IT just doesn’t make sense at first glance. Why would Christ tell us to deny ourselves and pick up a cross just to follow Him. (cfr. Mt 16,24) What’s so appealing about suffering that He’d ask us to embrace it? What hidden treasure is there in suffering that should draw our hearts to it instead of away from it?
We, of course, now know that suffering stems from our separation from God, who is our true source of joy and life. Because we often choose to act as if we are own “gods,” we bring about our own spiritual distance from him and as a consequence we suffer.
To make sense of this, let’s look at the bigger picture. We need to look back to the time of our creation and then forward to Christ’s redemptive mission. In the beginning, suffering was entirely absent from God’s plan. Our first parents existed in a state of original justice. They possessed profound gifts, including immortality, impassibility (the inability to experience physical or emotional pain), and perfect integrity.
They lived in absolute harmony with themselves, the world and their Creator. However, all of this was lost when they succumbed to the temptation of disobedience. Seduced by the father of lies, they attempted to assert their own will over God’s, thereby separating themselves from the divine source of life.
This rupture severed our intimate connection with the ultimate fountain of all good things, inevitably leading us into a reality marked by pain, sin, and physical decay. Yet despite this catastrophic betrayal, God’s overwhelming love for us never wavered. Yes, there was a period of anger, but His great love for us is so profound that He sent His Son to rescue us. His mercy always has the last word.
Because our sinfulness inherently leads us to suffering and death, the Son of God had to become man to address the root of the problem. As St. Paul explained, Christ emptied Himself to share in our humanity, ultimately enduring the agony and humiliation of death on the cross. Christ went to the extent of becoming like sin, without committing sin, if only to identify himself with us and offer us “the way, the truth and the life.”
Through His passion and death, Christ paid the ransom for our redemption. But He did much more. He radically transformed the meaning of suffering and death. What was once a tragic consequence of our separation from God has been converted by Christ into a powerful means of our salvation.
Christ provided the ultimate paradigm for how we can overcome our fundamental flaw of self-reliance. Our suffering, as long as it is united to the suffering of Christ, can now acquire a great redemptive value.
And so, we should not be too concerned about suffering in whatever form it comes to us. We should just learn how to unite our unavoidable sufferings with the suffering of Christ. That way, our sufferings become a necessary mechanism for our healing and reconciliation.
Bluntly said, when we embrace our hardships and unite them with Christ’s suffering, our pain can now act as the very cure that draws us back into communion with the Creator.
Consequently, we must readjust our perception of pain. Instead of viewing suffering as purely senseless, we should see it as a sacred invitation to “deny ourselves,” to empty ourselves so we can be filled with the spirit of God.
Consequently, we must readjust our perception of pain. Instead of viewing suffering as purely senseless, we should see it as an opportunity to empty ourselves so we can be transformed into “another Christ.”
Sounding like a prosecutor
In open impeachment court, Senator-Judge Raffy Tulfo spoke as though suspicion had already hardened into guilt. His treatment of OVP Assistant Chief of Staff Lemuel Ortonio was disturbing and unbecoming of an impartial judge. A trial must be governed by evidence and fairness, not anger, humiliation, or applause-ready pronouncements.
Tulfo questioned Ortonio about his handling of documents connected with the Office of the Vice President’s confidential funds. He had every right—and indeed the duty—to ask difficult questions. But saying that Ortonio appeared to be “playing the fool,” attacking the intelligence he had supposedly shown in school, and telling him that his answers were an embarrassment crossed a serious line. Presiding Officer Francis Escudero eventually ordered the offending phrase replaced in the record with “feigning ignorance.” That intervention itself showed that courtroom language cannot be treated like the verbal combat often heard on public-service television. Reports by GMA News and the Philippine Daily Inquirer documented the exchange.
When Ortonio said that he took offense, Tulfo invoked the Filipino people, saying they were more offended by the alleged waste of public money. Please do not speak for all of us, Senator. The people are not a courtroom prop that can be lifted whenever a sharp line needs greater weight. I am more offended when an elected official borrows my voice to justify degrading a witness whose testimony and accountability are still being examined.
I understand the anger surrounding public funds. Every peso must be accounted for, and no public office—not even the OVP—deserves exemption from scrutiny. But Tulfo’s statement that the money was being squandered sounded dangerously close to a conclusion, even as the proceedings were still receiving evidence and the Commission on Audit matter cited by Ortonio remained subject to further action. The constitutional presumption of innocence may operate differently in an impeachment proceeding than in an ordinary criminal prosecution, but its moral command remains essential: no one should be condemned before the evidence has been fully heard and fairly weighed.
What’s more disgusting is the public display of selective fury. Filipinos have watched controversies over costly but defective or unfinished flood-control projects, questionable contracts, smuggling, and other alleged abuses of public money. These matters also deserve questioning delivered with the same heat, persistence, and commanding television voice. If indignation burns like a searchlight only when pointed at a political target, people will naturally wonder whether justice is being pursued or a political stage is merely being lit.
Tulfo built his public identity around helping people who believed that institutions had ignored them. That was why many voters trusted him: his voice seemed available to the powerless when doors were closed, and official desks were indifferent. But the Senate is not an extension of a complaint-and-confrontation television program. A senator-judge holds far greater power than a television host, and greater power requires greater restraint. The louder the gavel, the more careful the hand that holds it must be.
An impeachment is not a popularity contest, a morality play, or an opportunity to manufacture memorable clips. It is a constitutional trial with consequences for the accused, the institution, and the country. Senator-judges may test evasive answers, expose contradictions, and demand records, but they must not ridicule witnesses or display a settled conclusion before the defense has completed its case. Otherwise, the trial becomes a procession toward a verdict already written backstage, with evidence reduced to decoration along the route.
I still want every questioned peso investigated, and every responsible person held accountable once the facts establish responsibility. But I also want Senator Tulfo to remember why many Filipinos entrusted him with power: not to speak over them, but to defend their right to fair government. He can serve that trust best by lowering the temperature, asking precise questions, following the evidence wherever it leads, and reserving judgment until the trial is complete. Justice does not become stronger when shouted; it becomes credible when even those we dislike receive a fair hearing.