Dust in the darkness
Today, Catholics mark the beginning of Lent.
All the masses, readings, and gospels hitherto have slowly built up the story that the black crosses aim to represent. From Sirach, Joel, even the Psalms, we find a complete picture of what the symbol means.
Dust does not mean destruction. It reminds us that every human, regardless of origin and creed, is created with their own strength, both in body and mind, in soul and spirit. All people have free will, knowledge, goodness, wisdom in their hearts.
All humans, therefore, cannot be judged by their appearances, but by things that reveal their innermost lives: the words they speak in their unguarded moments, their reactions to the most dire circumstances when their spirits are tested by fire, the fruits of their labors, the legacies they leave behind—that which is as hidden as the dust in their bones.
The black crosses also remind us that we are all part of a weak, helpless humanity, but this does not mean that we should keep each other powerless. This does not mean that we should reduce others to mere dust to be swept away and ignored.
We must help the poor—all the poor, not only those who look like us or who come from our country or who follow our laws. We must help those in need—all those in need, not only those who are conveniently close or who promise us devotion and servitude in exchange for our gifts. We must work toward justice for all—not only for those who can serve us and our interests in the long term.
These intertwined admonitions of the dangers of falling prey to appearances at the expense of a genuine inner life have become more apparent in these last few weeks, as we watched elected officials across the world parading their power.
They were sitting in plush offices, supposedly welcoming a leader exhausted by years of war. They were standing in a shower of camera flashes to show off how they were handing out donations. They were speaking about the spirit of religious holidays.
But these good deeds came with poison.
They blamed victims for their suffering. Forced them to be grateful for whatever help they could get, even if that same help exploited their desperation. Expected servitude in return for assistance that was freely given. Tried to convince the suffering to simply surrender under the guise of maintaining peace. Labeled the victims of injustice as powerless, unable to exercise their agency so they needed a self-appointed messiah to save them.
They are the so-called leaders who ridicule those who refuse to give up what is rightfully theirs, and thereby mock victims whose country has already been attacked, invaded, and destroyed.
They are the so-called leaders who take money from the country’s coffers and redistribute it to non-existent people, then cast smokescreens of noise and doubt when prosecuted for their behavior.
They are the so-called leaders who claim to be new voices, new approaches to governance, but who come as the children of already-elected officials to cement their family’s niche in the many cracks and crevices of the government.
They are the so-called leaders who say that they help the poor when all they do is distribute election campaign-friendly bags of canned goods, low-quality rice, instant noodles, and other empty food that will make people full but sick, and that will make them dependent on yet another politician for their medical needs when their health collapses under poor nutrition.
Today, the black crosses on our foreheads do not only remind us of our sins and our fragility. The black crosses are a promise of what should be an inner change; they are an outward appearance of both humility and service that must be consistent with one’s heart and actions.
The crosses are not a badge to be worn to proclaim that one is obedient to a faith. They are a reminder that one must be truly, deeply good, regardless of who is watching, regardless of whether there is anyone in attendance to witness the fruits of one’s virtues.
The crosses are also a reminder to all of us to look closely at one another, to see beyond the fineries and grandiose shows of supposed magnanimity, to critically examine anyone who holds up a holy book, or makes religious statements or displays the black cross and declares themselves faithful—to watch if someone is performing righteous deeds for the sake of constructing a reality rather than reflecting the truth.
Do not wear the cross, the readings say, if you only want to trumpet your goodness and expect to be repaid for your generosity. Do not fast, the readings say, if you only want to flaunt your religious fervor by making a spectacle of overdramatized sorrow.
Today, we do not only wear the black crosses—we watch who else wears them, and we scrutinize their actions.
For when we select their names in the blackest of ink, we must also look into the future and see whether they are of the silent and humble who might help the country rise—or of the greedy and evil who might reduce the country to mere ashes.
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iponcedeleon@ateneo.edu
