couple again through an accidental meeting with their son.  I remember being so happy seeing them again.  At their place, I was surprised to see a large crowd gathered there.  Later, I learned that the couple were the founders of a group called Samahang Kapatiran Pag-Ibig sa Diyos at sa Kapwa Tao.

It turned out that it was a religious group which sponsored regular novenas, and espoused regular reception of the Sacraments.  I was fascinated with their religiosity and the apparent love and concern that they showed for each other, and which they extended to me.  I really felt I belonged so I became part of what I thought was an authentic, Catholic prayer group.

When the couple slowly introduced new changes into our rites and rituals, I was into it too deeply that I was blissfully unaware of the sacrilegious practices that we were doing.

In 1985, the couple started lambasting the negative aspects of Church worship and the “decadence” of the Catholic priests.  The issues were so sensationalized that it became quite scandalous for us to be seen attending novenas, confessions and Holy Mass in church.  Subsequently, we were forbidden to attend birthdays, fiestas and other Catholic celebrations.

Our prayers changed.  Even our rosaries were decreased from the regulation ten beads to seven.  Worst of all, the person whom I called my second Tatay began claiming that he was “God”.  What was frightening was that the members of the group was forced to watch X-rated films, having been told by “God” that it will take away their malice against sex.  The single “brothers” and “sisters” were also forced to marry each other, the founder assigning them their partners.

Soon, the group was taking on cultic proportions.

Eye Opener

All these time, my behavior at home worsened.  I often argued with my mother when she tried to tell me that I was being misled.  The arguments would always end up in a shouting match.  One time, just to drive home a point, I went as far as to slap her in the face.  Yet I never ever felt a twinge of guilt.

Then one day in 1988, the “God” announced that he had been “transfigured” and some members were attesting to it.  However, I was there and I didn’t witness any “transfiguration” taking place.  Soon I began harboring doubts and I began to question the system of “God’s” governance.

I began to lose favor with my “Tatay”, the “God” who founded the cult.  I became one of the members who were slapped for the infractions – real or imagined – committed against the cult.  One time, during a Christmas celebration, I didn’t reach the solicitation quota that I was given so I was whacked in the face with a wooden sandal.

It was then that I decided I’ve had enough and began staying away from the cult’s “worship service.”  I experienced a lot of fears and guilt with the break so to forget my “sins,” I dove into work like a madman and went on out-of-town jaunts.  I cut my hair (which I never did while with the cult) and started dressing normally. 

Breaking Free

All those 10 years that I was with the cult, my mother never stopped praying for God to take me out of it.  I believe it was an answer to a mother’s grieving heart that He led me out of there. 

One day, my officemates invited me to a Life in the Spirit Seminar.  I came to know that I had a Father who loved me to distraction and a Brother who was crazy enough to die for me rather than lose me forever.  It was also there that I realized that it was God’s – the True and One God – unconditional love that saved me.   Because even in the darkest moment of my life – when evil reigned – He was never disgusted at me.  He didn’t leave me to face that totally hostile force alone.

Now, the scars of being an unwanted child and the lack of a full, satisfying father’s blessing are being attended to by my Father in Heaven.  I’m now at peace.

From interviews with Ms. Rhodora Molina, a member of the Lord’s Flock Catholic Charismatic Ministry.  This story was also featured in the It Happened section of the February 2003 issue of Kerygma, a Catholic inspirational magazine where I was Main Writer for that month.

Deadly Weapons 17 August 2007

Studio apartment was a ridiculous word for that little place along the alley off Malvar Street.   Shack, lean-to, hovel.  These were more applicable to where we lived for close to two years, more out of a distaste for packing and moving rather than out of desire.

The sun never peeked through the windows of that shack.  They were closed all the time to keep out the stench of dog pee and decaying dog food (assorted fish innards and fermented rice) from the nearby talipapa’s refuse.  Neither did the wind whistle through nor fresh air ever visited. 

But on that wonderful last-day-of-November Saturday, the sun was shining hotly on the roof and there was a light breeze humming between the leaves of the lone aratiles that stood guard over the yard.  As if the world was celebrating our decision to bolt out of that hovel.

All through the day, we packed clothes, books, documents, furniture and fixtures into several big boxes bought from the nearby supermarket.  Late afternoon and only the thrash accumulated over two years were left littering the dull, gray floor – shredded newspapers, useless plastic bags and tattered boxes.  By early evening, all but the collapsible dining table was packed into the jeepney.

Four relatives, all of differing levels of affinity and consanguinity, came from the province to help us relocate.  They were already resting from carting and hauling furniture and boxes when my brother arrived from work at six o’clock.  Diego, a Jail Officer at the Taguig Municipal Jail, was on the midday shift and the day’s Chief Escort.

“Hey, the Cop’s here!” Balong, a second cousin, announced needlessly.   There was a general slapping of shoulders and good-natured ribbing that ensued.  Diego removed his gun and holster belt, setting them on the window sill.

Soon, they had makeshift chairs and stools arranged in an intimate circle with a tattered box – still able to stand upright despite its threadbare lids – placed in their midst.

I sighed.  It never fails, this drinking sessions among our clan’s men.  Any small occasion, situation or event – even if it was just a day spent carting boxes from living room to jeep – was as good an excuse as any to bring out the stainless and the shot glass.  Balong was sent out to buy the San Miguel. 

“And make sure it’s the quatro cantos!” Rudy, Balong’s schoolmate and no relation to us whatsoever except that of close neighborly ties, called out through the room’s only window.

“So, you’ve finally decided to transfer,” Waldo began.  He was my mother’s nephew.  “It’s a good thing.  This place looks like the pig pen down at my farm.”

“Ask her!” Diego remarked, motioning towards me.  As if it was all my fault!  “She was the one who found this place.”

“It looked decent the first time I saw it,” I defended.  “How was I to know it was just all for show?  I didn’t even know there were dogs here.” 

I was referring to the six dogs that the landlord cared for.  They were as smelly and as unkempt as their master.  Cabote had the personality and character of an excitable dog and most of his neighbors constantly wondered at his dumb luck.   He has so far avoided gotten bit or turning rabid.

The neighbors had no such luck.  Almost every month, someone was being bitten by his dogs.  Often, these were kids or unsuspecting passersby.  Often, too, he refused to shoulder the expenses for their medical treatment.

Cabote was persona non grata in the barangay.  The few times each week that he ventured out from his hovel, the neighbors avoided him like the plague that he was as he shuffled by with his dogs.  

But I heard that Cabote had a good thrashing from one of the irate fathers whose kid got bitten.  At his advanced age, he hovered between life and death for a while.  If it wasn’t for the fortuitous visit of his ex-mistress, Malvar Street (and the whole barangay, for that matter!) would have been rejoicing at his demise.  And good riddance!

Unfortunately, he survived.  And continued to plague anyone within a one-meter radius from him.

“Did you get the deposit?” my brother was asking now.

I stopped peeling onions.  “He refused to acknowledge that I still have money with him,” I replied, sniffling.  “If he can deny that in front of the Barangay Captain, then he can deny that in front of me.”

Diego nodded, considering something in his head.  He said nothing.  The conversation between the men continued to ebb and flow while they waited for the gin.

In a while, Balong arrived with the quatro cantos.   Soon, the shot glass, brimming with the clear, intoxicating liquid, was being passed from one to the other.

“So he’s not going to give you the money?” Diego asked again.

“Nope,” I replied, shaking my head.  I went to the kitchenette and started on the sinigang.  “That’s a useless exercise.”

“Then I’m going to get back your money’s worth some other way.”

I looked up, suspicion probably written all over my face.  “What are you planning to do?”  A distasteful thought crossed my mind.  “Just let it go, Diego.  The Lord will deal with him in His own way.  It’s not for us to take judgment.”

“You’ll deal with it your way, I’ll deal with it my way.”

“It’s still my money,” I pointed out.  “I say forget it.  Besides, God has a more satisfactory way of settling these inconveniences.”

Diego didn’t dignify that with any remark. 

“By the way, can I have your key?” I asked.  “Cabote wants the keys back.”

“No way,” he said without rancor as he tossed down his drink.  “I had it duplicated with my own money.”

I shrugged in acceptance.  Fair enough.

Dinner was on a simmer when Diego stood up, a bunch of keys jingling in his hand.  “The plies?”

“We don’t have one.”

He turned to Rudy.  “Get the plies from the tool box,” he instructed.  “I’m sure there’s one.”

I could feel my brows gathering in suspicious conference.  “What are you up to?”

“Nothing.”

Rudy came back with a large llave tubo and handed it to Diego, who went for the door.

I guessed his intent.  “Don’t do it,” I warned.

“Loosen up, will you?” Diego snapped.  At the mood he’s in and with more than a few drops of the stainless coursing through his veins, I relented.  I didn’t feel up to another altercation.  I lost to him every time.

He inserted his key into the knob and with the huge plies, snapped it in half.  “That should make his life difficult for a few days,” he said in satisfaction. 

I shook my head.   Men and their fixation with getting even! 

“Enough of that,” I said later.  “Dinner’s ready. Go get the driver, Tito Waldo.”

There was a general groaning and moaning but they obeyed the call to eat dutifully.

Everybody got up, stashed the shot glass and the empty quatro cantos in the sink.   Soon, everyone was settled to a quiet dinner. 

An hour later, I folded up the dining table and had it loaded into the jeepney.  Diego took his gun and inserted it securely into a side holster.  He directed Balong and Rudy to secure his stuff.

The two men stacked his things at the sari-sari store which fronted the alley entrance.  Diego will be staying-in at the Taguig Municipal Jail while I’ll be transferring to a friend’s house.  We’ll be staying apart until March, when I’ve saved enough to get a place of our own.

In the ensuing flurry of activities, I didn’t see Diego and Balong.  It was only when I was already at the jeepney’s passenger seat that I saw them emerge from the alley.  I saw the llave tubo in Diego’s hand.  He approached us from the other side and handed the huge plies to the driver. 

I motioned Balong to come near.  “What did you do?” I demanded.

He had a guilty look on his face.  “Kuya Diego broke the bathroom faucet and left the water running,” he replied.

“My God, that place will be flooded in an hour!”  I cried. 

“Served that hobo right!” That was Diego, who overheard our conversation.

He went over to my side.  I wanted to berate him for what he did but thought better of it.  “Take care of yourself now,” I told him.  “Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do.”

He nodded.

“And God go before you,” I said, which was my usual benediction to him when he left for work.

“Thanks, Sis,” he said.

We left them there, Diego, Balong and Rudy with all of my brother’s bags and boxes.  They will be taking a taxi to Taguig.

As I took a last look at my brother, an uneasy feeling coursed down my spine and settled uncomfortably in my stomach.  Something ominous and scary.

I offered up a short prayer, calling on God’s angels to protect Diego from the Angel of Death and from every evil.  I didn’t like the way he looked: sad and lonely and desolate.

Early the next morning, with sleep still crawling sluggishly through my veins, I opened the door to Balong and Rudy. 

That jolted me to attentive, fearful wakefulness.  Something was definitely wrong.

In ten minutes flat, I was on a jeepney for Police Station 8, which has jurisdiction over Malvar Street.  Diego had an altercation with some drunk cops immediately after we left him.  Balong said they punched my brother a few times.  He spent the night in the station jail. 

Diego was charged with illegal possession of firearms.

The ironic thing was, he was never able to use the gun to defend himself.

Submitted work in Creative Writing 101 way back in March 2004.  Short story writing has never been my stronger suits, and I was pressed to do this. =(

Debunking the Sin Eater: A review of the film, The Order 17 August 2007

Behind the disguise of good hides the soul of evil.

So goes the tagline of a film by 20th Century Fox entitled, The Order.   For Catholics set adrift in the murky bogs of doubt and the foggy depths of ignorance, The Order can be worse than the chilling prophecies of the Book of Revelations.  To them, there should be a big, bold DANGER sign attached to the marquee to warn off the man – and woman – whose Catholic feet are standing on shaky ground.

I know, because for a while there, niggling fear hummed up and down my spine like small, careless fingers with long, garishly painted nails.  The film whispered of “what ifs” that are too dangerous to acknowledge; it suggested escapist hopes that the whole of sinful mankind never gives voice to.

The concept of forgiveness of sins

The Order is premised on one of the most controversial sacraments of the Roman Catholic Church – the sacrament of penance and reconciliation.  The forgiveness of sins.

Basic catechism says that Jesus is the Savior of mankind and the power to forgive sins belongs to God alone.  Confession to a priest is an essential part of the Sacrament of Penance, which leads to reconciliation with God and the Church.  Implicit in confession is the repentance of the sinner of his sins.  Contrition is the penitent’s first act.

According to the Catechism of the Catholic Church, contrition is “sorrow of the soul and detestation of the sin committed, together with the resolution not to sin again.”  True repentance.  And contrition precedes confession.

The Sacrament of Penance and Reconciliation is such an important sacrament that a devout Catholic on his death bed would avail much of it.  The Catholic faithful believe that the reconciliation with God and the Church will ease the way towards Heaven, the goal of all goals.  Paradise.

Yet, in The Order, this dogma is debunked and it introduces the concept of the Sin Eater.  In Paul’s letter to the Church in Galatia, he charges them to be each other’s ‘burden bearer’ – one who carries the burden of his brethren.  The practice of carrying each other’s burdens, as Paul knows, is practice of love.  But the Sin Eater, as a ‘burden bearer’, takes the sins of a dying man into himself – he eats them, literally – so as to free the other of sin.  Then, as the premise goes, the dead man’s soul can enter Paradise.  Even the Sin Eater’s name points to that most coveted of all resting places: William Eden.

And dying sinless is such a precious commodity that everyone pays a premium price for it.  People even betray their loved ones for that irresistible chance to go to Heaven.

The concept of dying unrepentant

“Absolution for the unrepentant.”  That is at the heart of The Order.

You can kill without compunction, commit adultery as many times as you can, be completely amoral and still you can get to Heaven.  You can even laugh at the face of Moses for even having the audacity to etch the Ten Commandments on two tablets of stone.   In fact, if you are rich enough, you can pay – and pay handsomely – to go to Heaven.

In The Order, Heaven becomes a matter of being filthy rich and knowing the right people to get to it.  Ideals such as contrition, confession, repentance and reconciliation becomes mere words in empty air.

And God becomes a non-entity.  Someone who “never gives a damn.”

Three lessons

But I thank God I watched The Order because at least, it bolstered three truths I’ve known that the priests and nuns at St. Mary’s University – God bless their souls – have been patiently telling me (not hammering into my head, mind you!) since Kindergarten.

1. God exists.

He does.  I and the 6 billion or so human beings across the globe are proofs of that truth.

I refuse to accept that I came from a chimpanzee.  The reason why there is a missing link in Darwin’s theory of evolution is because man was never a hairy baboon to begin with.  Though sometimes we act like them, we are not direct descendants of some ape ancestor who walked the earth on all fours some million years ago.

I am fearfully and wonderfully made.  Although I may seem to have the same physiological make-up of a primate, I have the gift of language – the one attribute that separates man from animals.  I can articulate my wants, my needs, my feelings and all that I want to express through what I say, or don’t say.  Only One other Being has that capability, and He is from whom I received such a gift.  After all, He created me by merely commanding my being.  “Let there be…” and there was.

And if I still doubt that God exists, then I should look to the existence of love – the fact that I love – to prove His existence.  This ability to love also affects my choices, my commitments, my priorities, and the extent to which I will forgive the wrongs done to me.  The more I love, the more I forgive.  The more I forgive, the more I love.

2. I am not God.

The world of the third millennium is a much more different world than the world where Christ was born into.  The breakneck speed by which technology advances is mind-boggling, not to mention breath-taking.  And the depth and substance of information that we unearth daily may even allow us to one day replace deteriorated body parts and internal organs with new ones.   Frankenstein will no longer be a figment of the imagination.

With the glut of information at our fingertips, we begin to rationalize and justify and explain away everything.  The mysterious have lost its mystique.  Everything becomes commonplace, ordinary, hackneyed.  And along with the loss of wonder comes the loss of our faith.

We are, therefore, we alone are.

We have also generated so much wealth that it will be a sin to just keel over and leave them in the hands of unknown strangers.  The gadgets and gizmos that we buy; the new, expensive toys that we play with; and the most exotic places we have visited, barring the Moon, make us believe that we can do anything, have anything, be anyone we want.

With all that we know and with all that we have, we become tempted to think that we are all-sufficient – the be-all and end-all of all existence.  We have acquired the power, the possession and the prestige to make things happen.

So we start believing that we are like God; that we are God.  We don’t need Him anymore.  Sacred concepts like prayer, priests and people become commodities that we can buy and sell.

Yet we are not immortal.  Our bodies will grow old one day.  We might delay the aging process so we can out-age Methuselah by a good hundreds of years, but we will age.  We will die.  And when we die, where will we go?  Nothingness is an unacceptable option for me.

Even if we don’t believe in the forgiveness of sins and heavenly retribution, they still are.  They don’t exist simply because we believe they don’t.  They exist even if we don’t believe in their existence.  Heaven and Hell will still be there, even if we don’t acknowledge their truth.

Though I can do a lot of things, there are still limits to the things I can do.  Though I can attain a lot of things, there are still things I will not be able to obtain.

No more, no less.

3. God does, er, give a damn.

The film deal with the Church’s alleged pettiness in its legalism and rigidity with the excommunicated.  The Church is portrayed as an indifferent behemoth to the plight of the insignificant, sinful Catholic faithful who is denied its help when it is needed the most.  The case of the dying excommunicado and the withholding of the Church’s grace at the time of death – and therefore the assurance of Hell – becomes the entry point of the Sin Eater.  His office is his name: he eats sins.

The Sin Eater becomes like God – forgiver of the dying man’s sins, savior of the dying man’s soul.  By eating the dead man’s sins, the Sin Eater purifies his soul and therefore, in accordance with the reasoning that no-sin-ergo-pure-soul, the man goes to Heaven.

Jesus Christ, God’s only Begotten Son, is therefore not the Savior alone.  There is ‘The Other’ who gives the unrepentant sinner the best shot at Heaven.  Like what he said, he is ‘a way around the Church’ towards Paradise.  And his line “Am I the answer to your prayer?” grabs from God what is His prerogative alone.

The message

The Order explores man’s search for the easy way out, the short cut to Heaven.  The Sin Eater provides that easy way, that short cut.  You can sin without impunity, die unrepentant and still go to heaven.

But what is joy without knowing grief?  What is peace without knowing war?  And what is Heaven without knowing about Hell or Purgatory?  Isn’t there any difference between living it up on Earth and in Heaven if sin can be done away with that easily?

I believe that, overall, The Order was able to do what it set out to do in the first place: force man to reckon with sin and its consequences.  Of course, the fantasy of the Sin Eater resonates with the soul who has done so much evil that he believes forgiveness is only possible through stealing.  But more than that, the film forces man to think about what his investments for the afterlife are.

The Order is asking the viewer to make choices.  Either you confront sin now or search fruitless for a Sin Eater.  The only Sin Eater around here, I might add, is Jesus alone.  And He’s done that 2000 years ago, at no cost to you and me.  His death on the Cross, once and for all, defeated sin and death.  All it takes to partake of His resurrection is true repentance.

THE WAR ZONE: Fighting Sibling Rivalry 17 August 2007

Do you still remember the times your younger brother or sister and yourself chased each other all over the house, trying to knock each other out  your fists?  Or the times when you tried to out-talk and out-shout one or another sibling, just to drive home a point?  And the helpless looks Mom sported when it was clear that nobody was going to give in and concede defeat?

The Root of Rivalry

Parents, there’s one – and only one reason – for sibling rivalry: competition.  Who is  the one most favored, who is superior?

Don’t wring your hands.  Take off that panic-stricken look off your face.  Call off the straitjackets.  There’s hope yet.

According to Dr. Virginia Molgaard, human development specialist at Iowa State University, bickering among sibs is normal.  There’s some truth, to a certain degree, to the adage that ‘familiarity breeds contempt.’ 

Living together, day in and day out, robs us of the barriers that we normally put up against strangers.  Especially between children who are trying to establish their identity and independence vis-à-vis their parents and their siblings (and the society at large!), there’s bound to be some power play involved.

Moms and dads, this is where your skill in diplomacy and unconditional love will truly be tested.  But the rewards, if you take the time and effort to work it out, will be worth it.

Let Me Say What I Wanna Say

Everyone of us in the KERYGMA staff recalls wishing a sibling a very painful death after particularly frustrating fights.  Frustrating because their anger couldn’t be fully expressed.  because I wasn’t able to fully express my anger.  Frustrating because I wasn’t able to get even.  Frustrating there was no resolution to the anger harbored.

We also sheepishly exchanged smiles when we recalled our mothers and fathers making us feel guilty when we said out loud what we felt inside,  “I wish you were dead!”  or “@#%*!”  It’s wrong to harbor ill feelings against your younger brother and sister, they said.  It just isn’t done, they said. 

Well, have we got news for you, moms and dads!  All people, children particularly, do suffer through this particular affliction called anger once in a while.  After all, anger is a normal emotion and the best way to resolve it is by expressing it. 

Properly, of course.

When your child has something to say against a sib, don’t try to talk him out of it.   It’s always a knee jerk reaction for moms and dads to tell their kids not to get mad at the other.  Acknowledge the complaint.  Often, after airing their grumbles against their brother and sister, and knowing that their parents know it too, it is enough for them to settle down. 

Just listen, and express understanding of the complaint by expressing it in your own words. for example, when little Ben says, “Sandra’s a witch!  She took my share of the ice cream from the ridge and ate it without asking.”  Then you can acknowledge the feeling and say, “”You’re mad at your sister for eating your ice cream without first asking.”

And remember, take extra care not to show sides.  Believe me, kids can sense it if you’re favoring one over the other.

I Am Unique

One accusation kids hate is “Why can’t you be more like your sis/bro?”  Blah, blah, blah. 

A sure reaction to this statement is mayhem: the affected kid will make sure that life becomes hell  for the sibling s/he was compared to.  And the other will start devising ways to make sure the one causing the misery dies before s/he reaches the 13th year.

Okay, that’s exaggeration.

The object of comparing one child over the other, I believe, is to encourage imitation of the good behavior and to correct bad behavior.  However, moms and dads, that objective will rarely be met.

Pitting your children against each other worsens jealousy.   One child will somehow get the notion that it was her sister’s fault that she’d been scolded or punished.  It will also communicate to the other that one child is favored over the other.  Pretty soon, one is raring to get even with the offending child.

It would be best for all concerned if you zeroed in on the behavior that displeased you rather than on the integrity of the offender.  “Hey, those toys were left on the floor.  They belong in the shelves.” rather than “Why couldn’t you keep your toys neatly kept like your brother?”

Then again, the opposite of comparison should also to be avoided.  Don’t praise one kid at the other’s expense.  It may encourage a feeling of superiority of one kid over the other.

Individually, not Equally

I think most parents would agree that one of the most popular maxims of parenthood is: if one kid gets this toy, the other kids have to have the same toy as well.  If one kid gets to share this many minutes with a parent today, the other kid also gets the same amount of time. 

Parents do this often, mistakenly believing that they are just being fair.   Breaking news: NOT TRUE!

Children will always find some ways to think that you are not being fair, that you’re not treating them equally.  Dr. Molgaard says that children feel special and valued when you give to each child according to his own individual needs.  Instead of buying similarly-hued, similarly-designed party dresses, aim for differentiation according to preferences and need.

Think back to your younger days.  Did a sister ever ask for a doll and then got it?  And here you were hoping you’d get a teddy bear but when you opened your present it was the same doll your sister got but with different clothes?  Didn’t that make you feel resentful that your sis could have what she wanted and you couldn’t?  Unfair!

Get Neutral!

Another common scenario: Older brother being told to make sure younger bro and sis don’t tear each other’s throats out.

Parents think they’re teaching the kids how to look out for each other.   However, picture this: younger bro and sis still fight and older bro is punished for not doing his job!  Wouldn’t that make him feel that his parents just favored the little ones and didn’t want to hurt them so they had to think of a way to punish him instead of them.  Awww, poor baby!

And so older brother gets even and gives the young ones a telling off they’ll never forget.

Stop hunting for the one to blame or to punish.  It gives a signal that you’re taking sides and it starts off enmity between the favored and the unfavored child. Dr. Moolgard recommends that, instead of taking sides, comment on the behavior you can observe.  (“I see a kid reading the private letters of another kid” instead of “Lizza, leave your sister’s letter alone!”)  This will alert the child to what she’s doing wrong and most times, children will correct their mistakes on their own.

Help teach your children to settle their differences between themselves as well.  Refuse to be dragged into minor arguments.  Instead, tell them to work it out among themselves.  Step in only when they cannot reach a compromise.

However, If the kids are already on the verge of physically hurting each other, step in and separate the warring children.  Let them cool down and when they’re ready to talk, let them talk.  You can work out a possible solution to their conflict with their help. 

Give it time

Now, all these aren’t quick fix solutions.  Like all problems, sibling rivalry takes time to solve.  The key, moms and dads, is your dogged, stick-to-it-iveness consistency and willingness to listen, to understand, and to treat each kid as an individual.

Don’t lose hope in the interim if you see them still at odds with each other.  Their relationships are bound to improve, one way or the other. 

Published in KERYGMA, a Catholic inspirational magazine, in its February 2003 issue; under the byline of “By the KERYGMA Staff”. With a few tweaks, this is the article I submitted under the original title of “Sibling Wars, and How to Stop Them”. The editorial box credited me as the Main Writer for this issue.