A Thinker with a Heart

I dreamed of this statue of the Lord Jesus of the Sacred Heart -- only He was alive as a normal human being without a Heart exposed on His Chest. He was clad in a vivid gray garment and in a deep-red cloak. It was a fleeting dream of a quarter of a minute or less. It was night. I was in front of Him looking but He seemed not to see or mind me at all. I see Him as a thinker as He sat, stood, walked to and fro and sat again in the lighted hallway back of the Church of the Sacred Heart. And, then, the dream disappeared.

"The capacity to THINK is what makes humans distinct from the rest of creation." -Aristotle, a Greek philosopher

Jesus Christ is the greatest Thinker and Philosopher of all time because He thinks with a Heart. Wisdom revolves only in Love.

The confessional: tribunal of mercy

A good counselor is not measured if one is a good adviser, but a good listener. Attentive, silent listening encourages the troubled to unload. Unloading empties the excesses of the heart. When the heart is emptied, illumination comes in. A solution to the problem! Wisdom from above! Eureka! God speaks to the heart of a person! That is the essence of confession. A counselor needs not give advice, but facilitates the troubled to have a good confession so that God Himself can speak to man's own heart. But when a confessor does give advice, it is not one that reprimands: for, the confessional is a 'Tribunal of Mercy.' God is Mercy: so must the priest-confessor, God's own representative on earth, show mercy. Reprimanding discourages further and later confessions. Confessing sins committed is not an easy thing to do. Confessing itself is a sign of repentance -- even if confessed sins are habitual. Will a man be denied the sacrament of confession just because of habitual sins? Is his lot a condemnation? Bad habits are signs of being under an ancestral bondage and curses which can only be broken off by the highest form of prayer, the Holy Eucharist! All the more that the person prone to habitual sins, needs mercy: attention, prayers and frequent confessions of temptations to avoid committing the same sins. When people are discouraged to confess again and they receive the Body of Christ in the Holy Eucharist with unclean hearts, men of God in the confessionals are answerable to God. One more thing: does face-to-face confession encourage a good, honest confession? Certainly not, because most withhold the shameful, secret sins of the heart. Go back to the confessionals with windows covered with linen or something that prevents the confessor from knowing the identity of one who confesses. The confessor must not even look at the window. Trying to know who confesses is already committing gossip in his heart as well as comparing confessed sins with fellow confessors, directly or indirectly. Jesus Christ is One Who hears confessions using the ears of priests; thus, what is heard inside the confessional must only be between the Lord and one who confesses.

The wind in the wilderness

Wisdom is not gained by age. Wisdom comes from God Who whispers it to the heart of a person: young, middle-aged or old. Everyone can hear it -- if and when one chooses to live a simplified life. A life of simplicity is an invitation to live in the spiritual wilderness. The wilderness experience leads one to his own heart 'where God speaks.' Life in excess shuts up our spiritual ears from hearing it. 

Self-respect

When we think others are 'devoid of respect' towards us, we, sometimes, demand respect from them. But why do we think we are disrespected? Why do we know? What are our basis? Why do we think? We think because we are doing what we are thinking. We point our index fingers at others; but three fingers are pointing at us. Let us see within ourselves first. Maybe, it is we who are devoid of respect towards our own selves!

Silence is wisdom

Interpreting a poem varies and depends on or is based according to the consciousness -- or, life experiences -- of the readers. But, mostly, not according to the very experiences of the poet as he wrote the poem! If a reader had the same experience as the poet, he would agree and understand the outpourings of the heart of the poet. If a reader disagreed, it might be because he had the same experience but not at the same level of experience as the poet. He may have an experience of allowing himself be bitten by an ant when the poet is being bitten by a swarm of ants which is not a one-time experience but an experience on a regular basis. Same experience but of different levels of experience. When a reader who knows nothing of the experience as the poet's and is silent as to make a comment, silence is wisdom.

Humility in the eyes of a lily

Humility, in the perspective of an erring humanity, is not the absence of pride, arrogance or conceit but the acceptance of having these in one's self that makes one humble. When one says he is humble, do you think he is humble? No, because he is, actually, proud of being humble (spiritual pride); but when one says he is proud, arrogant or conceited, he is humble enough to accept that which is truth within himself. Here begins the road to perfection. For: to be perfect, one needs to recognize, first and foremost, the fact that he needs to be perfected. This is humility; and it draws God to the humble. For, only God can bring to perfection every imperfect human being. Human attempt to perfect his own self only tempts himself to justify or hide his mistakes. Justifying a mistake or hiding it, makes a man think of it often, thus guilt-ridden. It is hard to forget a mistake when, in the first place, it is not forgiven. God, being a Merciful God, is always forgiving; but it is man that cannot forgive himself so that Divine Forgiveness cannot take effect upon his person. Not to forgive is not to forget! And to forgive is to accept. To accept is to confess. To confess is to expose. Expose yourself before God exposes us; but when exposed, be humble enough not to justify so it won't magnify.

In the heart of a lily

Once there was a lily that opened its bud for the first time under the heat of a noon-day sun. It happened in an inland pond, a lake in the heart of a city. As soon as it opened its petals, the lily-blossom saw a grove of old trees standing mid of the lake. "There's something on the trees!" -- said the lily. It felt something, Someone, the Presence of the One that created the lily: His Feet resting on top of the trees. It saw the peak of an Ancestor Mountain rising in the west, the hills looking down on the lily. It peeped through the hills and saw the plains where stood buildings, houses, and structures -- and where lived most people: the east. Farther off, it saw the gulf and the island city. "What is this place, an Eden?" asked the lily of the place of its beginning. It looked up again to the great mountain, partly hidden by its jealous and possessive Mountain Wife. "Both are meant for each other. Who can separate the two? They stand together forever!" said the lily sympathetically. (But, unless one has the faith to move and plant the wife mountain into the gulf!) It, then, panned its eyes to the right and saw the mountain sons and daughters of the Great Mountain and its wife: the mountain ranges of the city standing left of them -- and hugging. It had the chance to go up the mountains and saw the city as a great theater looking down the arena in the east. It had the chance to go down the plains and saw the city as a great cathedral: the peak, the altar. Or a wide concert arena: the peak, the stage. It had the chance to climb up the hills and saw the city as a huge cinema: the hills, the balcony -- the mountains or the plains, the big screen. The lily, in the course of its tour, noticed the feeling of a fair-weathered climate condition of the city (and typhoon-free, at that!) so unique in the whole country. But the city of its beginning has gradually lost its innocence. By its beauty and fame, it has become proud (so proud as not to accept the truth it has become proud!); and by its beauty, fame and pride will it find its own destruction. "There's still hope!" said the lily. "Humility is our last hope. But humility is beyond humility in words. Humility is, initially, recognition of the Real Presence of JESUS CHRIST in the Holy Eucharist as shown through our reverence, worship and love: first, by the priests; for, parishioners are a reflection of their own parish priests!"

A dream of gray and white

I dreamed again in August of 2011. Was the dream a closer look to the previous dream I had of an airplane explosion? The effect of the explosion was like a boulder -- of the immensity I cannot describe! -- that fell from the sky; and great was the impact so that the city was in a mess! The scenario was like in the aftermath of a war! Local economy was paralyzed. All I saw was misery. It was in gray and white -- the vision of the dream. And I woke up so desolate and exhausted from the feeling of a bleak experience.

The photo and the dream

I took this picture early January 2011, a year after I dreamed of an airplane explosion. When I saw the plane preparing to land in the north of the city, I remembered the dream; I immediately took my camera. I was following the aircraft with my camera to get a nice view of the shot when I was aghast to see it came to pass on top of the mosque: I immediately clicked the button. The photo and the dream: any correlation?

Airplane explosion

I was out in an open expanse and standing in the city of my birth. 

Facing north of the city, I saw an airplane bigger than an airbus preparing to land in the northeast. 

I was miles away from the airport, so distant as not to see it; but I knew the airport was in the northeast. 

Everything was normal except the size of the aircraft. 

It is bigger than I normally see. 

It looked like an inflated balloon in the shape of an airplane. 

But I saw it was a real airplane. 

Everything was fine -- BUT! -- the moment it touched down the runway, it exploded incomparably great that the ground I was standing on trembled. 

I saw the trees and structures in the skyline trembling. 

It was like the whole city trembled!

The island city

I found myself on the edge of a big city, sitting where the waves and the sands met. 

Beyond the great waters of blue was an island of green. My eyes were fixed on the island, but it seemed I was not looking at the island. Around me were eyes of other races fixed on me, but it seemed they were not looking at me. 

Then, behind me, a block of white texts came scrolling up from below. 

I read as it went up. 

I panted and I sighed as I grasped the essence of every line of the piece that I read. It felt like the warmth of the Hand of Love, holding the very core of my being. 

And, all of a sudden, I was caught up in the high heavens. 

As the wind carried me to the heights, I saw the island below and an isle beside it becoming stones midst of sea. 

Then, as if stones thrown into the sea, the islands submerged -- the bigger island first, followed by the isle beside it. 

And the sea rippled mightily towards the big city and other areas surrounding the two islands that were lost. 

A word and another flashed on the scene one after the other. "Island," it read -- and then, "city."