- Death’s Hopeful Message - November 6, 2024
- Sir Francis - October 16, 2024
- The Aras - September 11, 2024
In the 80s, before getting ‘drafted,’ our summers in Gayasi swam, sucking on bisudak; spat on and swung a bat in Dapiting’s playgrounds; choked, chuckling, on a snuck Marlboro; scavenged Mt. Kalugong for WW II gold chests, Samurai bones and Katanas; for crabs and alien creatures, re-routed traffic at Bahong Creek; waded Balili River for long-legged mara-marapait spiders; aped PBA legend Jaworski; and, from faraway, finger-flipped southwest bullies in Poblacion and Betag and, south east, Tawang’s chest-thumping chimps.
Or, in slow days, slingshot Time in suspended sayote.
Magical stuff.
And so, when Bible School came one summer, it sure felt like being drafted. Into some Hogwarts School of Doldrums and Drudgery. Days 1-2 dragged on, minus the Nimbus 2000. Lasted Day 3, spotting a cute torment, my own Hermione, and wondering what snack came next.
In the days ahead, ten or so versions of Jesus – in full color. In story books, morphed into Nazareth’s rebel; in pocket-sized standees, stumbled and stood; in varied hairstyles, hunched, hands-clasped in prayer. A haloed cartoon Character. A kind, rich Uncle. But mostly, a Rockstar in robes. And mostly, encircled by a fan base of wide-eyed children.
Each time, the children gawked different. I got that. Children looked different. But it rattled me, seeing how many Jesuses there were, and can be. How many crosses did they have to bear?
A good thing my own torment sat three seats away. And more Jesuses meant more Christmases.
So, before long, Kids’ Praise had me. Infusing serious tone to Hallelujahs in cheerful tunes. Scripture-soaked. Reborn. Renewed. Our Faith found us champions for the Great Mission. “Our,” since Faith (or, Fate?) curiously wed us, minus the modest church kiss, The ABCD Boys – Abobo, Babsa-ay, Cuyopan and Depaynos.
We knocked on Sablan doors, heralds of not just the Good but of THE Best News. Got into trivial tiffs in JW country. In Asin, Tuba, proved man can’t live on bread alone. Much less boys, drooling for meat. In an ocean of broth, we often scooped for white beans and strips of Payless noodles. Bible secure, we zig-zagged muddy, leaf-paved footpaths. Knocking on more doors. And ogling at cows, goats and chickens foraging in peace, so naïve of our evil intent.
Despite decent work, I think, we had the good sense to not appoint ourselves “Sons of God.” Good, since when “Backsliding” came later, that word which got me self-conscious, I had ammo for my Bazooka. Say ‘Hello’ to my not-so-little friend.
For, while I went all-out to be decent and honest, Sunday School did end up with my own adult crises. Sewer-deep, in a Hydra of conflicts.
College Cool clashed with the Faith: Booze, midnight Carousels, Hormones on horse steroids, rebel Novels, silky-fluid Philosophies, an A1 Rock Band, a bad-ass Lawyer, a bad-ass Volks Beetle…ad nauseam. Dreams and Vices at each other’s throats.
Scripture turned passe and corny. The Faith hung oppressive. The need to rationalize sprang, a constant Jack-in-the-Box. For instance, a Bible wedding justified booze. So, Can-A man drink? Surely, the first Miracle called for a liberal eye?
Dusty, the toggle of conscience, Church doors flashed few and far between. Soon, a recurring blur. And soon, turned off.
It was, I guess, a way to dust off myself of my own pretense. It is, I guess, the cost of knowing, and not knowing enough. For, how can I, I screamed, in good conscience, sing soulful Hallelujahs – a thirst in my throat, an itch in my crotch, awed by Nietzsche and Rand? A gut-ache, a gut-aching need to rebel. Versus filthy wealth, as millions fed or died on filthier scraps? And I, too, in my hollow, wishing for wealth. But knowing not what it meant, how to find it and where it will end?
How about that?
And how about my reluctance. To say ‘Hello’ to homophobic, matrimonial, pro-EJK stanzas gloriously spat from a pulpit? And how about not puking?
How little I know of Life, I can see.
I feel like I’ve walked into a dark room I’m not allowed to leave.
Yet, by some miracle, inside this room are holes of light.
And I see here how I looked at the fault of others. And at mine, and at how self-inflicted, it all was. At how I damn despised it, yet, I, too, dabbled in standees and stereotypes. And at not looking where I was meant to. And when I did, looked at Him, askance, in a frayed scotch-taped standee. And not at His Love, but at my own turmoil.
There is this wonderful book by Philip Yancey, The Jesus I Never Knew. About the legacy of Jesus. About how He came to show the Way. And how indeed wise it is to own this Peace.
I couldn’t find myself to retake it. And find comfort, just seeing more magical things, at the moment.
That Jesus didn’t dine with the High Priests, but rebuked them. That He walked among lepers, the ill-repute and Galilee’s dregs. And healed them. That He broke bread and blessed broken fishermen for the Great Mission. That He wept for a dead Lazarus – and gifted Lazarus another chance at Life.
That I was not drafted, but gifted. That despite all the colors and all my confusion, there is only one Jesus – Immanuel, the Bread of Life, the Lamb of God, the King of kings, the Light of the world, the Messiah. That He died and rose for us all. So that our crosses, we may bear.
That the Jesus we choose is the Jesus who comes.
Jesus the Redeemer is enough for me.