The words that came to me after these three readings like a summation of their content were “tender care and respect”.

This morning, I would like to share with you a story that reflects those qualities and in its own way reveals the unspeakable mercy of God.

You know I spent some years serving in the Philippines. My first job there was as assistant novice master to ninety novices. With that job I also served a Christian community living around and off the garbage dump in Tondo, Manila. I would go down there every month with a couple of the novices and offer Mass for the community there. This continued for two to three years. The novices would give the homily while I would say the Mass in Tagalog as I couldn’t yet preach in that language. In that barrio, mid all the decay and destruction, there was a little chapel dedicated to the Mystery of the Resurrection.

The story I want to share this morning is about Hugo, a scavenger on Smokey Mountain; that was the name given to this garbage dump. The story is one of my sacred memories.

I first met Hugo at a Basic Christian Community seminar. He stood out at the end of the seminar by weeping publicly about himself and his family. He had been in prison and while there his wife had left him. He remarried and at the seminar expressed a desire to fix up his second marriage.

I met him again sometime later on visiting the barrio. He greeted me from a distance waving his hand and shouting “Hi! Brother!”

I met Hugo again after a Sunday Mass, the day on which I was leaving to return to Australia to celebrate my Silver Jubilee of ordination.

This time he was deeply upset. With the other people of the barrio, his family had been moved to a relocation site on the other side of Manila. Imelda Marcos, the First Lady, wanted the barrio closed down as too many overseas television teams were coming there to film and spread to the world the story of Filipino distress.

However, in the relocation site there was no work. So Hugo had to return to the dump for work while his family was remained behind on the other side of Manila. He was very upset. We tried to help as we could and suggested he visit the Sisters’ convent in the afternoon to get some help.

When I returned to the barrio a few months later on my return from Australia, I heard that he had killed somebody.

I thought to myself, “Dear me! Is Hugo one who tries to turn his life around for the good only to fail. Was it drugs, was it drink? What was it?”

I never saw him again till some months later – just after Christmas. He came to me after the Mass and his first words to me were, “Father, I killed somebody. Father, I killed my son.”

We looked at each other for a moment.

Then Hugo continued, “Father, I was angry again and upset about our struggle here. I was in our little house that we had reconstructed. I raised my hands in the air and my hand touched a beam above my head. It dislodged and fell on my son and killed him.”

There was silence again as we gazed at one another.

Then he took from his pocket his wallet and showed me a photo of his son. “Malakas, siya, Father” he said, “Malakas!” He was strong! He used to work with me scavenging on the mountain.”

He was about seven years of age.

Again, there was the silent presence to one another!

After a short while, Hugo said to me, “Father, some months ago I was working on the hill of garbage with my friend and his scavenger hook caught a bag under a pile of garbage, and as he pulled the bag out from under the pile a statue of the Santo Nino rolled out and fell at my feet.

“Father, I bought the statue from my friend for fifty pesos and now I take my troubles to the Santo Nino.”

In just about every Filipino home there is a shrine to the Santo Nino. The Santo Nino is a little statue, somewhat like the Statue of the Infant of Prague. It embodies a deep devotion of the Filipino people, going all the way back to the foundation of the faith in the Philippines.

I asked Hugo had anyone blessed the statue for him? He said, “No one.” I said. “If you want to get it, I will bless it for you.” He went away and returned with the statue. I blessed it for him.

Then it was time then to return to the seminary, so we walked to the car, and as we walked, I noticed there was a lightness in Hugo’s step, almost a bounce.
Something had happened.

He had shared his sorrow and shame with a brother and something more. He had found his way back to a sense of his own dignity and strength of character. There was no judgment. There was hope. Life could move on.

And what about me? What was my response to the whole story?

I was deeply, deeply moved, lost in wonder at how God could show the kindness of God’s face to a poor, grieving father upon a hill of smoking, smelly garbage.

“Tender care and respect!”

No one is beyond the reach of Divine Mercy!

Frank Gerry SVD

PHOTO: A little boy pictured on the Smokey Mountain rubbish tip.