tito ben (michael's father)
The bishop is not around for this funeral mass, and Fr. Neil has not yet arrived and the burden of having to officiate this mass and give the homily fell on my shoulders. When I came to know about this, if I am not mistaken now, I immediately felt I was the next of kin. When one works for the church one immediately in some sense enters the family of the church which extends further the already extended Filipino family. Well, didn’t Jesus promise that those who deny certain relationships for his sake will gain mothers and brothers and sisters besides?
Nevertheless what is true is that this responsibility of celebrating the funeral and giving the homily is not something one can easily deny, nor something one would want to deny in the first place. After all I can claim that it was I who first introduced Michael and with him the family to his now present almost thankless and always unrewarding work in the archdiocese. Was that introduction years ago for good or for ill? I don’t want to ask. If the latter is true then, please, accept the burden of my role today as an act of penance.
Last night I scanned through hundreds of homilies I did in the past – 13 years of homilies. I found out that I have yet to make a good reflection on fathers and I feel somewhat ashamed for this neglect. Even in the death of my father last December I never talked about the deeper and less visible side of fathers; their care, their concern, or even just the sweet intimations they make to us once in a while. Fathers are always described in terms of what they do and how they make a living. They are always described in answer to the question “who do people say that I am” and not in that more personal question “but who do you say that I am” – a question that seeks to unravel the contents of one’s heart, questions whose answers are found not from without but from within us.
But for Jesus it was different. He would always talk about his father in personal terms, terms that would give us glimpses of their relationship and the kind of intimacy they both share every now and then. Jesus would talk about heaven as the father’s house, a term that would always bring with it the nostalgic and endearing qualities one can only find in a happy home. And Jesus in the gospel would somehow give us the idea of who is playing the role of the father’s favorite here by divulging to us the technique of approaching the Father only through him. It’s a reminder of those good old days when we would rally around a sister, who is father’s obvious favorite, in order to get his attention and his authoritative nod on our insignificant and trifling desires.
Probably, fathers are such because of our natural inclination to define through comparison. The logic is quite erratic here but we do describe them in phrases like, father is not like mother, unconscious at times of the non sequitur, the illogical nature of this assumption for if fathers are like mothers, why call them fathers in the first place? After dealing with absentee parents in my line of work I still believe that a parent could never assume both divergent roles. They could pretend to, and they could exhaust themselves by doing so, but the uniqueness of the role both assume are needed, roles which are divergent and unique to each parent.
Whether we like it or not, for better or for ill, as children of a father, we have acquired from nature and nurture, from the genes they pass to the environment their presence in our homes created, we have acquired part of our fathers in us – their outlook probably, their values and sometimes even their unfulfilled dreams for themselves. Without the formality of handing over through last wills and testaments or through ceremonies of that nature, we acquire these as we see them, as we listened to them, as we rebelled against them, as we sulked and wept, as we laughed and get thrilled with them, as we were repelled or get charmed by them – we acquire in them the qualities which make us who we are right now.
Burying a father will be made a lot easier when we realize that we are merely burying his body – but not his spirit, not his spirit, not his dreams, not his vision – for we carry these with us throughout our life.
The intimacy of human relationship is just so powerful and I would like to assume now that Jesus was never so near his father as when he was here on earth. He always talked about him. He always pointed to him. He had him always as his point of reference. In his actions and in his words it was always the Father, the Father, the Father. We may not be as articulate as Jesus was with regards his Father. But we cannot deny that in our own human encounter there is also that bit of a father in all of us.
And now we bury Tito Ben. Frankly, I have talked to almost everyone in the family before, the kind of conversation that sometimes goes beyond what is considered conventional and merely routine. (Frankly, it was they who would actually do most of the talking, considering my own more reserved manner.) Almost, I say, because Tito Ben was almost always a shadow that passes by. He greets, he says hi, hello and then goodbye. Always at the background. Probably this is the longest time he had to bear with me while I talk here. Well he can’t possibly complain right now. But if he could still react, he would blush. Well this is just one of those things we will have to bear when we die – people who never had an iota of experience about you, talking as if he knows a lot of things about you.
Now even that shadow is withdrawn from me and I have only Corady, Michael, Irene, Jeffrey and of course the ever fabulous grand dame Tita Julieta. The producer and director may just be a shadow that passes to and fro, unseen and unheard. But producers and directors are not awarded for their appearance on stage. They are remembered for their work and legacy.
Nevertheless what is true is that this responsibility of celebrating the funeral and giving the homily is not something one can easily deny, nor something one would want to deny in the first place. After all I can claim that it was I who first introduced Michael and with him the family to his now present almost thankless and always unrewarding work in the archdiocese. Was that introduction years ago for good or for ill? I don’t want to ask. If the latter is true then, please, accept the burden of my role today as an act of penance.
Last night I scanned through hundreds of homilies I did in the past – 13 years of homilies. I found out that I have yet to make a good reflection on fathers and I feel somewhat ashamed for this neglect. Even in the death of my father last December I never talked about the deeper and less visible side of fathers; their care, their concern, or even just the sweet intimations they make to us once in a while. Fathers are always described in terms of what they do and how they make a living. They are always described in answer to the question “who do people say that I am” and not in that more personal question “but who do you say that I am” – a question that seeks to unravel the contents of one’s heart, questions whose answers are found not from without but from within us.
But for Jesus it was different. He would always talk about his father in personal terms, terms that would give us glimpses of their relationship and the kind of intimacy they both share every now and then. Jesus would talk about heaven as the father’s house, a term that would always bring with it the nostalgic and endearing qualities one can only find in a happy home. And Jesus in the gospel would somehow give us the idea of who is playing the role of the father’s favorite here by divulging to us the technique of approaching the Father only through him. It’s a reminder of those good old days when we would rally around a sister, who is father’s obvious favorite, in order to get his attention and his authoritative nod on our insignificant and trifling desires.
Probably, fathers are such because of our natural inclination to define through comparison. The logic is quite erratic here but we do describe them in phrases like, father is not like mother, unconscious at times of the non sequitur, the illogical nature of this assumption for if fathers are like mothers, why call them fathers in the first place? After dealing with absentee parents in my line of work I still believe that a parent could never assume both divergent roles. They could pretend to, and they could exhaust themselves by doing so, but the uniqueness of the role both assume are needed, roles which are divergent and unique to each parent.
Whether we like it or not, for better or for ill, as children of a father, we have acquired from nature and nurture, from the genes they pass to the environment their presence in our homes created, we have acquired part of our fathers in us – their outlook probably, their values and sometimes even their unfulfilled dreams for themselves. Without the formality of handing over through last wills and testaments or through ceremonies of that nature, we acquire these as we see them, as we listened to them, as we rebelled against them, as we sulked and wept, as we laughed and get thrilled with them, as we were repelled or get charmed by them – we acquire in them the qualities which make us who we are right now.
Burying a father will be made a lot easier when we realize that we are merely burying his body – but not his spirit, not his spirit, not his dreams, not his vision – for we carry these with us throughout our life.
The intimacy of human relationship is just so powerful and I would like to assume now that Jesus was never so near his father as when he was here on earth. He always talked about him. He always pointed to him. He had him always as his point of reference. In his actions and in his words it was always the Father, the Father, the Father. We may not be as articulate as Jesus was with regards his Father. But we cannot deny that in our own human encounter there is also that bit of a father in all of us.
And now we bury Tito Ben. Frankly, I have talked to almost everyone in the family before, the kind of conversation that sometimes goes beyond what is considered conventional and merely routine. (Frankly, it was they who would actually do most of the talking, considering my own more reserved manner.) Almost, I say, because Tito Ben was almost always a shadow that passes by. He greets, he says hi, hello and then goodbye. Always at the background. Probably this is the longest time he had to bear with me while I talk here. Well he can’t possibly complain right now. But if he could still react, he would blush. Well this is just one of those things we will have to bear when we die – people who never had an iota of experience about you, talking as if he knows a lot of things about you.
Now even that shadow is withdrawn from me and I have only Corady, Michael, Irene, Jeffrey and of course the ever fabulous grand dame Tita Julieta. The producer and director may just be a shadow that passes to and fro, unseen and unheard. But producers and directors are not awarded for their appearance on stage. They are remembered for their work and legacy.
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