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Today's Readings

A controversial short film by Mexican director,  Alonso Álvarez Barreda, won this year's Cannes Film Festival's online short film competition. Approximately five minutes long, the short film, "Historia de un Letrero" (or "Story of a Sign"), tells the story of a blind beggar sitting in a park with a sign that says, "Have pity!  I'm a blind man." 

The park is filled with people, but few, if any, notice or help the beggar.  Then a young man walks by the beggar, stops in his tracks, and notices how no one is giving alms to the beggar.  The man is moved with compassion, but he doesn't give any money to the beggar.  Instead he picks up the old man's sign, scribbles on it, and after positioning it beside the beggar, he walks away. 

Then something strange happens.  To the blind beggar's bewilderment and delight, passersby begin tossing coins into his can.  Needless to say, the sound of coins is music to his ears.  Later, as he collects the coins scattered around him, he detects that the young man has returned.  Gratefully, the beggar asks, "What did you do to my sign?"  The man responds, "I wrote the same, but in different words."  Smiling, he leaves the beggar with his fortune.

Exactly what the young man has written, you will have to watch the short film to find out!  But I share this story with you because of the line our Lord utters in the Gospel reading today: "For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.”

Our Lord promises that where two or three gather and pray in his name, he will surely be present there.  But these same words have also been traditionally interpreted to refer to communal prayer--i.e., prayers said not only by an individual, but by a community of even just two or three.  When we pray together, our prayer as a community is more powerful than when we pray individually. 

A friend of mine recently blogged about this scientific experiment that, my friend claims, has disproved "once and for all" the efficacy of prayers.  Intrigued, I did my own research and found the findings quite fascinating. 

Conducted by a group called STEP (Study of the Therapeutic Effects of Intercessory Prayer), the experiment studied the effect of intercessory prayer--and the knowledge or certainty that prayer is being provided--and how that influences the recovery of cardiac bypass patients.  Not only did the experiment prove that intercessory prayer had no effect on the patients' recovery from cardiac bypass, but a higher incidence of complications were found among patients with the knowledge of receiving prayer!

Interesting!  But contrary to my friend's claim, the experiment by no means disproves any claim we have--or that the Lord has made--about prayer.  It only reiterates that God is no vendo machine that automatically grants any request as long as the right button is pressed.  It proves what any believer already knows from experience:  that God is radical mystery, and that he will grant the prayer that he, in full freedom, wishes to grant.

Going back to what our Lord's words in today's gospel, I believe that the Lord probably isn't just referring to praying together, but also to acting together.  In the short film, the blind beggar has probably been praying for people's generosity--but to no avail.  The young man who comes to his rescue prays with him not only through words, but also through his actions.  I suspect that when the Lord talks about gathering in his name, he is referring not only to communal prayer but also communal action.  The Lord's presence will be experienced not only when we pray together, but also--and perhaps more powerfully--when we act together.

So, here's a Quick Question for you:  "Have you ever experienced the Lord's presence in your life when you've not only prayed with others, but also acted with them?"

Note:  Here is the short film, "Historia de un Letrero" ("Story of a Sign")--or if it's taking too long, go to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zyGEEamz7ZM. 

An interesting postscript: After the film was named best short film, the filmmaker was accused of plagiarism since an earlier TV commercial had a very similar story line.  Is the accusation true?  Judge for yourself, and watch the alleged original called "Un Limosna por Favor" (or "Some Charity, Please").

Today's Readings

Pieter Brueghel's "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" depicts the well-known story of a young boy who dons his manmade wings and, against the instruction of his inventor-father, flies too high and too close to the sun.  The result?  As expected, the heat of the sun melts the wax holding his wings together, and the reckless boy falls to his death.

At first glance, there seems to be something wrong with Brueghel's painting.  The painter devotes most of the canvas not to the fall of Icarus, but to ordinary people going about their everyday routines, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that has befallen Icarus.  The only sign of Icarus is found in the lower righthand corner of the painting:  a pair of legs splashing and sinking  into the waters.

This famous painting by Brueghel has inspired a poem by W. H. Auden called "Musee Des Beaux Arts."  Auden begins his poem by declaring: 

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters:  how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along...

How true, isn't it?  Sometimes we're tempted to think that human suffering--especially our own--takes centerstage.  But that happens only in the movies, where at the right moment, the story's pace slows down and appropriately moving music rises in order to call attention to the ongoing suffering.  But our real-life pains--even the deepest ones--rarely get the close-ups they deserve. 

I remember the summer my father died.  I was only in fifth grade, but I was not too young to understand the tragedy that befell our family.  Everyone's tear-streaked faces and broken voices told me in no uncertain terms that our lives would never the same again.  After a few hours, the family had to make those arrangements all families experiencing a death go through.  I remember one brother making arrangements with the funeral parlor, a sister-in-law contacting the insurance company, and another brother relaying the news to our relatives and friends. 

One sister was assigned to get mourning clothes for everyone, and she took me with her to a nearby shopping center.  I will never forget how as we stepped out of the house, a frightened young boy holding onto his sister, I was greeted by...sunlight!  I remember asking myself how the sun could shine so brightly on a day like that. And when we reached the shopping center, I was even more bewildered at how the crowds of people went about their business, unaware of our private tragedy, and how normal they looked and acted!

It was then, I think, that I began to understand, although not completely, that human suffering, as Auden's poem is saying, always seems to happen in the midst of things.  Our pains keep a low profile.  And as in Brueghel's painting, with the exception of tragedies that are extensively covered by the media, rarely does the world pause to even acknowledge our private tragedies because rarely does it learn of them.

Today's feast is called the Triumph of the Cross--which can be quite misleading.  As a kid, I was always under the impression that the whole world held its breath during that moment of  moments when our Lord made the ultimate self-sacrifice to redeem all of creation.  That's certainly the impression you get from all those Jesus movies, not to mention the accounts of our Lord's crucifixion in the four gospels.  But nothing can be farther from the truth:  Outside the gospels, we find very little historical reference to this event.  And that day in Jerusalem, most of the city probably went about their usual routines.

I used to wonder why.  How can this be when the Lord's death on the cross must be the one central event in world history?   But I think now, thanks to Brueghel's painting and Auden's poem, I understand a little bit better why this was so and why it had to be so.  In embracing human suffering, our Lord decided to embrace pain exactly the way we experience it--in the midst of things, surrounded by people preoccupied with mundane activities. 

By choosing to suffer the way we usually do, the Lord shows us that he is very much present in our most private and secret pains.  Even if the world passes us by, even when people fail to notice our tragedies, the Lord sees and the Lord knows.  His eyes are on us:  He sees our pain, and he will bless our pain so that like his own, it can be redemptive.  Moreover, the Lord teaches us to open our eyes and keep them on others, so that we don't pass them by when we chance upon them bearing their pains.

Here is a Quick Question for you:  Have you ever experienced suffering that you wish others had noticed or had shown more concern for?  Think about it, and share a thought, a feeling, or a question.

(image:  Pieter Brueghel's "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus")

Note:  Below is the W. H. Auden's poem in its entirety, followed by another poem also inspired by Brueghel's painting, written by Willliam Carlos Williams.

Musee des Beaux Arts
(W. H. Auden)

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just  walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Brueghel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

Landscape with the Fall of Icarus
(William Carlos Williams)

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning.

Today's Readings

Last night I got stuck in Metro Manila traffic and noticed that for some reason, there seemed to be more beggars and street children than usual.  Several beggars later, after giving the car window the customary taps to send them away, I wondered about the last time that I had actually given alms to a beggar.  I couldn't remember when.  When I asked myself why, I realized it was because I usually didn't carry coins in my pocket. Then it struck me:  Why do I help only when I have loose change to spare?

I think we tend to have the same 'loose change' mentality with the Lord.   Many of us really give him no more than our so-called 'loose change'.  We tend to give him time when there is nothing else to do.  The so-called prime time of our day is reserved for our selves, our work, even our relaxation and entertainment.  Prayer, Mass, service in the church or community--we just somehow squeeze these in, if at all, between the major programs of our lives. When we get busy, these are usually the first things to go. Some of us even wait till we're past our prime before we begin thinking of God and giving him room in our lives. It seems that we reserve for God only the things that we can spare; in other words, loose change.

The parable our Lord tells in today's gospel is about loose change.  A vineyard owner hires workers at different times throughout the day, and despite the differences in the amount of work they have done, the owner decides to pay everyone the same wages.  Those who have worked the longest count their money, compare their wages with those who have done less, and are understandably unhappy.

When they complain that the wages are unfair, the landowner explains why he has not cheated them, as he says to one of them,  "My friend, did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage?  What if I wish to give this last one the same as you? Or am I not free to do as I wish with my own money?  Are you envious because I am generous?"

The Lord is telling us not to count loose change with him.  If we decide to serve him and do work in his vineyard, the last thing we should do is count the coins and compare the reward we receive with others'.  We ought to be happy if he decides to give everyone an equally generous reward.  That seems to be his way.  He rewards--or loves--us based not on what we have done, but on who we are.

Those of us who have a 'loose change' mentality may respond differently to this.   Some of us may think,"If God is going to treat us all the sameanyway, why not just wait till the last minute before we serve him or change our ways?"  In other words, if God is going to forgive us anyway, why not just procrastinate and enjoy as much as we can?"

Only a wage earner or a slave will think this way, trying to get away with as little work as possible to get the highest possible compensation.  A slave will count his hours and measure the efforts required by his work, and demand that he be compensated accordingly--not one centavo less.  But it is different with a friend.  Friendships follow an entirely different logic:  More than the benefits he will receive for his work, a friend's greater concern will be how much help he has been to the person he loves. 

Note that the landowner in the parable addresses his worker as "friend."  For as long as we insist on counting loose change, we remain a slave and not a friend of the Lord.  A true friend of the Lord is never happy with his service and wishes he has done more--or started earlier.

Such was the sentiment of St. Augustine when upon reflection about his life, he wrote the following unforgettable lines for his prayer:

Late have I loved you,
O Beauty ever ancient, ever new,
late have I loved you!

Recently, I found a contemporary version of St. Augustine's prayer.  Former American Idol finalist Chris Doughtry recorded a song called "What about Now?"  It could have been just another love song with a nice tune, but the music video raises the song to an entirely different level. The video shows ordinary people doing their share to make some difference in the world and urges each one to do the same.  The message is as inspiring as it is urgent, and echoes one of the things I think the Lord is trying to tell us today:  "What about now?"

Here's a Quick Question for you:  Do you think you still have a 'loose change' mentality with the Lord?  What do you think can you do about it?

Note:  Below are the Prayer of St. Augustine and the lyrics to Doughtry's song.  To watch the music video, "What about Now?" click here or here.

Prayer of St. Augustine

Late have I loved you,
O Beauty ever ancient, ever new,
late have I loved you!
You were within me, but I was outside,
and it was there that I searched for you.
In my unloveliness I plunged
into the lovely things which you created.
You were with me, but I was not with you.
Created things kept me from you;
yet if they had not been in you
they would have not been at all.
You called, you shouted,
and you broke through my deafness.
You flashed, you shone,
and you dispelled my blindness.
You breathed your fragrance on me;
I drew in breath and now I pant for you.
I have tasted you, now I hunger and thirst for more.
You touched me, and I burned for your peace.

From the Confessions of St. Augustine

WHAT ABOUT NOW?
(Chris Doughtry)

Shadows fill an empty heart
As love is fading,
From all the things that we are
But are not saying.
Can we see beyond the scars
And make it to the dawn?

Change the colors of the sky.
And open up to
The ways you made me feel alive,
The ways I loved you.
For all the things that never died,
To make it through the night,
Love will find you.

What about now?
What about today?
What if you're making me all that I was meant to be?
What if our love never went away?
What if it's lost behind words we could never find?
Baby, before it's too late,
What about now?

The sun is breaking in your eyes
To start a new day.
This broken heart can still survive
With a touch of your grace.
Shadows fade into the light.
I am by your side,
Where love will find you.

What about now?
What about today?
What if you're making me all that I was meant to be?
What if our love, it never went away?
What if it's lost behind words we could never find?
Baby, before it's too late,
What about now?

Now that we're here,
Now that we've come this far,
Just hold on.
There is nothing to fear,
For I am right beside you.
For all my life,
I am yours.

What about now?
What about today?
What if you're making me all that I was meant to be?
What if our love never went away?
What if it's lost behind words we could never find?

What about now?
What about today?
What if you're making me all that I was meant to be?
What if our love never went away?
What if it's lost behind words we could never find?
Baby, before it's too late,
Baby, before it's too late,
Baby, before it's too late,
What about now?

Today's Readings

Someone recently handed me a DVD of "Cloverfield," a 2008 monster movie produced by JJ Abrams of the "Lost" TV series. I had seen the provocative trailer on the Internet weeks before the release, and wanted to know why its poster showed a headless Statue of Liberty standing before a burning Manhattan skyline.  I had been warned that watching it would make you dizzy because of its hand-held camera technique reminiscent of  "The Blairwitch Project." Just the same I watched the movie the first chance I got.    

Here's the story:  Jason throws a surprise farewell party for his brother Rob, who's moving from Manhattan to work in Japan.  When an explosion interrupts the party, the guests climb up to the roof to check out the cause, but another explosion in the distance causes a rain of fire and debris, forcing them to run and take cover.  Later, when they finally spill into the streets, a large object falling from the sky turns out to be the Statue of Liberty.  They barely escape when a gigantic man-eating monster pounds the streets, and they're crossing the Brooklyn Bridge when the monster slams down on the bridge, killing hundreds including Jason. 

In the midst of all the panic, Rob gets a call from his best friend Beth, who tells him that she is stuck in her apartment and needs his help.  The phone call is interrupted. The following scenes reveal just how horrible and dangerous the monster is, but Rob and his friends brave the chaotic streets of Manhattan and its subway tunnel, battling parasites from the monsters and foregoing a helicopter ride out of Manhattan, in order to rescue Beth. 

You'll have to watch the rest of it to see how it ends, but this movie left me much more shaken than I had expected--not so much because it was scary, but more because it left me with a number of disturbing questions.  Would I do the same thing if I were Rob?  Of course I'd like to say that I would also most certainly rush back to rescue my friend!  Who wouldn't, right?  But would I?   Would I really forego that helicopter ride to go back for a friend who I'm not even sure is still alive? 

What struck me most about Rob's decision was that he went back even if he wasn't sure if there was even any point in going through all the trouble and risking his life and his friends'.  The odds were immensely against him.  Should I find myself in such a situation, confronted with the danger of losing my own life, wouldn't I be too paralyzed with fear, probably barely able to make it to the helicopter to save my own life? 

In today's gospel, our Lord teaches us that what matters is not what we think or say that we will do, but what we actually do.  In the parable of the two sons, the first tells his father that he isn't going to do what his father has asked, but later changes his mind:  He goes ahead and does it.  The second son, on the other hand, is all words, promising his father that he would go, but changes his mind too and ends up not going at all.

No two sons can be more different, but we each have both of them in ourselves, representing the talker and the doer in us. Our Lord is looking for the doer in us, not the talker.  After all, it is our decisions and actions--not our words, not even our good intentions--that ultimately shape our souls.

So here's a Quick Question for you:  When it comes to doing God's Will, which of the two is the more predominant one?  In  other words, are you more a talker or a doer?  It's worth thinking about.  And if you feel up to it, share a thought, a feeling, or even a question.

Note:  Here's the trailer of the movie, "Cloverfield."