
ON the second day of Misa de Gallo, December 17, the gospel reading (cfr. Mt 1,1-17) talks about the human genealogy of Christ to show that Christ is truly a man while remaining, of course, as God.
A question may be raised—if Christ is truly a man, why did his conception in the womb of Mary not involve the participation of a man, as any human conception would involve?
I am sure this question is at the back of the mind of many people, though many of them are hesitant to voice it out. But it is a good question to give rise to a very important clarification of a certain truth about our relation with God that we need to know well and to act on.
For me, the answer can only be that, indeed, God and man share the same life and nature. Because of that sharing, we can say that while there is the natural way of human conception, involving a man and a woman, we cannot discount the possibility of a conception achieved by both God and woman.
We need to strengthen our belief and sharpen our awareness of this basic truth about ourselves in our relation with God. God and us share the same life and nature not only in our definitive state of life in heaven, even while here on earth. We are expected to act on this truth always so our life develops and leads us to our definitive state of life.
To be sure, our life is not simply natural, ruled by reason and will alone, supported by our emotions and the whole gamut of bodily senses, organs and systems. Nor is it simply conditioned by social trends, economic and political developments, or historical and cultural factors.
It is also supernatural, not only in its goal or orientation, but even now, as in, here and now as we breathe. And that’s simply because there’s something spiritual in us. We are not purely material beings.
We are meant for a supernatural life. Our human nature, with our spiritual soul that enables us to know and to love, and therefore to enter into the lives not only of others but also and most importantly, of God, urges us to develop a supernatural life.
It’s a life with God always. It just cannot be exclusively our own life, taken personally or collectively. It’s a life that depends mainly on God who gives us the grace that purifies and elevates it to his, but it also depends on us, on our freedom to correspond to this loving will of God for us.
We have to develop a taste and even an appetite for the supernatural life with God and of things supernatural in general. In this we have to help one another, because in the end, this is our common ultimate end in life—how to live our life with God, how we can be immersed in God even as we are immersed also in the things of the world.
For this to take place, we need to learn to pray, to study the doctrine of our faith, develop virtues, live in God’s presence to such an extent that we would be able to see God in everything and to relate everything to him. In other words, that we would know how to be contemplatives even if we are immersed and dirtied by the things of this world.





Treacherous selfies
At first, selfies seem harmless fun—a way to snap out of a fast moment of confidence or joy that captures how we look at that moment. But then, as time passes, the endless stream of photographs becomes a cruel documentary on aging, showing you that perfect filters and rehearsed angles can’t keep wrinkles or sagging skin at bay. Then comes a day when taking another selfie feels like an act of self-sabotage.
Like everybody else, I used to take selfies. Every good hair day, every decent light, and every new outfit was all a call for one. The photos were like little trophies, reassuring me that I was still radiant, still young. Now, while I’m looking at the selfies I took in all those years, I don’t just see my younger self; I see time slowly passing. The sharp jawline that I would boast? It’s softer now. The sparkle in my eyes? Not gone, but certainly dimmed by life’s wear and tear.
And it’s not just me. I’ve noticed friends who used to flood their feeds with selfies suddenly go quiet. When I asked one of them why, she sighed and said, “I just don’t like what I see anymore.” And it hit me: selfies, once a tool of self-celebration, had turned into a mirror we’d rather avoid. It is an irony almost cruel that what once served to record our confidence has now turned into a harbinger, reminding us of its gradual decline.
Even the ritual of taking selfies feels different. I used to take pictures willy-nilly, but lately, I catch myself agonizing over every shot: the dark spots around my eyes, the angle of my neck, the sagginess of my cheeks. By the time I get to a photo that I don’t hate, the moment that I was trying to capture is long gone, and I’m left somehow frustrated and defeated.
Selfies are, in so many ways, a lie we tell ourselves. Filters smooth out imperfections, and strategic poses conceal the bits we’d rather not see. For a while, it works. But eventually, reality catches up. I am reminded of a grandmother who refuses to be in photos altogether. “I don’t want to remember myself like this,” she says. Maybe she’s onto something. Maybe there is wisdom in stepping away from the camera before it starts to feel like an enemy.
I’m not saying selfies are inherently bad. They’ve given us a way to connect, to share, to express ourselves. But there’s a fine line between documenting life and obsessing over appearances, and I’ve found myself dangerously close to crossing it. Instead of capturing memories, I’ve spent too much time chasing an image of myself that no longer exists—or perhaps never truly did.
But here’s the saddest thing to realize: selfies don’t preserve us; they record only our changes. They’re like marks on a door frame, charting our growth in reverse. And while they remind us of who we once were, they cannot stop time or erase those parts of aging that we would rather not think about. I have begun to wonder whether I would be happier without the constant comparison and the pressure to look good enough for the camera.
Perhaps now is a good time to retreat from selfies onto something different: a life lived not with the lens always pointing in. Instead of capturing every moment, maybe I need to just live them. After all, the beauty of life isn’t in a perfect photo; it’s in the messy, unfiltered moments we share with others, wrinkles and all.