WHO IS JESUS???

Pip has requested me to help us all internalize the Bible, to have you read through my e-mails and get some touches of the celestial wonders that surround us, but which we often ignore, forget, or are too busy to notice. What a lovely way to continue our e-mail conversations from this threshold of the Divine...without sounding like the fire, thunder and brimstone of the angry God Who cast the tablets of the Commandments as Moses descended the mountain.

Because, today, our God's words are no longer written on stone by the fire of lightning and with our trembling fears of a wrathful God. He has written His commands in our hearts...take a look.

And, so, let me begin by helping us all to see... and you can join me by simply reading through my e-mails, or, and this is even better, by writing back your own thoughts...for all of us to share.

Do you know what Jesus looks like?

I have worked with television as a broadcaster for two decades and have this expertise at describing events and personalities...mostly heads of states and governments, kings, tyrants, dictators, and first ladies. I counted the number of such world leaders I have interviewed -- more than 50 of them, mostly in their pompous offices or imperial thrones, complete with a retinue of security secret service agents standing guard at my every move, making sure that I have no hidden weapon that could harm their leader.

But, I never imagined ever doing an interview of Jesus. In the open field under a hot sun, dust in my nostrils and straining to listen to what He has to stay in the midst of crowd. Or, weaving my way inside a room where He asked a man to rise up from a debilitating illness. But not in a Palace -- this Son of God. Not in a huge office -- this creator of the universe. Not with bodyguards, but with twelve, smelling of salt wind men who could hardly even speak good grammar (some were just fishermen).

How would I have described Him? Was He tall, dark and handsome? From what I have read about Him, I gather that His charisma must have been strong enough to have been able to attract thousands of people who would listen to Him (and without a sound system, mind you) for hours, sometimes days, as he talked (preached, was the word they used) about something absolutely strange to them (at that time).

Remember, we already know the outcome of Christ's life today...but let's look at His life as though we were doing a reportage (a television coverage, from my perspective, that is) of this man who claims to be God. Join me as I walk us through the path of this man's life.

Visualize this: a man walks down the street, and you have the people calling out in His name in exclamations, like an athlete, perhaps, who has just made the victory for your favorite game.

We, who live two thousand and five years after Jesus, know the sound of cheers and shouts. We see this on television with football or basketball games. You yourselves have sat in stadiums shouting out the name of your favorites.

It wasn't very different, then, I think.

I have studied His gestures and words in the Gospels and the many books that they have spawned. Yet no amount of my readings gave me a glimpse of Jesus in the flesh. A poet said it beautifully: "Those of us who look for Jesus cannot see past our own noses."

If He were alive today, would he be a six-foot-six-inch 260-pound defensive tackle who would always make big plays and would be hard to keep out of

the backfield for offensive linemen?

Would He approximate Nelson Mandela, or Martin Luther King, Jr., or Abraham Lincoln, or Brad Pitt, or Harrison Ford?

Who is this Jesus?

Jesus Himself did not offer much proof of his identity. Take it from me as an investigative journalist, and I tell you He dropped clues here and

there, but He also said, after my discovering some evidence, "Blessed is He who takes no offense at me."

See that? To a remarkable degree, this man throws it back at us.

So, all those stories we read from the four great writers of the Gospel, all those records of Paul in his letters to people all over his ministry...all lead to just one truth: Jesus is for each of us to discover.

Examine me. Test me. Learn about me. And then, you decide who I am. That's what He is saying.

I leave you with that, my dearest everyone. You don't have to be analytical about this, simply close your eyes whenever you can, maybe before going to sleep, or while you're at work and resting a while, or in a restaurant and waiting for your order. Think in your mind's eye of what Jesus would look like. Not the pictures you see in holy books or the movies. You. Your thoughts. Your own version of His looks.

Believe me, even as you begin to imagine His face, you will cry from the sheer magnitude of the thought.

I intend to tell you more, but for now, you try and make your own discoveries. That is, if you would really like to know who Jesus is.

THE LADY OF OCTOBER

First Nun:

Nothing remotely suggests what the moon has tried to conceal:

at the foot of the mountain we found a penitent,

clinging to his nightshirt,

counting his fingers and crying.

Weeping under the shadow of the moon, but the shadows

failed to hide his tears, and the moon

shone like the witch hysterical

over the waters on his cheeks.

Second Nun:

Somewhere in the crowded city we heard

the song of the Lady hugging the walls

of an old cathedral.

A song of sorrow asking to be heard

above the waves of crowded city's

voice: It was asking to be heard

because the city suffers from a famine

there is no wheat coming from the fields

the earth has turned a yellow color --

now dry and ruinous.

First Nun:

But the moonlight could not hide his tears.

Second Nun:

The birds from the city have

fallen with the rains.

The song of the Lady re-echoes

through the grief and the glory:

"We cannot sleep the nights. Our eyes

are parched. The days are hot and long

carrying an emptiness more

than the hallow

in our stomachs,

and I know that death is not far from us."

First Nun:

He wept for his sins and wet the earth

beneath his knees.

But his tears were salt, and the earth

bore no root, no green, not even

a stir opening to the small, small drops.

Second Nun:

Only She lamented the hunger of the city.

The people knew they were starving

but were too busy to care why or where

to ask for food. For the city, it is true,

has much oil for its cars, and

power for its lights.

In that mass of machines where everything

opens and closes, moves and stops --

the growing of the grass, the trees,

the stir of the wind,

the temper of the sea, the thunder

from the mountains -- all these echoes

of heaven

are not heard.

Two Nuns:

Hunger in a penitent’s soul

is all the pain the dry season brings.

Tears by the mountains huddled

what manner of man is this that kneels

by the stone, and strikes his breast

with sounds like prayer?

The voice of prayer that goes beyond

the fire in the breast

beyond the swell of watered eyes.

The voice of prayer that comes

from a sanctuary

of stillness, where a Child could

dwell between the metal and the spirit.

A condition of complete simplicity

where a world is complete before the Altar

and a heart without a world, simple.

First Nun:

Who shall tell the people?

Second Nun:

Before the Black Sea, there were thirty pairs.

Part II

The Lady:

From the Blessed St. John

a message to thee from the Truth,

the source from which God's creation began:

"I know of the doings, and find these

neither cold nor hot.

Being what thou art, lukewarm,

make me vomit thee out of my mouth.

See where I stand at the door

Knocking: If anyone listens to my voice

and opens the door, I will come in

and visit him, and take my supper with him.

Chorus:

Listen you who have ears, to the message...

The Lady:

...The Spirit has for the people."

They have ruined the churches,

and many have died...

Chorus:

...without prayers for their graves

The Lady:

...unheedful of the bitter waters

Chorus:

...of Hell.

The Lady:

Who shall tell us what to do?

When hearts like doors have closed themselves

and the streets have crowded with cheerers

mocking a Man riding a donkey,

the tide of the traffic has thickened

over the square;

Does not a Child come up to the Man

that He may ask

For all to hear: "Unless you become

as little children, you shall not enter

my kingdom."

What, no child?

Chorus:

Was that laughter?

First Nun:

Hail Mary

we turn to Thee.

The Lamb of God, behold!

rebuked by electronic robots

and computing machines.

Second Nun:

Holy Mary,

behold our vineyards: the clusters

look rich and ripe,

but when gathered and pressed before

His judgment...

Chorus:

...Lord, hear our cries.

Have mercy. Have mercy.

Two Nuns:

The vintage from the earth gave no wine.

Not one single drop

for the Figure on the Cross

That shed His last for them.

The Lady:

The crop of this earth is dry.

Go to the nuns. Ask them to pray.

First Nun:

The world is neither the convent

nor the church door, only.

Second Nun:

The Lord did not die for the convent

nor the church door, only.

Chorus:

The sinner by the stone mountain

with his false confessions has been

invited for dinner.

Go, tell him to dress himself

and attend

the banquet of the Lord,

and there,

pour out his grief’s the penance

may be anointed over his forehead

and he may go

to the square in the morrow to proclaim:

"I can see! I am blind no more!"

The Lady:

In the square, the people are too busy

feasting with their gold.

They do not seem to starve for food.

They do not seem to go blind, or deaf,

or mute,

or sick with the palsy.

What then?

Chorus:

Shall the blind man made seeing,

the sinner pardoned,

be heard over the waves of traffic and noise?

When the temper of the tide shall rise

and fall,

when the earth shall be open and made green

when the birds come homing from the South

when the sharp sickle of the Angel gathers

the world’s vintage

shall the people in the square

pause from their hurry and look to the sky

bending their knees in prayer to cry:

"Lord, are we not worthy?"

Part III

Chorus:

Nothing remotely suggests

what the moon has tried to conceal:

At the foot of the mountain

we found a penitent clinging to his

nightshirt, counting his fingers

and crying.

Weeping under the shadows of the moon,

but the shadows failed to hide

his tears and the moon shone

like the witch hysterical over

the waters on his cheeks.

Two Nuns:

Bend the knees before the Sanctuary

and make the voice of prayer

strike the breast to

Open! Open! Open!

The Lady:

"If anyone listens to my voice

and opens the door, I will come in

to visit him, and take my supper

with him.

Listen, you that have ears,

to the message

the Spirit has for the people!"

--------------------------

Father Ting, This was published in the "Varsitarian" official organ of the University of Sto. Tomas and was submitted and won the Palanca the same year it came out. I was finishing my course in philosophy at the time. Even then, I already had attempts at being a St. John of the Cross. A poetic attempt, albeit puerile. The papal book "Memory and Identity" is with the Father Provincial of the Order of the Blessed Sacrament. He was our parish priest at the Carmelite Convent for six years and with his promotion is now back with his central office. The discalced Carmelite friars have not taken over the daily masses at the Gilmore Convent. I will try to retrieve it. "Memory" refers also to our personal recollection of the life of Christ, the history of the Church, the struggles of humankind through wars and natural calamities -- all must be part of our recollection in order that we can "Identify" with Christ in humanity's failings, trials, struggles, victories and triumphs, and with each other together with the communion of saints that have gone before us. Without memory we do not have our identity. Without remembering the past of the Old Testament and the New Testament, we have no identity in the now. Our identity is our collective history. We are one in many memories; and all our memories identify us.

rita