A Little Faith

by Tara Tingle

  In the seminary, there's this tradition for freshmen called Re-Rooting where the candidates' families were invited to the school's premises for an entire day of meaningful activities. It's supposed to be a big deal because there wouldn't be another event like that until we’d finish our studies. My entire family promised to attend. The day came and only my mother and Johannes came and their minds were elsewhere the whole time. Apparently, Javier – my older brother – had a motorcycle accident the night before. The doctors found a splinter along his upper spine which caused his right leg to be paralyzed. Everyone was so worried about him. He eventually recovered after a few months.

  My father passed away a week before my ordination. I had the option to reschedule my rites and join the next batch of candidates so that I could mourn with my family, but my mother didn't want that. We shouldn't keep the Lord waiting, she said. And so I took my vows as scheduled. The newly ordained priests were greeted by their families as soon as they stepped out of the bishop's assembly hall. They cheered and hugged and celebrated. I envied them for a while before beginning my trip back to Santa Catalina to attend my father's wake.

  A few minutes ago, just before Sunday mass, I stood outside the chapel to greet the attendees and to catch up with their lives. It was something that I've always done throughout the eight years I've been assigned here, way before the church mandated priests to be more personal in their approaches to bring the church closer to the people. To me, the members of my parish were more than just my flock, more than just my congregation. They were my family here in Santo Tomas.

  The last people to arrive just before the celebration started was a familiar couple – James Copperstein and his wife Sandra. Both of them were in their mid-forties and they have been attending my masses since I took over the parish. Something, however, was different about them today.

  James was carrying a child in his arms. A girl, not older than two, wearing a pink dress with lavender truffles adorning its collar.

  “Good morning, Father,” Sandra greeted me as they reached the main entrance where I was waiting.

  “Good morning, Sandra, and good morning James,” I replied. “And good morning to this lovely young lady. Your niece, I presume?”

  “Our baby, actually, Father,” James corrected me, much to my surprise.

  “Your baby?” I turned to face Sandra. “I... I'm sorry. I never noticed that you were ever pregnant.”

  “I never was, Father,” Sandra responded, beaming. “Her name's Abigail. We adopted her.”

  “Oh,” I muttered, still shocked.

  “The adoption was finalized about a month ago, but the papers only arrived last week,” James explained as Abigail gave me a curious look while she sucked on her thumb. “This baby girl has been placed with us earlier than that, though. Sandra and I never told anyone about it. We didn't want to jinx it. But now... now we can show the whole world, with all joy and without fear, that we're a family!”

  “Of course,” I concurred. “I am very happy for both of you. I'll offer this mass as thanksgiving for the blessing you were showered with. This is truly a cause for celebration.”

  “Thank you, Father,” James said. “Abigail truly is a blessing. More so for me,” he added as he smiled at his wife to reassure her that what he was saying shouldn't be taken as a kind of competition between them. “I never really knew how wonderful it is to be a father. But this bundle of joy over here, she made me realize that there's no experience more gratifying than being a daddy.”

  I felt like choking when I heard that word. I tried to hide it with a grin, nervous as it may have appeared.

  “Wouldn't you agree, Father?” James asked.

  His question made me swallow some air.

  “Honey, you're being ridiculous,” Sandra chimed in. “That's an inappropriate thing to ask. Father Joe is a man of God.”

  “Oh... sorry...” James apologized, embarrassed by his previous query.

  I just nodded before leading them inside. Mass was about to start and I still had to prepare the ceremonial items that I needed.

  A few minutes later and the choir began their song. I exited my chamber and marched towards the altar, genuflecting before proceeding to the seat behind it.

  We only held a single mass every Sunday at Santo Tomas. Ours was a small parish and there weren't that many members in the flock. It would be a good day to have more than a hundred attendees, and that rarely happened.

  Today was no exception.

  I surveyed the chapel as everyone was singing the opening hymn. The place was barely half-filled, so there were only about seventy worshipers present, by my estimation.

  I tried to search for one in particular. I didn't see him when I was welcoming the churchgoers earlier, but he may have slipped in after I went back to my quarters.

  I was deeply hoping that such was the case. But I was also afraid if it was.

  My heart sank when I couldn't find him anywhere.

  Mass proceeded as it normally did, though my mind was elsewhere the whole time. As the First and Second Readings were recited, I found myself wondering about him... how he was doing, how he was coping up, how he was managing without the care of a father figure he thought he needed?

  I was so lost in my thoughts that Emily, the mass facilitator, had to clear her throat to inform me that it was time for the Homily.

  I stood up from my chair and approached the podium, ready to deliver a sermon that - for the first time in years – I wasn't able to prepare beforehand.

  I read the guide notes where the assigned topic for this Sunday was written. There, in bold, were written the following words:

  How To Be A Good Person

  Below it was a verse, pre-selected by the ministerial committee of the Vatican even before the year began.

  I tapped the mic to see if it was working. The sound echoed throughout the chapel, assuring me that it was functional.

  “A... good person...” I struggled for words as I began my sermon, unsure of how I could preach the Word of God without notes that usually accompanied my speeches. “What... What is a good person? What makes a person good? By sparing some change for a beggar on the street? By helping an old lady cross the road? By pledging an amount during a midnight telethon for a charitable cause? All of these are nice... but do they suffice? They are but isolated acts, indicative of isolated states of being, ideal for the moment but never guarantees of a real sense of righteousness... never guarantees of true goodness.”

  I didn't know if I was saying the right things. The attendees were all listening to me. Some were nodding in agreement. But were they just being polite? Were my words enough to relate to them, to touch their hearts, to speak to their souls like I knew my words would if I had the chance to prepare them beforehand?

  “A good person,” I continued before realizing that I've exhausted every idea in my mind that I could use to explain that concept. Hence, I just decided to go straight to the assigned Scripture. “A good person is defined in the bible,” I said, “particularly in Isaiah 1:17.” I began to recite that particular verse. “Learn to do right. Seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Take up the cause of the... the... the...”

  I couldn't continue.

  The next word was far too overwhelming for me.

  “The... The...” I tried to finish the verse, but still, I failed.

  Murmurs started to resonate in the chapel. From the corner of my eye, I saw Emily looking at me with a lot of concern, thinking, perhaps, that I'd faint at any moment.

  I reminded myself of who I was: Father Joaquin Bernal.

  I reminded myself of what I was: a man of God, a servant of the Lord, a priest.

  I reminded myself of what I meant to the people who comprised my flock: a spiritual advisor, a beacon of hope, an administrator of our faith, an inspiration.

  Mass is an inviolable gathering, a sacred event that should never be disrupted by the human frailties of the person celebrating it. It should go on... regardless of my feel
ings and my pains and my fears.

  I gathered up every ounce of strength I could muster and began to read the verse once more.

  “Isaiah 1:17,” I started anew. “Learn to do right. Seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Take up...” I cleared my throat. “Take up the cause... the cause... of... of... of the...”

  Say it, I ordered myself.

  Just say it!

  It's just a word!

  Say it!

  “T-Take up... Take up the cause of... of the.. of the...”

  Just say the damn word!

  “... fatherless.”

  Fatherless...

  Like Xavier...

  Like how I left him to be...

  “Fatherless,” I mumbled to the befuddlement of everyone in front of me. “Fatherless,” I repeated weakly as I wondered whether or not I'm a good person.

  And that's when everything began to make sense.

  It wasn't a matter of depriving myself of so many things, no. That's part of the sacrifices I had to make as a servant of the Lord. But I forsake Xavier because of my vows. I refused to accept who I was because of my oath. I have been living a lie because of my position.

  And God knew it.

  God knew everything.

  And He tried to tell me.

  The verse I just read...

  James and Sandra's newly adopted baby...

  The earthquake in sixth grade...

  The incident before my Summa Cum Laude speech...

  My brother's motorcycle accident...

  My father's death...

  They weren't just random events that occurred in the most inopportune of moments. They happened as how they happened and when they happened for a reason.

  They were signs.

  Signs that were meant to guide me.

  Signs that were meant make me consider paths other than that which I chose.

  Signs that were meant to tell me what I should've done.

  And I opted to be blind to them, dismissing them as some incidental happenings, completely oblivious to the fact that God planned them as He has planned everything.

  And now...

  Now I knew...

  And I needed to act on them.

  “Goodness,” I spoke to my flock with newfound vigor. “Goodness is not a state of being. No one was ever born good. No one was ever wired to be good. No one was ever inclined to do good deeds. Goodness... Goodness is a willful act, a deliberate harmonization of heart, mind and body to effectuate what is just, what is right, and what is beneficial for our fellow men. Goodness is not a virtue. Goodness is not a gift. Goodness is not a skill. We don't clasp our hands and pray to be good. It is not dependent on who we are or how we are positioned in society. It is not contingent on how much time, money or resources we possess. It is not an instinct. It is not a trait.”

  With a smile on my face, I tried to look at each member of my congregation, establishing eye contact whenever my gaze landed on their bewildered faces. I was aware that what I was preaching was quite unexpected for them... that some of the things that I've said were contrary to what they may have read in the Scriptures... that the way I was speaking to them was very much different from what they've become accustomed to...

  I wanted them to know that I've spoken no truer words in the years that I've been delivering my homilies.

  “Goodness,” I continued after a few seconds, “Goodness, as described in the Book of Isaiah, is a positive act... an actual state of doing... of learning to do what's right... of seeking justice... of defending the oppressed... and yes, of taking up the cause of those who have lost their fathers.” I clenched my fist, my heart pounding with certainty about the veracity of what I was going to say next. “Brothers and sisters.... goodness... goodness is a choice. And I... from now on... I will choose to be good.”

  And just like that, I ended my sermon and asked them to stand up for the recitation of the Apostle's Creed. They got up from their seats with faces that showed even more confusion.

  That didn't bother me.

  My mind was clear.

  My heart was set.

  I finished the mass and allotted some time to interact with the churchgoers before they left the chapel. Usually, many of them would tell me how much they were inspired by my homily. I received no such praises that day. Instead, some of them expressed how they found my sermon quite... different. I could only chuckle in response.

  I savored the minutes I spent with them during that period. They've all been a great part of my life for the past years and I wanted them to know how much I appreciated their unwavering commitment to their faith and the trust they gave me in administering the Church's sacraments.

  When all of them were gone, I walked back to my chambers and removed my collar and my robe. I held the garments in my hands and looked at them for quite a while. After a minute or so, I placed them inside the wooden cabinet beside my bed. I recited a prayer before closing the drawer.

  And then I left the chapel grounds.

  For eight years, I have devoted my entire life to the Lord.

  Now it was time to discover what he Has really planned for me.

  9

  The Way Back

  “F-Father?” Xavier stuttered as he opened the door. I didn't know what startled him: my appearance or the fact that I was there, right outside his house on a humid Sunday afternoon a few days after I renounced our love because of my solemn duties.

  “Alive and in the flesh,” I quipped with a warm smile.

  “I... I can see that,” he replied, still in a state of disbelief.

  “You can? You look like you're seeing a ghost,” I jested.

  “Ghost? Oh, no... no Father... sorry if I gave you that impression,” he suddenly changed his expression – from surprise to something that was more welcoming. “It's just that... well... you look different.”

  “I look normal, you mean?” I teased him as I puffed my chest out to proudly display the yellow collared shirt I was wearing. I partnered it with a pair of jeans and white sneakers.

  “Yeah,” he began to smile. “Yeah, that's it. Normal.”

  “Indeed,” I agreed. “The robes and the collar were quite alienating, I must admit. It does feel... different... not to be wearing them.”

  “I suppose so,” he remarked. “How different though?”

  “This feels more refreshing, quite frankly,” I answered.

  He chuckled. “I bet it does! The vestments you always wore weren't really suited for this kind of weather.”

  “No, not that kind of refreshing,” I contended.

  “Not that kind of refreshing?” he asked, perplexed.

  “Yes. I feel refreshed... in a liberating kind of way.”

  That just confounded him even more. He took a deep breath before speaking once again. “How can I help you, Father?” he wanted to know.

  “For starters, Xavi, maybe you can remind yourself that we're way past addressing each other with formalities,” I told him.

  “We are?” he wondered if he heard me correctly. “Or we were?” he asked with a sardonic tone.

  “Oh, yes. About that.” I cleared my throat before continuing. “I know that the last time we were together, I left you with words that may have caused you some sorrow and some pain.”

  “That would be an understatement,” he frowned as he crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I'm sorry that I hurt you so, Xavi,” I said, bowing my head in shame.

  “You didn't have to come back to apologize, Father,” he addressed me satirically. “What's done is done, and it's better to leave them be. Knocking on my door while I'm still hurting? Just to say sorry? Didn't you even consider that by coming back here, you'll just be giving me false hope?”

  “False hope?” I repeated his words. “Xavi, I'm not here to give you false hope.”

  “Oh. So it's out of pity then?” he retorted rather antagonistically.

  “No, of course not,” I assured him.

  “Then why're yo
u here, Father? Why do you have to show me your face so soon after breaking my fucking heart?” He was at the verge of tears. The wounds, understandably, were still fresh. He was still in pain.

  “I'm here because...” I paused as I recited a silent prayer... one that pleaded for guidance... one that implored for strength... one that sought forgiveness.... for what I was about to say... for how my entire world would have to change... for how I would deal with what would come after. “I'm here because I was wrong,” I continued. “I was wrong to push you away. I was wrong to disregard the love you said you have for me. I was wrong to have deprived myself of the love I have for you.”

  “I... I don't know what you mean...” he mumbled.

  “Xavi, I'm here because, for the first time in my life, I know what's real... I know what's true... and I know what's right. And I want to do what's right. With you.”

  His eyes widened with overwhelming joy though plagued with hesitance to believe the veracity of what I was saying.

  “Y-You... You want to do what's right... with me?” he asked, feebly, nervously.

  “Yes,” I answered firmly.

  “But... your vows?”

  “My vows will be forsaken.”