My 52nd Blog: The Sermon That Shook My Silence

 

It had been a long time since I last heard Mass at Cardinal Santos Hospital. I didn’t expect much—just a quiet hour, maybe a moment of peace. But what I got was a sermon that stirred something deeper.

 

I wish I had caught the priest’s name, but truthfully, it wasn’t about him. It was about the message. He spoke of the rich man in the Gospel—not a tyrant, not a thief. He hadn’t wronged anyone directly. And yet, he suffered. Why? Because of the sin of omission. Because of indifference.

 

The word struck a chord. It wasn’t just a passing thought—it was a mirror held up to my own silence. I saw myself in that rich man, not for what I did, but for what I chose to ignore.

 

When the corruption scandals broke out, I didn’t speak up. I didn’t even flinch. I told myself, “What difference would it make?” The truth felt slippery, the system too tangled. I stopped caring—or so I thought.

 

The priest called it the “wa care” attitude, a slangy Filipino shrug. I recognized it instantly. I had lost faith in the government, in the idea that my voice mattered. But I hadn’t stopped caring about the poor, the vulnerable, the ones left behind. That part of me still burned quietly.

 

It’s strange how you can feel numb and tender at the same time. I had tuned out the noise, but the ache for justice never really left.

 

And that’s the danger, isn’t it? Indifference doesn’t always look like cruelty. Sometimes it looks like silence. Like resignation. Like letting the world unravel because we’re too tired to stitch it back.

 

That sermon reminded me: caring is a choice. And choosing to care—even when it feels futile—is how hope begins.