The thought of believing that life goes on till forever is a nice thought. Unless one went by the Buddha that life is essentially suffering. The final spiritual goal is really to disappear into the cosmos, to be one with it, to die this way by losing the sense of being individual: to lose the “I”.
The thought is not polar opposite to Christianity. Both Christianity and Buddhism are essentially the same if one presumed that the cosmos is eternal. And it must be so. If it was finite, then it would be merely what we understand as “universe”, which is only just a metaphor of finite life.
Logically, it can only be: if not eternal, then finite. And if it is finite, then it can only be eternal transition and transformation. It is the sense of nothingness which we can’t contain in our heads. If we only could, then we would become the Buddha. It is nothingness that is alien to us, since we come from the premise of life and of “being”. It is really the only thing we can be sure of: That we are here. I wrote this. You are reading it. I will give you a blanket guarantee: I am here. Are you there? I presume it at least as concept and theory. You are reading this, after all, aren’t you?
Truth is tenuous at best. One belief is equal to another. And so with Christmas:
Thus, we picture the days toward the birth of the baby Jesus. It is wonderful story. But the story came to kinutil, the “I” who is writing this for you, as cardboard cutout paintings of the Belen. His mother had it made by Cesar, the cousin-artist living next door from them in the old town, Dumanjug.
Come Christmas, Consuelo Lozada-Fernandez would set up her tableau, the figures canonical in size; meaning: 120 centimeters in height if they ever stood up. Mary is beautiful. Joseph is strong and gentle. The shepherd is a young boy with a lamb over his shoulder. We missed the donkey. Only in recent times is the significance of the donkey popularly recognized. Donkey stands for the faithful who work tirelessly for the faith, sort-of away from recognition, co-stars to the whole picture. And often less visible than the three kings who look always alien and mysterious. Only one figure is black of skin, even if all here should be dark of skin, since they are all, except for the angel, desert dwellers. But there was always a bit of Hollywood about them back when Hollywood was not yet a bad name.
In the old days, when Consuelo was yet alive, they celebrated everything: the early morning masses, the visits to and from neighbors, everything. Except the Christmas tree, which they never had. The Belen stood in its place. The gifts were placed here at its foot, as if the gifts came from the Kings to be given to the baby Jesus who gave it to the kids, in turn. Santa was not yet a saint in their household. He would come later, and somewhat, unconvincingly. Hollywood would lay waste his credibility with us by then.
But the Belen recreated the whole event for the children in a narrative they learned individually over extended time:
“Mommy, why is Joseph holding the stick?”
“Is he really Mary’s husband, Jesus’ father?”
“How does it work?”
And then the mommy would repeat the faith she learned by heart since as long as she can remember. To be sure, her faith was qualified somewhat in keeping with her academic background, College of Pharmacy, University of the Philippines. And she was well-read. She had a clear answer to every question her children raised of her faith:
“It doesn’t hurt to believe,” she always said, as if disbelieving was not at all the worst sin.
Faith, whatever faith, is a beautiful story. It is because it is a beautiful story that she believed. The child Jesus, born in poorness, living in poorness, is blessed with all the wisdom and power of the universe. And what does he use it for but to be with the poor, to live among them teaching lessons of loving each other, to suffer with them, finally, to die on the cross for them. To lose his “I” this way.
The lessons still have to be learned in this age. To learn is to be saved. To be saved, one needs only to save others; to lose the “I” not to the cosmos but in this way to others. One of the most beautiful things about their mommy was how she believed. Merry Christmas!
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