A reflection about hands, dirty hands.

DIRTY HANDS



SOMEWHERE near the center of Mindanao is a place called BOBONAWAN. For a long time it was a lucrative logging camp, with the lumber exported mostly to Japan. The owners were devout and religious people, that is why during the logging camp FIESTA, there had to be a Mass.

I was the one invited to say the Mass, maybe because I came from Manapla, and spoke Hiligaynon, the predominant dialect of Bobonawan, or maybe because I was the only one available to say the Bobonawan Fiesta Mass.

The Mass was in the basketball court. The owners and the bosses were in front, and the remaining 97% of the congregation stayed silent and subdued far, far back, because they were not dressed well enough, and because they felt inferior, and unworthy, and they were sure they did not belong.

I do not know what I said during the sermon. I hope it was short, interesting, and relevant for my congregation. I hope I did not preach about the pie in the sky, by and by.

Everything went smoothly as expected. The Ilonggo hymns were beautiful, touching, and were sung with deep and sincere feeling. After the Mass, café and pan-de-sal and puto and bibingka would be served, then the basketball games would begin, and maybe even a little bulang with all its excitement, would follow.

But the Mass was not yet finished. We were still in the AMAY NAMON, which we sang with all our heart. Then a little while later, it was time for HOLY COMMUNION.

The owners and the logging camp bosses stood up first, to receive the Body of the Lord Jesus Christ.

I was impressed by this group. They knew all the responses to the prayers. They knew when to sit and when to stand. They were all properly dressed. They were confident, orderly, pious. They always knew what to do.

Finally it was the turn of the LABORERS to receive Holy Communion. They were shy. Did not quite know what to do. Afraid they did not belong. For they were mostly unlettered, and unchurched. Unpresentable, from head to foot. HESITANTLY, they lined up and they cupped their hands breast-high, to receive the Lord JESUS in Holy Communion.

I placed the consecrated hosts in their hands… THEIR DIRTY HANDS.

Hands that were unmanicured and unlotioned. Rough, Knobby. Calloused. But strong hands. Working hands . Capable hands. Dignified hands. DIRTY HANDS. Like the hands of Jesus Christ.

And I remembered the ageless words of John Patrick Delaney, S.J., when he told us about the hands of his own father. His working man-father. When he honored his father’s dirty hands.





DIRTY HANDS
by Fr. John P. Delaney, S.J.



I am proud of my dirty hands. Yes, they are dirty. And they’re rough and knobby and calloused. And I’m proud of the dirt and the knobs and the callouses.

I didn’t get them that way by playing bridge or drinking afternoon tea from dainty cups, or being the well-advertised Good Samaritan at the charity balls.

I got them that way by working with them. And I’m proud of the work and the dirt. Why shouldn’t I feel proud of the work they do, these dirty hands of mine?

My hands are the hands of the plumbers, and the truck drivers, and street cleaners. Of janitors and carpenters and road builders and construction workers. And poor peasants working the difficult soil in our farms.

They are not pretty hands. They are dirty and knobby and calloused.

But they are strong hands, hands that make so much of what the world must have or die.

Someday, I think, the world should go down on its knees and kiss all the dirty hands of the working world… as in the days long past, armored knights would kiss the hands of ladies fair.

The world has kissed such hands. The world will always kiss such hands.

Men and women put reverent lips to the hands of him who held the hammer and the chisel and the chisel and the saw.


HIS were not pretty hands either when they chopped trees, and dragged rough lumber, and wielded the carpenter’s tools.

They were working men’s hands: Strong, Capable, Proud hands.

And they weren’t pretty hands when the executioners got through with them.

They were torn clean through by ugly nails, and his blood was running from them, and the edges of the wounds were raw and swollen and dirty. And the joints were crooked. And the fingers were horribly bent in a mute appeal for love.

They weren’t pretty hands then, but Oh God, they were BEAUTIFUL… those hands of the SAVIOUR.

And I am proud of my hands, too, dirty hands – like the HANDS OF MY SAVIOUR, the HANDS OF MY GOD!!!