The open door and the open heart

The Archdiocese of Manila is building a TV Production Studio, to help Catholic schools and organizations create television programs for TV Maria. It is almost finished. We have been meeting on this studio for the last full year.

Recently we met on Security. As television becomes more sophisticated, the instruments become smaller, and easier to steal. So security is important. We met for three hours. I was amazed at what an intricate science security has become. We went over every entrance and every door. Modern security is a fascinating combination of locks controlled by cards, by keys, by electricity, and by radio.

In Manila, security is an industry! When you go to any of our beautiful villages, the security begins in the street, at the very entrance of the village. You are met by a barrier, electrically controlled, and by uniformed guards, carrying guns. They take the license of the driver, and phone the home that you are claiming to visit.

When you reach that home, it is surrounded by a high wall, with an iron gate, and another guard at the gate, with a gun. When you get through the gate, you meet a big solid wooden door, beautifully carved. The maid, whom you call with an electric bell, has a little porthole through which she identifies you, before she opens the door.

Once inside, the hearts of the Filipinos in the home are warm and affectionate. They have all the natural Filipino virtues ‑ hospitality, generosity, love. But the waves of security with which they are surrounded cry out that the world outside is sometimes hostile, sometimes dangerous.

The really poor urban squatters, who live under the bridges of Manila, have no security. You can go down the ladder into their dark world at any time of the day or night. No one will stop you. The people will greet you with smiles. They are glad to have you. The tiny quarters in which they live have no locks on the doors — the fact is there are no doors. Just openings, like the opening into a doghouse.

I tried to bring my two blood sisters under the Paco Bridge, to see a little baby who had just been born, delivered by a street vendor. I wanted them to see how life went on, even under the bridge. Despite the poverty, those tiny homes were filled with the beauty of life and love. No doors. No security. Because they had nothing that anyone would want to steal. You had to crawl, to get inside the home. But once inside, you could feel the quiet joy, the happiness, peace.

My sisters would not go under the bridge. They were afraid — afraid of the dark, of the muddy ground, of the people who seemed to them to be half naked. They did not have the courage to crawl through the little opening, where there was no door.

But there is something beautiful about living in a place that has no door. Father John P. Delaney, S.J., when he was chaplain of the University of the Philippines, lived in a quonset hut that was open, always, to anyone. In his chapel there was only one class of wedding. And the reception was always in the Quonset hut — coffee and pan de sal. If you wanted to be luxurious — coffee and ensaymada.

When he designed the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, which is still there, it had no doors. Many openings for entrance, but no doors. Day or night.

He wanted to show that the heart of Christ Our Lord was an open heart, waiting for his children, always. When Our Lord died on the cross, the Centurion drove a lance through his side, into the heart. And there flowed out blood, and water.

The Sacred Heart is a suffering heart, a wounded heart, a broken heart ‑ but open to all of us. Always.

The UP chapel, which has no doors, is crying out to every student in the University: "You must try to be like God!. . . . . .Your heart must be open to everyone!. . . . .Your heart must have no doors!"