Red robes, real roles
A few weeks ago, as I was about to serve at Our Lady of Pentecost Parish, an older lector asked me to remove the white ribbon I had tied into my ponytail.
“I know you want to protest,” she said gently, “but right now, your job is to proclaim.”
Our parish had already participated in rallies; the parish office gates were bedecked in the same ribbons, and, as a congregation, we prayed for corruption to cease at all levels in the country, with prayers issued by the diocese. Though I did remove it, I thought wearing a ribbon would be consistent with the church’s stance.
As the days passed, I slowly understood what she meant. The stern warnings against avarice, murder, and wrath were written so clearly in the words of Scripture. My task was to speak them so that they gained body and breath, not to dress myself up as the main character in a play I did not even create.
It was part of our commissioning besides: when we first donned our official uniform, we were told to be on our best behavior. No careless sitting, walking, or talking; no big movements; no extra accessories that would disrupt or interrupt the Mass.
I didn’t have an official uniform when I served as lector back in the United States, and yet our instructions were the same: do not call attention to yourself, but be a visible example of goodness even without declaring your presence.
Whether I was in jeans or a skirt, in a sweater for a Midwestern winter or a collared blouse to suit the tropics, I had to behave with reverence. I was a servant of the Word: not in a position measurable by the definitions of honor set by the world, not some important person who commanded unlimited, unconditional power.
Neither the uniform nor the duty granted me any special treatment, prominence, or privilege. The protest, therefore, was not in what I wore, but in how messages thousands of years old could still speak against the sins of today. Remaining invisible behind the voice was part of the grace of the task, even as I was visible in a uniform that set me apart.
Wearing academic regalia is both another story and the same tale. The three stripes on my sleeves signify a doctorate, which means I spent years studying a specific subject, and I must not stop asking questions and seeking answers. I must always be ready to offer my expertise as an authority in the field, but I do not hold any authority over people and how they live their lives.
The robe bestows no immunity from criticism, nor does it command people to respect everything that comes out of my mouth regardless of its truth.
Academic dress is over a thousand years old, and the earliest versions of it borrowed heavily from medieval ecclesiastical robes. To wear academic robes is to signal discipline: anyone bearing them cannot do anything they wish, talk recklessly, or lie about their knowledge. The robes hold meaning; they carry expectation.
Wearing robes, therefore, or any official garment for a specific purpose, lays no obligations on the audience, but on the one who wears them: the lector who must proclaim scripture, the academic who must advance knowledge—and yes, the senator who must serve as judge in impeachment proceedings.
Those who wear the Oxford crimson robes have specific duties in the impeachment court. The judges must sit and allow two sides to present their case. If a senator has nothing substantive to add, then they must be quiet and allow the story to rise from the evidence. They must speak up to ask for clarifications when statements are unclear or evasive.
The senators are not tasked to grill witnesses as though they were auditioning for a legal drama. They should not use the microphone to make political statements or engage in grandstanding. It is the job of the prosecution and defense to be one-sided—and you, the one in red robes who took an oath, are the one called to be impartial.
The robes obligate you to listen so that you can ask questions. To value knowledge because it helps you understand a case. To allow the truth to emerge without you having to be visible alongside the revelations.
And even when you leave the chambers and remove the robes, you cannot demand respect you didn’t even earn, or associate with whomever you like. You cannot splice videos into twisted narratives to suit your version of reality. Every move you make matters. Every word you utter can be taken against you. Everything you do weighs on the trust that people put on the Senate itself.
Your job is to live by the obligations of the robe—not to dress in your political flavor, boast about your achievements, or be proud of your ignorance. You are wearing the robes to signal your duties—not because you are shielding yourself from biting criticism, or because you are demanding that the public be deaf to stupidity and blind to injustice.
You are not a statue to be enrobed for worship. You are an elected official with a job that demands intellect, gravitas, and restraint. Behave otherwise, and you are simply a clown in a velvet costume.
—————–
iponcedeleon@ateneo.edu
******
Get real-time news updates: inqnews.net/inqviber
