The best gift I gave this Christmas

I never liked the homily. That’s one part of the Holy Mass that I least like. It’s usually long, boring and preachy. As a young boy in Borongan, Eastern Samar, my beloved hometown, I remember that during the homilies of Msgr. Ricalde, our feisty cura paroco, men would step out momentarily of the Church and would converge in front of the ancient belfry beside the gargantuan main entrance of the Church, in front of the Municipio and a few meters away from the town’s famous landmark, the statue of Saint James.

While most of the men were outside during sermons, women and children would listen to Msgr. Ricalde talk about the parables, the miracles and the men who smoked outside the Church during his sermons. I like Msgr. Ricalde. He was a powerful orator – who would raise his voice higher than Maria Callas when he spoke about antipathy and hypocrisy, and would raise his voice even an octave higher when he talked about forgiveness and God’s infinite kindness. Msgr. Ricalde’s white countenance would turn red every time he delivered his poignant homilies. From where we would sit, I could almost see his veins protrude in his pale long neck. I did not totally understand the homilies of Msgr. Ricalde. But I knew that he was an extraordinary speaker – better than all the politicians who mumbled and stuttered like nervous pupils of the nearby Borongan Pilot Elementary School. I miss the good Monsignor. When most of the men went out of the Church to talk and smoke, I enjoyed watching him and relished the company of women. I became one of the women of our small town – attentive, God-fearing and that hasn’t changed much.

Last Christmas, I went to the 4 p.m. mass at the Our Lady of Mediatrix Church in Lipa City. It’s one of my favorite churches. It’s so peaceful and calm, you wouldn’t imagine that outside, there are people who kill each other; there are ogres who manufacture weapons of mass destruction, and there are those who destroy people and nations because of wild imaginings about weapons of mass destructions. A couple of months ago, on a balmy Monday afternoon (I usually visit the Our Lady of Mediatrix on Mondays, when I can), I met Sis. Elizabeth. She was a young novice, when Teresing saw the Virgin Mother on the spot where the Our Lady of Mediatrix Church stands today. At 80 something, Sis. Elizabeth has remained vibrant – even funny. On Mondays when I go to the Mediatrix, I always wish I would see Sis. Elizabeth. She is my friend.

So, last Christmas, I was hoping to see her. I wanted to wish her a merry one. Her gaze, her smile never fail to make me feel special. I figured she must have heard mass in the morning. The priest with the resonant, holy voice who would officiate the 4 p.m. masses at the Mediatrix was not the officiating priest. Instead, a younger priest presided over the Last Supper re-enactment. And then came the homily. No one stood up to talk and smoke. Everyone listened to the young priest. I did and I was in good company.

The young priest was casual and friendly. He spoke proudly with a slight Batangueño accent. But his homily was simple, light, concise and inspiring. His style was anecdotal and therefore interesting and engrossing. He told a story of a young boy who took away the Baby Jesus from the makeshift manger inside the church. Naturally, the parish priest nervously looked for the missing Baby Jesus. He asked people around if they saw Him and no one did. He celebrated the Christmas mass with an empty manger.

On the afternoon of the same day outside the church, he saw a young boy in his bicycle that had a basket in front. Lo and behold, the missing Baby Jesus was there! The priest asked the young boy, why he got the Baby Jesus from the manger. The boy explained innocently that his Christmas wish was to have a bicycle and if it would come true, he promised to make the Baby Jesus his first passenger.

I intently listened to the homily.

I started to understand the message. He had two points. One, do we look for Jesus as we celebrate Christmas?, after all, it’s His birthday. He is the reason why Christmas is Christmas. Two, do we keep our promises like the young boy who kept his promise to make Jesus his first passenger in his brand new bicycle?

"Aray." I mumbled.

The past few weeks, life has been unbearably crazy. Traffic has been horrible. There has just been so much work, too many gifts received and given, faulty Christmas lights burned a friend’s house to the ground, a friend’s mother’s legs have been amputated because of bad diabetes, carolers came in droves – from relatives to kids who sang Jingle Bells to the tune of Otso-Otso, parties galore in every corner of the City, then you bump into someone dear to you but one you missed out on your Christmas list – and you realize that you and you alone made your Christmas a veritable mayhem.

And inside the Mediatrix Chapel, on Christmas day, I realized that I was missing the whole point of the celebration of the birth of Christ.

Did I look for Jesus, the birthday Baby? Did I keep my promises?

I looked at Nanay and Bong (Quintana, my partner) who were beside me. From a distance, I thought I saw Sister Elizabeth, my friend, praying to the Lady of Mediatrix.

By the time, we all said "Peace be with You," I looked at everyone with all the love I could give and heartily declared "Peace be with You."

That was the best gift I gave this Christmas.