To the Rich belongs the Choice

 January 3, 1989

To the Rich belongs the Choice

If the rich are different for you and me, it is because, on final reckoning, they can preach true freedom of choice, where the poor enjoy none.

When I first came upon Bea Zobel’s piece on freedom of choice, I must confess I made little of it. Unlike her, the subject of population growth and family planning little excites me. To each her light, to each his darkness.

Three kids were all my parents wanted. I prefer none but am happy enough to leave to others the task to multiply and crowd the planet whichever way they want.

In China, India, Bangladesh, and Armenia, there have been cataclysms aplenty to set the balance of nature aright. I believe in a higher providence at once merciful and cruel but always wise. I go by that unseen hand that writes our fate with crooked lines.

But the good lady protests a wee bit much. Day after day these past two weeks, I have seen the papers heralding her courage and compassion. I do not know the purpose of such persistence, but I have a rather clear notion of how it thrives, and I do not like it.

If Mrs. Zobel could have her way, she would leave to each and every creature the right to choose the brand or method of birth control she or he prefers. She is for total freedom of conscience in such matters, and so are most of us.

But three things I think need reminding her and ourselves on that account. First, neither science nor conscience is infallible. Second, having embraced our brand of faith, we are bound by it. And third, the poor really have very little choice.

Forty years ago the atom was power in our hands. Today we fret about the threat of holocaust from thousands of nuclear warheads as from hundreds of Long Miles and Chernobyls whose awesome capacity for annihilation we are impotent to contain.

Twenty years ago hitherto our savants worried that we were peopling the globe to extinction. Of late alarm has been raised that we are achieving that extinction, not through overpopulation alone, but through greying societies whose creative energies are sapped by selfishness and over-indulgence.

I assume even Mrs. Zobel would cringe from outright foetal murder, so let us not belabour that method, even if, not unknown to her surely, it is now indiscriminately prescribed in various countries near. Let’s look at “caps” and pills instead, for about these we are less squeamish.

The growing legions of women whose reproductive apparata have been irreparably damaged by IUD’s in the United States has all but brought that contraception to a dismal finish.

And in Germany at least, where the tablet has been a fixture for two decades, the havoc it has wreaked on women’s hormonal constitution has led to its being made available to the end-user by prescription only.

So much for science’s wonders. So others have learned, and so we have not. For lo and behold, all the discards of more “civilized” nations have now become our bane. Outmoded, expired, unsafe, these “wonderful” gadgets are now being dumped on us, and we are reckless in gratitude.

Kawawa naman the poor. There are just too many of them. Let us cure their blights by lessening their numbers. In the process, we can also hold on to the status quo: our maids in uniform, our streets empty of beggars, our backlots rid of squatters, our groceries and shopping malls chockfull of imported wearables and comestibles.

After all, our perverted logic tells us, what ails us must also ail them. We would spare them the weight loss and diminished verve that comes from bearing five children. Tough luck. Would that the millions of others out there had the same luxury of unburdening themselves of such complaints before a paediatrician, a good Catholic, a fine human being.

For them life is a vastly rougher proposition, a perilous gamble. To afford to see a doctor as they must in their twilight, they must first ensure that three of their five offspring survive infancy, two get to school, and one finishes and lands a decent job.

Will less mean more? Supposing we got them around to having just one or two siblings instead. Can we guarantee them more food, more schools, and more opportunities for gainful employment thereby?

Can we promise them a government that is more conscientious and caring, and new breed of elite who are less wasteful and extravagant? Because if we only want less of them so there can be more of us, then all we have is a cop out.

Let the rich then privately salve their troubled souls all they want. The clarity and purity of their conscience being inversely proportional to their worldly stock, the eye of the needle is their lot.

The poor, at least in that regard, have an easier time of it. Harsher though life be for them, the mischief of God appears a better option than the avarice of fellow man. We should not begrudge their believing that his rules are fairer and his surprises kinder than our in the end.

Gunnar’s Faith

February 21, 1989

Gunnar’s Faith

Contrary to whatever impression my earlier pieces have given, I am not, within my own family, the true believer and defender of the faith. At best I am a born-again but non-Charismatic Catholic. Truth to tell, the real hardliner at home is a twelve-year old kid, Gunnar.

Gunnar is not his real name, of course. It is Victor Benedict, Victor because his grandfather on the paternal side carries that name, as did his maternal great-grandfather, now long-deceased. And Benedict because he was born on the feast of St. Benedict, the family patron.

Gunnar is half-Chinese, and goes to school at Xavier. His father describes himself as a Taoist-agnostic, whatever that means, while his mother is a baptized, though non-practising Catholic.

My sister and brother-in-law stopped going to Sunday mass and the sacraments long before Gunnar was born. They’ve had him baptized on their own and let him go to his first communion and confirmation with his classmates, but that is all. For the rest of his faith life, he is pretty much on his own.

Such as his family religious upbringing has been, being Catholic is a big thing with Gunnar. So big, in fact, that he has been having lively discussions with his father and not a few sleepless nights over the fundamentalists.

Now Gunnar and I don’t even discuss these things in great detail, this much I know: his tiff with the born-again's (some of his classmates and their parents are) stems from the purely personal and practical, rather than dogmatic grounds.

My nephew, you see, prefers his life straightforward and uncomplicated. He thinks two dishes on the table is one too many. If he likes a shirt, he will wear it to death. Most of his friends date back to first or second grade, and he has been going to the same barber with the same frequency for nearly as long.

As with his life, so it is with Gunnar’s faith. For him, being a Catholic is as much a given as being a boy and being half-Chinese, and he likes the sense of permanence it brings. He is into things that endure, and what’s lasted all of 2,000 years is good and true enough for him.

Gunnar thinks, and I completely agree with him, that all these public debates with fundamentalists will lead nowhere. We’re right and they’re wrong, so what is there to quarrel about? Let’s not bother with them and go our own way, he suggests.

Gunnar’s notion of going his own way is he’ll just continue serving mass in school regularly and saying his prayers on rising and retiring. Mine, I tell him, is as follows:

I will hear mass and go to communion daily, and take him and my nieces to church every Sunday.

We will resume praying the rosary together before the family altar (which has three images of the Blessed Virgin) at home every evening.

We will take turns praying before and after meals.

No meat will be served at home on Friday, within or outside Lent.

I will give each member of the household a Catholic bible, a rosary if he or she doesn’t have one yet, a medal each of the Blessed Mother, St. Benedict and our Guardian Angel.

We will bring flowers, light candles and pray at my parents’ tomb at least once a month.

The family will tithe to support the following causes: parish projects; the education of seminarians; a home for the aged; a community of monks in Malaybalay.

In short, if Gunnar and I have our way, our family will henceforth do everything that the born-again's say we shouldn’t. Because if we are right, and they are wrong, we must and will gladly pay the price in full for our religious convictions, no ifs and buts about it.

Having been sealed with the sign of faith at baptism, other options are no longer ours to take. Catholic at birth, like all forebears have been, we will be Catholic until the very end, and so, if we can help it, will all those who come after us.

And if that be intolerance, we will forever bless and thank the Lord and His Blessed Mother for it. May they guide us always on our pilgrimage through this valley of tears, on our way back to the Father.

Hold Fast to What is Good

February 7, 1989

Hold Fast to What is Good 

If you were lucky – if the acoustics and speaker system of your parish church are good, if the celebrant had good diction and wasn’t in a great rush, and if the length of it failed to lull you to sleep – you finally heard what the good bishops have to say on the fundamentalist scourge last Sunday.

Otherwise, dig up last Sunday’s edition of the papers. They had brought us the story at crack of dawn, with full text or extensive quotes therefrom as well as background and reactions from both sides.

All agree it was the biggest Church story to break since the hierarchy finally turned its back on Mr. Marcos in 1986. But its impact was blunted, and by no other than those it concerned the most – our pastors. As of the last mass of the day, they had not yet received their imprimatured copies of the text.

Whatever the story behind the story was, last Sunday’s reading of the pastoral from the pulpit was anti-climactic. At best, it came after all the blood from the message had been drained. At worst, it made our parish priests look like stooges. Which brings me to the point I deem most needful of stressing.

Hold fast to what is good, as such Church pronouncements go, is an outstanding one: elegant, sober and precise. As it should be, for the doctrinal teachings it reiterates are profound and fundamental, and the errors it repudiates grave and insidious. But is it enough?

I’m afraid that to see the born-again movement as being primarily a doctrinal issue is to miss the raison d’etre of its overwhelming success altogether. And to fight it on that ground is to doom any hope of a counterfoil ab initio.

For when all is said and done, fundamentalism is not about dogma or substance, as it is about personal charisma and form. More precisely, it is about communications skills and logistics, in which the born-agains are past masters and the Church itself, frankly, a bungling amateur, in this country at least.

Debate doctrine with the fundamentalists, and you fall into a snake pit. You may say all the right things, but they say the wrong things with more flourish and repeat them more often that they become, excuse the pun, bible truth.

In effect, this is the Thomasites story all over again. Picture it: the most wholesome Caucasians descending on some God-forsaken barangay in the boondocks to dispense honeyed words as well as free medicine, free sandwiches and soft drinks and yes, free bibles. When such gods come visiting, who can resist?

Are city mice less pervious to such charms? Just vary the approach a little and yoy get them equally hooked.

To employees, offer group dynamics seminars, with bible lessons thrown in for free, of course. To businessmen and professionals, how about a fellowship in a hotel ballroom with your own kind, where you talk about faith, yes, but also prosperity?

In these fora and on the TV and radio talk shows the fundamentalists have now pre-empted, the message is always upbeat, the communicators attractive, voluble, and eloquent, the atmosphere familiar, joyous and exuberant. If you don’t get what I mean, watch the 700 Club.

Their point, of course, is not theory but practice – how to acquire what one glossy booklet now making the rounds calls Power for Living. Success through faith: the born-again phenomenon has thrived because it has been able to drive home that fundamental equation better than anyone else.

And what has the Church offered the bewildered and the wavering as an alternative so far? Not much, to put it mildly.

Churches that are invariably filthy and overcrowded. Uninspired services. Meandering, haphazard homilies. Ancient curates grumpy to be bothered for confessions, baptisms, blessings or funerals, and younger ones equally averse to taking on such dull routines, busy as they are teaching the poor to curse their fate.

The nuns and seminarians? A strident, embittered lot whose notion of holy zeal is to rail on TV shows, man picket lines and march beneath red banners. Who take care of the classrooms? Lay catechists, part-timers for the most part, just slightly more enlightened than their charges.

So there’s the rub as I see it. The Church has no one to match Pat’s, Ronald’s, Ray’s and Nestor’s winning ways, no success stories in the league of Gary V. and Jolas (who needs graven idols when you have the real thing?) to show off, and definitely no free sandwiches, soft drinks or bibles to bait the masses with.

Hold on to what is good? The Church’s first job, it seems to me, is to to prove that we, not they, have the goodies. The battle is now joined. Abangan!