It is that time of year when our parish hall comes to life with the hum of preparation—volunteers packing food, arranging gift bags, and sharing small smiles over steaming cups of coffee, all accompanied by the never-ending sound of music from someone’s phone, loud enough for everyone’s feast of the eardrums. I stepped outside for a moment of quiet and saw a mother I have known for years standing not far from the church premises, clutching her claim stub of ayuda. She offered me a tentative smile and whispered, “Father, I hope I’m not taking too much.” Her words were gentle, almost apologetic, but they carried a weight that made me pause. In that brief moment, I was reminded that even our simplest acts of giving can unintentionally touch on pride, dignity, and the quiet vulnerability of those we aim to help.
As we celebrate the birth of Christ, the ultimate gift freely given, we are called to share in a way that uplifts without burdening. We must give with love that respects the freedom and humanity of every person. It was a small, ordinary encounter, yet it profoundly spoke to the heart of what I have come to call the subtle “tyranny of ayuda.”
I am also reminded of a certain tatay who, days ago, asked me, “Father, do you have any gifts left? Kailan po uli ang bigayan?” His question was not malicious; it was sincere, humble, and rooted in the years he had spent surviving in a world that rarely extended more than a fleeting gesture of kindness. However, it struck a chord with me, revealing something we seldom acknowledge: for many of the most impoverished individuals, Christmas has transformed into a season of queues—a long line of people waiting to receive, rather than a community coming together to celebrate and simply enjoy one another’s company.
I am reminded of a forum I participated in during 2020, at the height of the COVID period, at De La Salle University. There, I had the privilege of lecturing alongside esteemed philosopher Prof. Nap Mabacquiao and renowned human rights lawyer Chel Diokno, now a congressman. We delved into the concept of distributive justice, engaging faculty and students in profound discussions about its ethical, social, and legal implications. We explored how its significance can be realized in both policymaking and everyday life. For my part, I examined the idea of justice as compassion. To me, it means being confronted with the suffering of others and being driven to alleviate that suffering for and with them. In this sense, compassion emerges as the very essence of justice.
Under this principle, ayuda is not inherently wrong. However, it becomes problematic when it replaces empowerment, when the temporary solution becomes the permanent system, and when charity replaces justice. In essence, ayuda is wrong when, under the guise of mercy, it gradually transforms into a mechanism of control.
To be clear, ayuda has its rightful place. When disasters strike, when hunger strikes, and when life collapses, we must give—and we should give generously. Mercy, as we know, is that initial impulse of Christian love. However, for mercy to be truly Christian, it must breathe human dignity and must always lead to liberation. Let ayuda be present, especially in situations where hunger and disaster prevail. But let it be only the beginning of compassion, not the sole pattern of our lives.
This Christmas, let us ask harder questions: What can we build with the poor, not just give to them? How can we accompany them in January, February, and beyond? What systems must we challenge so that no one needs to line up next December? These questions sting because they reveal uncomfortable truths: that ayuda, when misused, can become a tool for political patronage; that it can function as a sedative, numbing outrage that might otherwise demand systemic change. In other words, a Christmas that ends with distribution lines is a Christmas that has missed the Christ who chose to be poor—not to receive ayuda, but to reveal the truth of human dignity. In a sense, the real Christmas story is not about distributing goods, but about God entering into human struggle to transform it from within.
And yet, in the midst of this critique, I hear the gentle voice of Mother Teresa of Calcutta, who fed one hungry person at a time with immense tenderness. She often said, “The problem is not that we do too little, but that we do not give with enough love.” Mother Teresa did not romanticize poverty; she confronted it. She did not distribute aid for photo opportunities. She embraced the poor as Christ Himself. But she also insisted that while we must meet immediate needs, we must work tirelessly so that fewer people fall into the abyss of misery. Moreover, she teaches us that each act of giving must carry within it the seed of empowerment—and the humility to ask whether our systems allow that seed to grow. Her love was not the love of dependence; it was the love of dignity.
With Mother Teresa as a mirror, I try to look at what we do here in our parish, and even at the Church in general. She faced immense challenges in her mission to serve the poorest of the poor, from scarce resources to societal indifference, yet she remained steadfast in her commitment. In the context of our parish this Christmas, her example reminds us that serving the marginalized is not always easy, especially amid the distractions of holiday celebrations and limited parish resources. But like Mother Teresa, we are called to persevere with creativity, compassion, and dedication, ensuring that the joy of Christmas reaches those who are often forgotten, and that acts of love and service become the heart of the season.
Finally, I return to a truth I have learned since the first day I set foot here in Napsan: the poor do not want merely to be kept alive; they want to live, and to live simply. They do not ask to be given more; they ask to be given what truly enables them to become more. May this Christmastime call us not to stand above the poor with open hands, but to stand beside them with open hearts. Yes, we must give food and material help—by all means, ayuda. But we must also give those we help a place, a voice, dignity, and the respect they rightfully deserve.
