Too Good to Be False

        Glory to God in high heaven, and peace on earth to men that are God's friends. 

(Luke 2:14)

          Christmas is when we celebrate the unexpected; it is the festival of surprise.

          This is the night when shepherds wake to the song of angels; when the earth has a star for a satellite; when wise men go on a fool's errand, bringing gifts to a Prince they have not seen in a country they do not know.

          This is the night when one small donkey bears on his back the weight of the world's desire, and an ox plays host to the Lord of heaven. This is the night when we are told to seek our King not in a palace but a stable; and although we have stood ere, year after year, as our fathers before us, the wonder has not faded nor will it ever fade; the wonder of that moment when we push open the little door, and enter, and entering find in the arms of a Mother who is a Virgin, a Baby who is God.

          Chesterton has said it for all of us; the only way to view Christmas properly is to stand on one's head. Was there ever a house more topsy-turvy than the House of Christmas, the Cave where Christ was born? For here, suddenly, in the very heart of earth, is heaven; down is up and up is down; the angels and the stars look down on the God who made them and God looks up at the things he made. There is no room in an inn for him who made room, and to spare; for the Milky Way; and where God is homeless, all men are at home.

          We were promised a Savior, but we never dreamed that God himself would come to save us. We knew that he loved us, but we never dared to think that he loved us so much as to become like us. But that is the way God gives. His gifts are never quite what we expect but always something better, something far better than we hoped for. We can only dream of things too good to be true; God has a habit of giving things too good to be false.

          That is why our Catholic faith is a faith in the unexpected, a religion of surprise. Now more than ever, living in times so troubled, facing a future so uncertain, we need such faith. We need it for ourselves and we need it to give to others. We must remnd the world that if Christmas comes in the depth of winter, it is that there may be an Easter in the spring.

― Fr. Horacio Luis de la Costa y Villamayor, S.J.

Homily for Christmas Vigil Mass

St. Thomas More Chapel, Ateneo de Manila ― Padre Faura campus

Manila, December 1950

Adoration of the Shepherds by Bernardo Strozzi. 1615.
Oil on canvas. Walter Arts Museum: Baltimore, Maryland.

December Palm

Tall, dark-outlined against the clear-starred
      sky,
Sudden and skyward-straight ― the Palm
      It seemed
My heart arising, all the dreams I dreamed
Bodied in sharp slim trunk and leaves that
      sigh!
For this the palm tree is a voiceless cry
A yearning for the stars, and one that gleaned
One song-filled night upon a cave,
      Star-beamed.
O Palm, you charm the stars with fantasy,
Of fronded sighing, as though your lone soul
      burned
For things we know not what, but passionate
      fan
Would have lucent desires but half-discerned
In charact'ry of stars, longings of joy and
      pain
That strain the spirit ― as though, O Palm,
      you yearned
For God, descended, to be born again! 

― Horacio Luis de la Costa y Villamayor, A.B. 1935

Guidon, Ateneo de Manila

Manila, 22 December 1932

Christmas postcard. c. 1960s.

[Image source: Pinoy Kollektor]

The Nativity, II

        And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us...And of his fullness we have all received, and grace for grace.

(John 1:14,16)

          Christmas is the time when people give gifts to one another. They may not be able to tell you exactly why, but they feel that they should. We know by a kind of instinct that Christmas and giving are practically synonymous; so that even if we were to receive all the gifts that we wished for, we would not be really and truly happy on Christmas unless, by giving something ourselves, we shared our happiness with someone else.
          In this, as in so many other things, our Catholic instinct is entirely right. For the heart of Christmas is Christ, and Christ is a Gift: the greatest, the most precious gift that was ever given. He is God's Gift to men; to all men (as we tried to show earlier this evening); the gift that unites us all into one family, one household of God.
          Christ, then, have the first Christmas gift; He gave it to us; and this gift is Himself. He gave us Himself by laying aside the splendors of His divinity, by stepping down from His throne amid light inaccessible, and becoming, like us, a Man. He made our weak, suffering humanity His own; and by so doing, gave us a share in His divinity, in His divine Sonship, so that now we may not only be called, but we are, the children of God. Before He become one of us, our Brother, we were the creatures of God, the servants of God; we could not dare address God by any title less remote than Master, Lord; but now, we can lift up our hands to the Maker of the sun and moon and cry, "Father!"
          In giving us a share in His Sonship, Christ has given us a share in His inheritance. Heaven is His inheritance; that radiant and eternal City which has no need of lamp or sun, because God Himself is the light thereof. It is ours, now; Christ our Brother has given us the keys to it; and some day, we must give ourselves to Him.
          He has shared with us His divine inheritance of glory; then we must share with Him our human inheritance of pain. The lot of man on this earth is sorrow and suffering: such is the stern fact, and it is useless either to deny or to avoid it. We must suffer; but we need not suffer fruitlessly. Like childbirth, like the grain of wheat that is buried in the ground and dies, our suffering can be fruitful, can give life. In a Carmelite monastery in France, a young nun offers herself as a victim to Jesus, and stricken by a fatal disease, coughs her life away; and at the ends of the earth, men and women she has never seen receive the grace of faith ― because, she suffered. This is why the Little Flower of Lisieux is the Patroness of the Missions. So great is the power of suffering. If we must suffer ― and we must ― then let us unite our sufferings with those of the Sacred Heart, and transform them into a power to save the world.
          Christ has shared with us His own magnificent strength; then we must share with Him what little strength we have, by dedicating ourselves entirely to His service. Christ has shared with us His own Body and Blood: He has given His Body to be broken, His Blood to be spilled for our salvation; what else can we do, but give our own bodies and minds and hearts, yes, and our life blood, if necessary, to carry on His work, to spread His kingdom, to gather the broken fragments of our world into the unity of His Church?
          Let this, then, be our offering to the Christ-Child this Christmas, the offering of ourselves, to suffer, to labor, to spend ourselves in His service, that He may be born again in the hearts of so many men and women who have forgotten or denied Him, and the whole world may be at peace.

― Fr. Horacio Luis de la Costa y Villamayor, S.J.

Henryton Sanatorium

Marriottsville, Maryland

14 December 1946

Christmas Hymn by J.C. Leyendecker
1905

Christmas in the Philippines

          Strangers are often shocked at the way Christmas is celebrated in the Philippines. They find its joyful exuberance more than a little lacking in dignity and good taste. They are startled to hear tambourines clash from the choir loft, setting the pace for carols that have more of the dance than the hymn in them, and whose gyrating melodies the organ, a gamboling elephant, breathlessly tries to read.
          The house fronts of the poor burgeon with paper stars in the most appalling color combinations, and they are illuminated in the evening with an almost criminal contempt for the fire hazards involved. There are other lanterns, too ― gay parodies of birds, beasts and politicians ― whose recondite relevance to the holy season entirely escapes the foreigner.
          But it is the family Crib which he will find most reprehensible. Here are no polished figurines artistically arranged within a stable of faultless Gothic. As a matter of fact, it is not a Crib at all, but a "Belen," which is Spanish for Bethlehem. The idea, apparently, is not merely to represent the stable where Christ was born, but the surrounding countryside, if not the whole of Asia Minor. Needless to say, not the slightest attempt is made at historical and topographical accuracy.

          On an ample table or sand-box hills and valleys, groves and lanes are strewn with a carefree abandon calculated to terrify a geologist; but all the hills stoop down and all the lanes lead up to a little palm-leaf house where the Shepherds find their King. Only these are not shepherds, but farmers and fishermen, summoned by the angelic messenger from the quiet rice fields and the surrounding surf of Leyte and Luzon. Arrogantly bestriding the highest hill is Herod's palace, a cool white country mansion such as an "hacendero" might build, and at the front door waits the red Packard in which Herod goes to town.

          But the toy car is not the only toy in this amazing Bethlehem. Rubber swans preen themselves on glass ponds; the Three Wise Men lead carabaos instead of camels; and they are escorted, like as not, by tin soldiers in the uniforms of World War I. After taking in all this, our bewildered stranger is no longer even surprised to discover that the child of the house has laid the tracks of his toy train to pass by the nipa hut where Christ was born.

          The children, in fact, have often the deciding vote as to what is to go into the "Belen," since it is laid out mainly for their delight and their instruction.

          Now you will say that our history is all wrong, and our geography lunar if not lunatic; and you will be right. Christ was born in Palestine, not Pampanga; Herod never road a Packard, much less a red one; and, in the first place, what in Heaven's name is Herod's palace doing there at all? You may well ask.

          It is barely possible, however, that in our ignorance we give expression, by a kind of happy accident, to a very great truth. For Christ was not born for the people of one land or of one age only. He was born for the men and women of every land and age. There is, then, a deep and even mystic fitness in surrounding the Crib of the Savior with everything that is to us familiar and dear ― the contours and furniture of our own land, the symbols of our work and play, everything that for us spells home. For if Christ chose to be born homeless, it was that He may be everywhere at home.

          And it is this "homeyness" (if the term may be allowed) that characterizes the Filipino celebration of Christmas. That is why the foreigner finds it so homely, in the pejorative sense of the term, in the sense of being ungainly and undignified. If our welcome to the Savior leans towards the boisterous and naive, it is doubtless because we belong as a nation to the rustic band of the Shepherds rather than to the splendid retinue of Kings.

― Fr. Horacio Luis de la Costa y Villamayor, S.J.

Jesuit Seminary News (New York Province)

December 1947

Illustration by Pablo Amorsolo of Alvaro Martinez's
Reminiscenses of Philippine Christmas. December 1930.
Philippine Magazine.

(Image source)

"Great Expectations"

          The troubles of Francis Xavier (and they were many) began on the day that he surrendered himself, body and soul, to the service of God. Before that day, he was a young man of great expectations: a popular professor at the University of Paris, with the prospect of a lucrative canonry in Pamplona, and bubbling in his brilliant brain, a couple of books that would have made him famous through Christendom.

          After that day, he was a Jesuit.
          To become a Jesuit in those days was to look for trouble, because there were so few of them, only ten, and Saint Ignatius found so many things for them to do, almost all of which spelled trouble. He sent them to argue with heretics, quite a number of whom had very short tempers and very long daggers. He sent them to reform lax nunneries, where tongues were sharper than daggers, and cut more deeply. He sent Salmeron and Broet to Ireland, where, of course, a fight was going on. But Francis Xavier, because he was his dearest friend, he sent on the toughest assignment of all. He sent Francis Xavier to the East.
          I need not recount to you what Xavier suffered in the East. You know it well. He was sick unto death on the voyage to India. He was almost killed on the Fishery Coast. He starved in the Moluccas. He journeyed 500 miles through the depth of a Japanese winter, on foot, without proper clothing, to see the Emperor; and the Emperor refused him audience. When he returned to Goa from Japan, his hair had turned completely white. He set sail again, in a leaky boat, through driving storms and scorching calms, this time for China. He never entered that mysterious empire. He died within sight of it, on a miserable island, in a tumble-down hut, racked by fever, abandoned by his friends, without the sacraments of the Church he had served so well.
          This is what happened to the brilliant young scholar, the athlete of the Ile de France, the nobleman of Navarre, who gave up his great expectations in order to follow Christ. This was how Christ repaid His faithful servant.
          You remember what Our Lord said to Saint Teresa, when she complained that He did not seem to care what happened to her. Our Lord said, "That is the way I treat my friends." And you remember Teresa's quick rejoinder: "Yes, Lord, and that is why you have so few."
          This is quite true, isn't it? The Lord has so few friends, so few real friends. And we, who would like to count ourselves among these few, we must weigh well and not forget what it means to be His friend.
          It does not mean that we will have life easy. Life was not easy for Francis Xavier. Life was not easy for Teresa. Remember what Pa Baxter said to Jody in "The Yearling"? "Life's fine, son; but 'taint easy." That's how it is with the friends of Christ. We serve a crucified Lord. We cannot avoid crucifixion.
          And yet when sorrow comes, when the shadow of pain or failure falls across our life, do we not cry out, "O God, why does this have to happen to me? What have I done, that you should do this to me?"
          What have you done? You have served Christ well. You have been His true friend. And so He loves you. And so He shares with you His Cross.
          For those of you who are in love ― husbands, wives and sweethearts ― there is not mystery in this. Love in any language spells sacrifice. Poets since the world began have said it: "The course of true love never did run smooth"..."All for love, and the world well lost"...Christ has said it: "If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me." No one knew this better than Francis Xavier. Not only did he not avoid the Cross, he clung to it. He exulted in his sufferings, because they made him more like Him whom he loved so much; and like the Apostles, he went on his way rejoicing that he was accounted worthy to suffer reproach for the name of Jesus.
          Let us ask him, to teach us to bear our little crosses, if not with joy, at least with patience; knowing well that for God's friends these are not signs of His anger, but tokens of His love; and that for the price of a little pain that passes, we purchase an eternity of joy.

― Fr. Horacio Luis de la Costa y Villamayor, S.J.

Novena of Grace: St Francis Xavier

New York City, March 1948

St. Francis Xavier by Mattia Preti. 17th century.
Saint John's Co-Cathedral, Valetta, Malta.

The Nativity, I

        And this shall be a sign to you, you will find an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.

(Luke 2:12)

          My dear brethren; Just as here in America you have a Christmas tree in every home, so in my country almost every family has what we call a Bethlehem. This is just a sandbox, or even an ordinary table, on which at Christmas time we try to represent to ourselves the birth of Our Savior. In the center we place a little figure of the Christ-Child lying in a manger, and around it we arrange Our Lady and Saint Joseph, the way Catholics everywhere and in every age have pictured them. But the rest of the scene ears very little resemblance to the real Bethlehem, or indeed, to anything else you have ever seen.

          For we make the stable in which Christ was born a little palm-leaf house, like those in which most of our people live. And over against it, on top of a hill, is Herod's palace: it is a big white country mansion, such as one of our rich landowners might build, and in front of it is a little toy motor car, to represent the Packard in which Herod goes to town.

          The shepherds are there, but they are dressed in the costume of our land. In fact, they are not really shepherds, because we have no sheep; they are farmers and fishermen. Far off, in one corner of the sandbox, the Three Kings are on their way, but they do not ride on camels. Rather, one of them is leading our own patient beast of burden: a big, black wide-horned carabao. And they are all looking up at the marvellous Star which is made of rice paper pasted carefully around a bamboo frame, and hung from the ceiling on a string.

          We have no winters in our country, and so we can have a little glass pond in the sandbox, with rubber ducks floating on it, made in Germany or Japan. And perhaps even the child of the house will lay the tracks of his toy train to pass by the hut where Christ was born. For children have much to say as to what is to go into our little town of Bethlehem, since it is made mainly for their delight and their instruction.

           It is around this home-made version of the Christmas story, within the circle of soft light cast by the paper Star, that our families in the Philippines kneel to pray on Christmas Eve. You will smile, perhaps, at our simplicity; and it is true, of course, that our history is all wrong. Christ was not born in a palm-leaf shack, and the Wise Men never brought their gifts on the back of a carabao.

          But I think, dear brethren, that in our ignorance we give expression to a very great truth. You see, although Christ was born two thousand years ago in Palestine, he was not born only for that nation and that time. He was born for all time and for all people; He was born for you and for me. He willed to become a man in order to save all men; and He was born for you and for me. He willed to become a man in order to save all men; and He chose to be born homeless, because He wanted to be everywhere at home. He arranged that there should be no room for Him in an inn, because He wishes rather that men and women and children in every clime and century should long to shelter Him in their hearts, and hold Him close, on Christmas Day.

          For we must not forget that this Child, this little Son of Mary is also the Son of God. "God of God," as we say in the Credo of the Mass, "Light of Light; true God of true God; begotten, not made; of one substance with the Father; by whom all things were made." What are time and space to this immortal Infant? There are for him no distances, and He lives in an eternal Now.

          And so it is quite right for us to think of Him, not as being born a long time ago and far away, but in our own time and land. And it is right, profoundly right, that we should surround His cradle with all that is familiar and dear to us ― our houses, our tools, our toys, everything that is part of ourselves and our daily lives ― because it was to bless and sanctify these, and ourselves with them, that Christ was born.

          We come from the ancient East with our fishing nets and the grain of our ancestral fields; you come from the mighty West with the burnished metal of your forges; and crossing the threshold worn smooth by the feet of our fathers, we kneel together at last before a little Child. His arms are outstretched to receive us; and though they are tiny and soft, a Baby's arms, there is room enough in them for all the world.

          Only for sin is there no room in them, for mutual suspicion, racial hate, tyranny and unreasoning revolt, all the murderous hate that piled the corpses high at Dunkirk and Dachau. These we must leave behind us in the outer dark, before we enter the House of Christmas; for here in this abandoned stable, in this lace where Christ was homeless, all men are "at home."

          At home; and so, at peace: all men and women together united in one family ― the family of Christendom, the family of Man. Here must be no sound of quarrelling, ever; no voices raised in anger or in hate; you see, there is a Child in the House, and He is the Lord of the Household.

          Kneel we together, then, before the Child and His Mother, kneel we together and pray. Pray we for one another, and for all who still sit in darkness and the shadow of death, that they may see His Star through the murk of our troubled time, and come from East and West to enter the House of Christmas, to find therein, as we have found, looking deep into a Baby's eyes, the peace that the world cannot give.

―  Fr. Horacio Luis de la Costa y Villamayor, S.J.

Henryton Sanatorium

Marriottsville, Maryland

14 December 1946

Panunuluyan by Hugo Yonzon, Jr.
1962.