THAT’S what St. Paul said in his Second Letter to Timothy. The complete text is: “Our Savior Jesus Christ has destroyed death and brought life to light through the Gospel.” (1,10)
With this assurance, we really would have no reason to fear death. Any fear of death is actually without basis. If we are consistent to our Christian faith which we should not only profess but should also live out, we know that when it comes and however it comes, it is the time when God, our Father and Creator, wants us to be with him.
We know that death is just a transition from our earthly life of trial to our definitive home with God in heaven. The crucial point is that we try our best, with the help of God’s grace, to do well in our earthly life. That is to say, that we manage to develop the love we are meant to have—the love of God and love of neighbor.
That’s when death can be considered like a rose in bloom that the gardener now decides to cut in order to put it in his house. Otherwise, or when we fail in our test of love in this earthly life, we also can be cut by the gardener but as a weed to be thrown out or burned.
We need to examine how our attitude is towards death which is unavoidable in our life here on earth. It’s, of course, a worthwhile exercise because many of us today have a wrong understanding of death that would lead us to unnecessary fears. Also, the many riveting concerns we have at the moment often prevent us from doing this important and crucial exercise.
Death should be understood, first of all, as a consequence of sin. In the beginning when our first parents were still in the state of original justice, death was an unknown. They were not supposed to die. Their and our immortality was supposed to cover not only our spiritual life but also our bodily life.
But death as a consequence of sin has been redeemed by Christ already. Remember what St. Paul said about this: “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death is your sting?” (1 Cor 15,55) With the passion, death and resurrection of Christ, the curse of death has been removed.
And so, we should not be afraid of death anymore. As long as we have the same attitude that Christ had toward death, we will consider death as a liberation, a transition to our eternal life of bliss with God in heaven, a happy conclusion of our creation and redemption by Christ.
Our attitude toward death should the same as that of Christ who freely accepted death as way of bearing all the sins of men, so that the death of Christ, who is the Son of God made man, can fully repay the debt that man cannot repay due to his sin against God.
That is why Christ welcomed death. He did not avoid it. He went to it when it was the time to die. “I lay down my life, that I may take it again,” he said. “No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord, I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it again.” (Jn 10,17-18)
With Christ’s death, the sting of death as a consequence of our sin has been removed. The eternal death that was due to us because of our sin has been conquered with Christ’s resurrection to the eternal life. Intriguing indeed to consider that with Christ’s own death, he destroyed death!
Wisdom of overseas trips
The wisdom of visiting other countries, particularly the more economically developed ones, is both a privilege and an opportunity, but this is not entirely without its complexity. In this increasingly interconnected world of technology and trade, a physical move outside one’s border remains one of the most important ways to broaden your horizon and reflect on the gap and potential at home. To turn one’s back on this opportunity is to willfully close one’s eyes to what could otherwise be a transformative personal and societal awakening.
There’s a truth in the power of seeing something better than what you are used to, which is irrefutable. My daughter, Daisy, remembers the first time she walked down the impeccably organized streets of Singapore, where jaywalking seemed almost a mythical offense. It struck her, not just as a traveler, but also as somebody who came from a place where crossing the road often felt like a game of chicken. The city wasn’t just clean; it was efficient and disciplined, almost as if it had collectively read a manual on how life should work. In those moments, she realized that while patriotism is good, romanticizing mediocrity is not. We can love our country and still admit we have much to learn.
Traveling to more progressive countries, one can equate it to peeping into a neighbor’s backyard—not out of envy but curiosity. You see how they water their plants, manage their garbage, and keep their fences intact. In Japan, for example, their waste segregation system is so well enforced it’s an art form. They do not merely sort out refuse; they humanize it—treating with respect every piece of paper, every can. It made me reconsider how we toss up disposing of garbage as if the earth were a bottomless pit. And there are lessons that no documentary or classroom can teach: standing amidst them, something that goes deeper than words.
Traveling also shines an uncomfortable light on our shortcomings. In Germany, even tiny villages are linked by efficient public transportation. Trains arrive and depart with a precision that borders on obsessive, ensuring people aren’t stranded or late. It makes me wonder why, in our own country, a commute that should take thirty minutes often feels like a battle involving gridlocks, smoke-belching jeepneys, and motorbikes that weave through traffic like mosquitoes dodging swats. It’s humbling, even embarrassing, to see how others have mastered systems that we still fumble with—but it’s also motivating. If they can, why can’t we?
These trips don’t just change your view on governance and infrastructure; they also nudge you to reconsider personal habits. The French, for example, treat mealtime as a sacred ritual—a time to truly relish both food and company. It is an unwritten rule not to be caught scrolling mindlessly through your phone while dining as if each bite deserves your full attention. Contrast that with our fast-food culture, in which meals are inhaled, not enjoyed—you begin to wonder if the lack of mindfulness overflows into other aspects of our lives.
Businesses, too, can gain from benchmarking. Companies readily send employees overseas for conferences, or even on observation tours merely to see how things work in more progressive economies—not on a junket but as an investment in their work. For example, a factory supervisor from the Philippines who has seen how automation works in South Korea will be inspired by ideas on how to streamline work and boost efficiency. Some will lobby their company for upgrade technology. Indeed, the knowledge acquired appears intangible, but it transforms workplaces and industries with ripple effects.
Yet there is always the risk, even with subtlety, of the blind imitation that everything done elsewhere is working right at home. The temptation to copy without understanding the local context is a trap many fall into. The goal should not be to replicate but to adapt—to take what’s applicable and mold it to fit our unique circumstances. Not only is a park in Copenhagen well-designed, but also it is used and respected by people. It would be like planting a tropical tree in the Arctic and expecting it to bloom if the physical park is imported without the cultivation of the mindset that supports it.
The true wisdom of travel—at its very core—was that it could stir up both gratitude and restlessness. Gratitude for all we already have: the warmth of home, the quirks of our culture, the resilience of our people; and restlessness for what we could become. It is that gentle but insistent nudge to aim higher, dream bigger, and demand better not only from our leaders but from ourselves. Travel reminds us that though the grass may look greener elsewhere, our own can flourish, too, if we tend to it with care and intention.
Perhaps the best way to handle this would be for us to travel not as tourists but as students—eager to learn, not consume. We should approach each visit with a disposition of humility, knowing that it is not about seeing but, rather, understanding—and later on, acting. The ultimate goal, after all, is not so much about admiring other countries but making ours the kind of place that others would love to visit and learn from someday.