The darkness and silence between the crucifixion and the resurrection were filled with confusion and uncertainty for the disciples. That darkness was blinding, and the silence was deafening—not just in intensity, but in the loss of clarity and meaning. They could no longer make sense of what had happened.

In life, we experience similar moments. There are situations we simply cannot understand—realities that disturb us and challenge our sense of what is right or reasonable. Like the story shared by Fr. Cancino: an 86-year-old mother searching for her drug-addicted son, eventually finding him in a jeepney parking area. When the son refused to go home, the mother chose instead to stay with him, even sleeping there by his side.

Faced with this, we naturally form different opinions. Some may see it as enabling. Others may see it as heroic love. The situation resists easy judgment. It places us in a kind of darkness—where clarity escapes us and certainty is out of reach.

The same can be said of more difficult and uncomfortable realities: a whitewasher—someone who hides another’s faults by presenting a falsely positive image, making them appear better than they truly are. It becomes even more perplexing when this distortion comes from within the family itself, when a relative tells these untruths to their own loved ones. Here too, we are confronted with situations that resist easy explanation or resolution, where love itself can seem distorted and unclear.

And it is precisely in this kind of darkness and silence—where God seems absent and understanding fails—that faith invites us to a deeper stance. Not immediate answers, but trust. Not clarity, but presence.

Holy Saturday teaches us this: even when we cannot see or explain what is happening, God is not absent. He is at work in ways hidden from us. The silence is not empty, and the darkness is not without meaning. It may not yet be revealed—but it is not without purpose.

I watched the Lenten film Eat Bulaga!: CEO.

The story is simple: a power-tripping, credit-grabbing head of sales expects to be promoted to CEO—but instead, the role is given to Wally, a loyal, diligent, and honest janitor.

The message is clear: character matters.

And it’s a good message. In a world where ambition often overshadows integrity, it reminds us that goodness should not be overlooked.

But the story feels incomplete.

It presents a moral truth, but skips an important reality: leadership requires both character and competence. The film jumps from “good janitor” to “CEO” without showing the formation in between—no skills development, no training, no preparation. Viewers might walk away thinking that being good is enough to rise to the top.

In real life, it doesn’t work that way.

Character builds trust—but competence delivers results. One opens the door; the other sustains you in the role.

I’ve seen people rise from the ranks—even from roles like maintenance or janitorial work. But it took years of growth, learning, and deliberate development. I know this firsthand. I once promoted someone from maintenance to service, then to assistant head, until he eventually became a center manager. His character mattered—but so did the skills he built along the way.

This is why the idea of choosing between character and competence is a false dichotomy.

You don’t have to choose one over the other.
The real goal is to develop both.

Because while promotions based on character may inspire people,
promotions based on character and competence build organizations.

I found this lying on the table during my class. Someone must have left it. Beautiful pun, powerful message.

Pick Jesus—and that means carrying His yoke. It is easy and light, but not without burden.

His yoke is Truth. And when we walk in His Truth, we gain a quiet confidence—knowing our actions are right. But it doesn’t promise rainbows and candy. Those who follow the Truth are often persecuted. What a paradox.

We are left with two choices:
the burden of living outside the truth—confusion, disordered choices, vices, constant compromise, justifying what we know is wrong;
or the burden of living within the truth—the cost of discipline, sacrifice, even rejection, but with clarity and interior freedom.

Picking Jesus doesn’t promise an easy life. But
it promises a life where He helps us carry our cross.

Lately I have been listening to a lot of jazz music while working or on the road. I have loved jazz since I was a teenager, but I was never one to know every artist or style. I listen to enjoy. I listen when I want to relax or get lost in the moment.

A thought came to me. I wanted to write about jazz and Lent. Is it “jam and Jesus”? Clever—but shallow.

So I sat with the question a little longer.

What is it about jazz that feels right for this season?

It’s not the complexity. It’s not even the melody.

It’s the space—and the discipline required to play music that sounds unstructured. The pauses. The restraint. The moments where nothing seems to be happening, and yet there is an order beneath what sounds like chaos. Something is quietly forming underneath.

If you have a music player now, try one song—maybe from Earl Klugh or George Benson. You will hear it. The pause is where the musicality happens, and the disordered notes held together by an unseen order.

Like jazz, Lent calls us to pause and reflect. And in that pause, we begin to notice something deeper. Not control in the way we define it, but a quiet order that holds even the chaos of our lives.

A beginner musicians tries to fill every second with sound, thinking that music is made by constant noise. But real music—like life—emerges in the pauses and in finding order in chaos.

And perhaps that is what I am slowly learning this Lent: not to fill every moment, but to trust the silence, where God is already at work.