In the Memory of Mercy

FR. FIRMO N. BARGAYO, SJ

“I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more.” Jeremiah 31:34

When my Father Provincial first told me of my assignment as chaplain at New Bilibid Prison, I was afraid. Not of the prison environment, nor of the risks to my safety. I wasn’t daunted by the rigor of the work or the thought of encountering men and women convicted of grave offenses. What I feared most, as a newly ordained priest, was hearing confessions. I had never heard one before, and I imagined that my first would take place within those prison walls. I feared the weight of the sins I might hear. I wasn’t sure if I could be loving enough, merciful enough, to offer absolution with the heart of Christ. I suppose I was anticipating too much, too soon.

Still, after ordination, I moved into my new mission with trembling trust. I even joked in prayer that the Lord had a sense of humor. On my very first visit to a security camp, a person deprived of liberty (PDL) approached me and asked, “Father, can I go to confession?” Providentially, I wasn’t the one presiding at Mass that day. The whole time, I prayed fervently that he might forget, or perhaps find another priest. But after the final blessing, there he was, waiting. “Father,” he said again, “can you hear my confession?” And so, I did.

Of course, I will not share what he confessed. But I must tell you how that moment changed me. At one point, I gently asked, “Have you confessed this sin before? Did the priest give you absolution?” He nodded. “Yes, Father. Every time I have the chance, I confess this sin, not because I doubt God’s mercy, but because I don’t want to forget that I’ve already been forgiven.”

That moment pierced me. I had always seen the Sacrament of Reconciliation as a plea for mercy. But here, it became something more, a sacred act of remembering. Just as the Holy Eucharist is celebrated “in memory of Him,” so too is confession a remembrance, not only of our sinfulness, but of God’s unfailing forgiveness. That PDL taught me that reconciliation is not just about seeking pardon. It is about anchoring ourselves in the memory of grace. In prison, I learned that hearing confessions is not a burden, but a privilege, a doorway into the mystery of mercy.

Another moment of grace came at the Correctional Institution for Women (CIW), on the Feast of Corpus Christi. After Mass, an elderly PDL approached me and said with a smile, “Father, I’m now the oldest here in CIW.” I teased her gently, “So who is now the wildest grass,” a nod to the Filipino saying, “Ang masamang damo, matagal mamatay.” (A bad weed takes a long time to die.) She laughed and replied, “Yes, I am the wildest grass. But I feel most taken care of by God.”

We laughed together, and then, as if a light had flickered on within her, she said, “Father, if Jesus is the Lamb of God, and I am a wild grass, then that means I am being eaten by Jesus.” I was stunned by the depth of her insight. In that moment, she gave me a new lens for understanding communion. It is not only we who receive Jesus. It is also Jesus who receives us. Communion is not a one-way act. It is mutual indwelling. It is surrender. It is letting ourselves be taken, blessed, broken, and shared by Christ.

That encounter reminded me that our faith is not static. It is alive, relational, and ever unfolding. God is not a distant deity waiting passively for our return. He is the Good Shepherd who seeks us, the Living Water who refreshes us, the Bread of Life who hungers for our hearts. When we are sorrowful, He consoles. When we are weary, He restores. When we are weak, He breathes life into our bones.

In closing, I have come to see that prison ministry is not about bringing God into a dark place. It is about discovering that God is already there, waiting, loving, forgiving, laughing, and longing to be remembered. I have met the God who remembers us even when we forget ourselves.

And in remembering Him, we are made whole.