Warning against self-righteousness

“THE kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out at

dawn to hire laborers for his vineyard.” (Mt 20,1) Thus starts the

gospel we heard recently at Mass. It’s a parable that contains a

precious lesson—a warning, in fact—especially to those who feel

advantaged and privileged in life for a number of reasons.

            As the parable continues its story, the landowner agreed

to pay the laborers who were hired at the first hour the “usual daily

wage.” But since he noticed there were still idle people in the

different parts of the day, even at the last hour, he decided to hire

them just the same, promising to pay them what he thought would be

just.

            At the end of the day, when paying time came, he chose to

pay all his laborers the same “usual daily wage,” including those who

were hired at the last hour. Obviously, those hired at the first hour

felt unfairly treated.

            “These last ones worked only one hour, and you have made

them equal to us, who bore the day’s burden and the heat,” they said.

But to this, the landowner said, “My friend, I am not cheating you.

Did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage? Take what is yours

and go…”

            The parable simply tells us at bottom that God cares for

everyone of us. He does not make distinction of persons insofar as

loving is concerned. His love is universal. It covers all.

            This is the thought that should be with us everytime we

see the differences and the great variety of conditions we have among

ourselves. Yes, we have to acknowledge our differences, our advantages

and disadvantages, etc., but we should not forget that God loves all

of us and that we too should love everybody else the way God loves

all.

            Let us remind ourselves that our differences are meant to

develop, if not enrich, everyone through the dynamics of

complementation and supplementation. Let’s see to it that we are not

unduly entangled with the unavoidable tension and conflict, and that

we manage to go past them and see the bigger picture.

            What is incumbent on us is to give what we have, what has

been entrusted to us by God—our talents and other gifts—as much as we

could for the common good. This is where our true joy and

self-fulfillment. It’s in giving that we truly love, and that we truly

get blessed.

            We should never think that our talents, gifts, blessings

and other privileges and advantages we can have in life are a right to

lord it over others, or to be proud and vain, or to expect more

privileges. They are never meant to make us feel superior to others,

turning us into conceited persons.

            If ever, these things should only make us more aware of

the greater responsibility we have to contribute to the common good.

That consideration, which we should try to be with us always, should

sober us and stop us from making fantastic, baseless ideas of

ourselves.

            These gifts and blessings should make us more humble and

more responsible, as well as more discerning as to what God has in

mind for their proper use. That’s because when not referred to God,

these things can have no other effect than to spoil us.

            And that’s when we, unwittingly perhaps, lead ourselves

down the road to a blinding self-righteousness. We have to be most

wary of this danger which is very common and can come to us in subtle

ways.

            The worst form is when we use our “sanctity” because we

may be a priest, a nun or a monk, as a claim to superiority over

others. This can happen when we have little or even no patience for

those who may not behave “properly” in certain liturgical celebrations

and we feel we have the right to scold them in public.

            The real saints and heroes never thought it beneath them

to suffer the inadequacies and the mistakes of others, following the

example of Christ who even went to the extent of washing the feet of

his apostles, and who clearly said that he came to serve and not to be

served.

            Since any authority on earth is a participation of the

authority of God, those who have it, especially the sacred ministers,

should see to it that the exercise of their authority would make

others see God instead of their own selves.

            We have to follow the example of St. John the Baptist who

said, “He must increase, but I must decrease.”

Living with a holy man

I AM referring to Bishop Alvaro del Portillo (March 11,

1914-March 23, 1994), first successor of St. Josemaria Escriva as head

of Opus Dei. He will be beatified in Madrid on September 27.

            I first met him in person in 1987 when he visited the

Philippines, though I have known him ever since I got in touch with

Opus Dei way back in 1970. He was like the shadow of St. Josemaria

because I always saw him beside the Founder in the pictures.

            But more than a physical shadow, he was a most faithful

reflection and conductor of the spirit of Opus Dei that the Founder

embodied with his original charism. St. Josemaria used to call him

“Saxum,” meaning Rock, because the Founder could always rely on him

for anything.

            More or less I could claim that I lived with him for two

years in Rome when I was sent there for my ecclesiastical studies. I

have to say, “more or less,” because we actually did not share the

same house, nor did we see each other everyday. But, yes, we met and

had get-togethers with many others like me quite often.

            I had many occasions of talking with him personally, and

since one of my job assignments was to open the gate of the compound

where we were staying, I frequently had a chance to open the gate for

him, greet him and have some small talk.

            Once, I was asked to accompany him while he had his

haircut. I made sure I collected the cut hair—of course, in

secret—knowing that one day it will be a relic. But I lost it since

when his process of beatification started, we were asked to return all

items related to him.

            But that occasion was memorable to me because after the

haircut, while I escorted him to his room, he asked me details of my

birthday which I celebrated just a few days before. I was impressed

that he would know about my birthday, considering there were hundreds

of us, and that he was interested to know what happened during the

celebration.

            I had always found him as a very serene person, exuding

pure goodness. I never saw in his face any sign that he was bothered,

though I knew very well that he had to face and bear quite a burden of

responsibilities and other concerns. Yes, I was truly edified by that,

and hoped that I could be like him.

            To me, his words, always gentle and delivered in a soft

tone in meditations or in get-togethers, revealed nothing less than a

deep spirituality that was most faithful to the gospel and to the

spirit of Opus Dei as embodied by St. Josemaria. I was always moved to

listen very carefully to each word he said.

            My impression was that he spoke directly from his heart,

but a heart in constant dialogue with God. There was a certain

freshness in his ideas and words. I never had the feeling of listening

to recycled spiritual clichés, prettified by some rhetorical if

spiritual gloss and hype, or propped up simply by clever literary

devices or witticisms.

            I suppose that when one tries hard to be very spiritual in

his outlook and lifestyle, nourishing his spiritual life with the

living word of God, with the sacraments and many other spiritual

exercises, he could distinguish between what is truly spiritual and

what may just look or sound like one, between what is truly spiritual

and what is merely literary, etc.

            The biography of Bishop Alvaro is full of heroic instances

of suffering, extreme fidelity, poverty, generosity, mercy... He

forgave the person who nearly killed him during the Spanish civil war,

the cocked gun pointed right to his head. He was always preaching

about forgiveness, asking for it as well as giving it.

            In spite of his deceptively serene and laid-back presence,

he was actually a man burning with love and self-giving. He was very

dynamic in the sense that he inspired the putting up of many projects

for the spiritual and social health of many people in many countries.

Opus Dei spread to many places during his term.

            He was made bishop in January 1991, and on January 28 of

that same year, I was among the first batch of those ordained by him

as deacon. Obviously, I was very happy and very thankful for this

unexpected privilege.

            I always cherish the memory of this very holy man. I now

have a great devotion to him, and I hope and pray many others will

have it too.

The passing of tradition

TRADITIONS are important in our life. They are like

structures that help us cope with the different necessities of life.

They have been built up from the common experiences of a person and of

a society and are passed on from generation to generation.

            That’s what tradition means. It’s a matter of handing down

certain shared attitudes, practices, lifestyles from one generation to

the next. It’s a continuing process that parallels and supports life

itself.

            Traditions can be personal, family, social, political,

historical, cultural, and of course, religious that are in fact the

most important. In other words, they correspond to our human needs

taken either individually or collectively, spiritually or materially.

In short, they cover all aspects of our life.

            Traditions help keep life going, facilitating the

performance of certain duties and the attainment of certain goals and

ideals. They give some consistency to our life, and a reassuring sense

of direction and fulfillment.

            Since our identity as a person and as a people is often

qualified by the traditions we practice, we need to make sure that we

have good and healthy traditions, refining and polishing them along

the way, or otherwise starting new ones as circumstances warrant.

            New traditions somehow are born spontaneously. A certain

spirit or ethos must be behind its making after a number of factors

and relevant elements come together. There are also those that are

quite deliberately engineered. But no new tradition comes about unless

it has at least the tacit approval of the majority of the people.

            Traditions also form some kind of basis or ground on which

a person and a society grows and develops. They can be part of the raw

material used for growth. Practically no one and no society can live

without some tradition in place in their system. No one starts to

develop from absolute zero. He has to begin somewhere.

            Yes, traditions can define us as a person and as a people,

but we have to make sure that we continue to define our traditions. We

have to assert our dominion over tradition, and not the reverse,

letting tradition to simply dominate us.

            To do this, we have to realize first of all that

traditions are a living thing, not something dead and inert. It

requires a spirit, and we just have to give it one, making sure the

spirit is the right one, and not just any spirit that can also easily

come—the spirit of the world, or of the flesh, etc.

            That spirit should correspond to who we really are—in

accord to our dignity as persons created in the image and likeness of

God and made children of his. We are not merely material, plant or

animal beings. We are rational beings, and more than rational, we are

spiritual beings also, inextricably meant for a supernatural end.

            It’s when we treat our traditions like this that they

become truly helpful. They would become true light and guide toward

our ultimate end. We would understand traditions as something that

needs to continue evolving.

            They are never stagnant nor frozen. They require

innovations and renewal, always adjusting to the changing signs of the

times and seeking their proper context, setting and timing.

            This is something we have to be most careful about, since

we have the tendency to simply go on automatic pilot with regard the

use of traditions. This blind adherence to traditions would lead us to

be narrow-minded and to judge people and events according to some

outdated criteria.

            That’s when we start to empty our traditions of their

living substance, leaving them as an empty shell. That’s when these

traditions would lose attraction to the people, especially the young

ones. That’s when traditions would get stuck with the previous, old

generation, and would hardly have any impact on the new one.

            The passing of traditions from one generation to another

requires the proper distinction between what is essential in them and

what are simply accidental, or between what their living substance is

and their other dependent elements.

            There is no doubt that for our traditions to continue

living, relevant and effective in our lives, they have to be grounded

on the ultimate source of life who is the eternal God himself, the

creator of all things.

            Traditions based on transient values will not last. Though

we may start our traditions with an inadequate foundation, let’s work

toward rooting them on their proper foundation.

            Otherwise, Christ could accuse us: “Well do you make void

the commandment of God, that you may keep your own tradition.” (Mk

7,9)