I am often berated for being “not serious,” especially back when I was still a lowly corporate employee. I smile-scoffed at stringent corporate policies, broke corporate protocol, and giggled about it. I was basically a rebel with a hilarious cause.
Only those who knew me well understood that it was my coping mechanism.
I was never bad at my job. I just went about it with what some considered an inappropriate amount of humour.
In social settings, I was always “the funny one.” Not to be confused with being a comedian — I simply had a knack for saying something silly the moment conversations became a little too serious. Again…coping mechanism.
When things get heavy, I have this almost uncontrollable urge to lighten the mood with laughter. I’ve tried suppressing it out of politeness on more than one occasion, but somehow, it always finds a way to escape.
I may have inherited this from my mum.
After she passed away, many of the messages I received described her as “the life of the party” or someone who “lit up every room she entered.” While I think hers was more a case of effortless charisma, I suspect I inherited her sense of humour. In fact, I think all my brothers did too.
Perhaps that’s why I’ve always believed that humour isn’t the opposite of seriousness. Sometimes, it’s what gets us through it.
Which brings me — rather unexpectedly — to homilies during Mass.
It’s because of this light-hearted approach to life that I can be quite (ironically) the prude when it comes to sermons. Most Catholics are already familiar with the rhythm of the Eucharistic celebration, but I — and I’d like to think many others too — always look forward with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation to the day’s homily.
Or…how long it will be.
Haha.
Before anyone starts composing an angry email, let me say this: I have absolutely no intention of disrespecting the Mass or those who celebrate it. Attending Mass is an obligation for every Catholic, and the reasons people choose to be there — or not — are not mine to question.
Now, back to homilies.
The ones that stay with me are those where the priest effortlessly weaves a funny story into the day’s Scripture. Not necessarily laugh-out-loud funny — although I’ve certainly encountered priests who had the entire congregation chuckling — but the kind of humour that makes you relax, pay attention, and remember the message long after you’ve left church.
The homilies I struggle with are the ones where someone monotonously reads from a script for fifteen minutes…then spends another fifteen minutes paraphrasing what was just read.
Sigh.
That’s not to say priests shouldn’t prepare. A good speaker always does. But no matter how relevant the message is, execution matters.
During my quest for the perfect homily, I discovered that seminarians actually take a course called Homiletics—the theological discipline dedicated to the composition and delivery of sermons.
Good to know.
I recently had the privilege of attending a Mass celebrated by Cardinal Luis Antonio Tagle.
His popularity was obvious from the packed-to-the-brim chapel. Dad and I arrived early, so we managed to get good seats, and I even snapped a quick photo as Cardinal Tagle walked past.
(It pays to be early for Mass, y’all.)
His homily was exactly what I enjoy — short, gentle, impactful, with little touches of humour sprinkled throughout. I imagine he aced his Homiletics course.
His ma-amo face — a Filipino term describing someone with a gentle, kind, almost innocent-looking face — is an added bonus.
I only wish Eder had been there with me. He would have enjoyed the homily.
Instead of nodding off.
I’m currently halfway through a book about using humour as part of cultivating a healthy spiritual life. No spoilers here because I fully intend to write a separate post about it.
Funny how writing this has made me realise something.
I suddenly miss my mum.
And my brothers.
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