To sit beside Fr. Tito Gelito at the breakfast table after a morning Mass was to walk the road to Emmaus. In those quiet hours, over simple food, Scripture didn't feel like a dusty, ancient scroll—it felt alive, burning within us as he broke open the Word and shared his vision of the Kingdom.
He was my mentor, and his whole life was a masterclass in a
profound, unvarnished theology: a true Theology of Life rooted in "Pagpas-an
ku krus it pag-iegmanghuran".
Fr. Tito often reminded us of the root of the word convent:
con-venire—a place where everyone is called to come together, a
space of gathering. And how literally that truth came to life in Balete!
Under his care, the parish rectory was never a pristine,
secluded administrative office. It slowly, organically transformed into a
hospice for the broken. The weary, the depressed, the downtrodden, the widow,
the paraplegic, the lost, the ostracized, the sick of mind and of body, the
dying, the marginalized, and the forgotten little ones of our town didn't just
visit—they came to stay.
Among them was Ng Jun, a retired civil servant who, despite
being modestly well-to-do, was sick and felt rejected by his family, choosing
the sanctuary of the convent over his own home. There was Junior, suffering
from tuberculosis, who was sent to the care of the Missionaries of Charity in
an adjacent town, but out of longing for home, opted to return to the warmth of
the convent. There was a man sick of mind who, out of his own volition,
preferred to stay within the safe, welcoming air of the rectory. And there was
Budoy, a paraplegic who frequented the company of the convent boys, drawing
comforting words and quiet strength from Fr. Tito. Among them, too, were his
"convent boys"—brilliant, self-taught mechanics who could fix
anything on wheels, even if their heavy drinking habits made them a constant,
patient cross for him to bear.
Despite the meager parish funds, Fr. Tito never complained
about the extra mouths to feed or the endless demand for medicine. He saw to it
that every person who crossed that threshold received a decent meal, proper
care, and basic human dignity.
That same spirit of radical hospitality spilled out onto the
roads of Balete aboard Pautwas. Constructed by a genius junkshop
mechanic from rag-tagged parts, that unpainted, customized paog-paog
pickup was far more than a priest's ride. In an era when the municipality
suffered a complete dearth of emergency transport, Pautwas served as the
community ambulance. Day or night, it rattled down dusty or muddy trails,
carrying the sick and the dying to distant clinics—a rolling instrument of the
corporal works of mercy.
He lived this ministry with zero pretense. He preferred
wearing polo shirts sewn from katsa—the humble flour sack
cloth—embodying a simplicity that matched his vehicle.
People saw him through many lenses:
- To
his family, he was already a living saint.
- To
his Dominican classmate and former rector of UST, Fr. Norberto Castillo,
OP, he was fondly remembered for his sharp, argumentative mind.
- To
his Augustinian peers at the Ecclesiastical Faculties—Fr. Mamerto Alfeche,
Fr. Jing Mejorada, and Roger Objaan—he was a formidable theological equal.
- To
younger priests like Fr. Vars and Fr. Jarvin, he was a guiding mentor.
- To
pastoral collaborators like Msgr. JoePar and Msgr. Pet Frac, his
structural programs were a gold standard worth emulating and refining.
- To
the rest of the clergy in the Diocese of Kalibo, his path was widely
recognized as a daunting one to replicate—a ministry that demanded an
absolute emptying of self, a daily dying to oneself so that the least of
God's people might live.
- To
the unchurched and the seasonal churchgoers, Fr. Tito was often perceived
as strict and unyielding; they attended liturgical celebrations with a
quiet deference, half-afraid that the priest might scold them publicly
from the pulpit. But to those who truly knew him, that strictness was
never malice—it was the fierce, protective instinct of a shepherd guarding
his flock. He was kind but firm, deeply considerate yet unhesitating when
it came to instilling discipline. He smelled like his sheep, he knew them
by name, and they knew him.
In an age where ministry is so easily tempted by
professional efficiency and institutional comfort, Fr. Tito’s open convent
stands as a quiet, revolutionary witness. He proved that the corporal works of
mercy are not formal parish projects to be budgeted and audited; they are a way
of being. By opening his table, his car, and his very life to the broken, he
showed us that when the Church truly becomes con-venire, Christ himself
comes to dwell in our midst to break bread with us.
A Prayer for the Table Companions
Lord God, Lord of the Road and Master of the Feast,
We thank You for the grace of the open table at the
Balete convent, where no one was a stranger and every broken soul found a home.
We remember with deep gratitude the quiet saints, the shepherds, the helpers,
the mechanics, the widows, and the weary who once broke bread with us under
that humble roof.
Grant eternal rest and peace to Your faithful servants:
Fr. Tito Gelito, Msgr. Pedro Frac, Fr. Vio Dandoy, and Fr. Marlon Rasgo;
Ng Jun, Ng Donnie, Tay Loven, Nay Tessie, Nay Tesing, Nay Floring, Tay
Norbing, Tay Aton, and Ng. Paeng; Bebe, Lagumbay, Antog, Era, Junior,
Martin, Tay Delon, Tay Turing, and Nay Inday; Nay Nene, Nay Biday, Nay
Lagring, Nay Gloria, and the many unnamed souls whose footsteps once graced the
convent corridors.
Welcome them now to Your eternal banquet in heaven, where
the bread is never meager, the doors are never closed, and the table is
prepared for all. May perpetual light shine upon them. Amen.
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