The Star

Father Horacio de la Costa, S.J. was chosen as the finest Catholic Filipino writer of the twentieth century. And he deserved it.

He had a heart. At Christmas time he loved the paper star, put together by the whole family, in the squatter’s shack. This is what he wrote about that Star.

I do not think the three Wise Men

Were Persian Kings at all. . . .

I think it much more likely they

set sail from out Manila Bay

In answer to the call.

And though the great historians

May stare at me, and frown . . . .

I still maintain the Three Wise Men

Were Kings from my home town!

And if you ask why I affirm

that Melchor was King of Tondo. . . .

When Gaspar ruled Sampaloc

And Baltazar Binondo. . . .

We will not argue. We will walk

The streets on Christmas Eve

And I will show you the poor man’s rafter

Where hangs the Star the Kings sought after,

High above Christian prayer and laughter. . .

You will see it, and believe!

For when they crossed the sea again

From Bethlehem afar. . .

They lost their camels in the sea. . . .

And they forgot the Christmas tree. . .

But they brought back to you and me

The secret of the Star!

Father de la Costa had a genius for presenting religion in a way that people could understand. He wrote a beautiful love story about a young Japanese girl in Manila named Yori, who falls in love with a Chinese bottle-buyer named Chiquito. And Chiquito falls desperately in love with her.

Fuminaro Arimoto, the elder brother of Yori, runs a refreshment parlor across the street from Chiquito’s corner store. Arimoto tolerates the courtship of Chiquito until war breaks out between China and Japan.  Chiquito ignores the war, but Arimoto does not. 

Then the  day comes when Chiquito feels that he must propose to Yori.

Chiquito sat on the ice box and thought. . . .

Today was the Big Day. . . . The Day of the Question

. . . .And if the gods be propitious, the Day of the answer. . . . 

The gods! Yes, he must pray to them.

To Yori’s gods. . . Yori’s gods were kind. . . .

Was she not staying home from school today, because

it was the feast of a goddess?

She had told him her name: Assumption. . . .  Yes; he

will pray to Assumption. . . .Now. . . .There is no one

to see. . . .

Sitting up very straight, and folding his arms across

 his  breast, Chiquito prayed. . . .

“Assumption, Lady of Heaven, to whom Yori prays,

 be propitious to my courtship. Grant, please that it be

a wow. Amen.”

But two little street boys, to provoke a fight between Arimoto and Chiquito, threw stones at the window of the refreshment parlor, splintering Arimoto’s show case into a thousand pieces. Arimoto blames Chiquito for this, and Chiquito is not allowed to see Yori again.

Then, one evening, Yori does not come back from school. Arimoto waits for two hours, then closes up the shop and starts out to look for his sister. . . . Chiquito stops him and says: “Yori thought I threw those stones, but I did not.” Arimoto says: “I know. . . . I saw the boys throw them. But she did not. So I pretended to her — that you threw them. Now she is lost. Forgive me, please. . . .” His voice broke; then. . . . “That is how wars are made.”

Silently, shoulder to shoulder, the two men marched  forth into the night and the city. . . . Pavements: crowded, then straggling, then deserted. . . . Twelve o’clock. . . . One o’clock . . . Three days.

Chiquito remembered something. . . . “Perhaps it is because we have not prayed. . . . ”

There was deep dusk and silence in the church as they entered. . . . only  a flickering tongue of red before a far altar. . . . It was deserted . . . No. . . There is one watcher — there in the front pew ‑ kneeling very straight and still. . . It is Yori!

Fall on your knees, Chiquito, son of China. . .

Fall on your knees, Fuminaro Arimoto, son of Japan. . . 

Here, close to Yori, one on either side. . . .

‘Oh, thank you — thank you, please!”  whispered Yori, with a little sob of happiness. . . “My kneel-down strike, I knew it would succeed: and you would bring these two whom I love — in friendship, to your feet at last.”

Outside, in the raucous plaza, a newsboy was shouting something, over and over again. . .

“Extra!  Extra!” he was shouting. . . “Extra! Japanese Airmen Bomb Shanghai!”

It is Christmas time. 

This is the time to forget who is Japanese or Chinese or Filipino. This is the time to forget who is a shepherd and who is a King. The spirit that fills all of us is the spirit that Father de la Costa poured into all his writings, the spirit of the Baby in the manger, holding out his arms. . . . It is love.