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PEDRO MARTÍNEZ CUTILLAS

Yesterday, November 26th, I sat in church, as I do every year, on the anniversary of the death of our always loved and remembered Pedro.

The Gospel for this special day (Luke 21:5-11) speaks of the destruction of the temple, such an imposing and sacred symbol for the people of Israel, “Days are coming when not one stone will be left on another, that will not be thrown down” and of the need to be vigilant, prepared for the moment when everything we have is left behind, because “you do not know the day nor the hour”, Jesus says.

In a world saturated by the need to belong, to leave an indelible mark, and to cling to what we believe we possess, the passage presented to us contains a profound lesson in humility and resignation of the inevitable. It is a reminder of human fragility, not only of our bodies, but also of our ideas, our possessions, and ultimately, of our passage through this world. There is something extraordinary in this exercise of self-denial, something that resonates with the need to reconcile ourselves with the transience of life, with the fleeting nature of everything we know and hoard. It leads us by the hand towards a process of stripping away, not of material possessions, but of the illusions that bind us to them.

We are finite beings who seek, in their fleetingness, to give meaning and form to what we are. Everything we consider “ours” – be it material objects, relationships, or even our own achievements – does not truly belong to us. We are part of a continuous flow that continues its course, even when we are no longer present.

The first great introspection that emerges is the mystery of time. We live in the shadow of temporality, as if we could, by some artifice of our will, dominate it. But, as the text points out, time is an enigma that escapes our understanding. There is nothing more certain than the fact that what seems eternal today becomes dust tomorrow, forgotten. Thus, time is the first great lesson in humility: nothing remains. Neither our certainties nor our questions. And yet, we live as if we were in control, as if the clock that marks our lives could be stopped, interrupted by our own desire to cling to what we know. Time is our teacher, but we ignore it.

Then, the text invites us to face something even more painful: the finitude of our bodies, our own death. “You do not know the day nor the hour”, Jesus says, and in doing so, reminds us that human life is marked by a beginning and an end, and that this end is irreversible. Understanding that our existence is transitory urges us to live each moment with greater awareness and authenticity, as a conscious act, as a practice of reconciliation with what we cannot avoid.

The reflection delves into the bond we have with others. Parents will not always be with us; children, as free beings, will follow their own path. Human relationships, so fundamental to our experience, are also ephemeral. We do not own the people we love, and although the connections are deep, they are still marked by the freedom that each human being possesses the ability to choose their own destiny. Recognizing that others, though close, do not belong to us, they are masters of their own path, is a lesson in freedom and detachment. Life is a succession of moments that intertwine, and although we can share them, everyone has the right to live according to their own decisions, without attachments. Here, too, we find the meaning of free and mature love: the love that does not cling, that does not demand, but that respects the freedom of the other.

It also reveals a deep reflection on property and the material: “Days are coming when not one stone will be left on another, that will not be thrown down”. The idea that everything we preserve has been “lent to us” completely redefines our relationship with things. Accepting that our goods, our houses, our objects, are only temporary loans of our existence, is another step towards freedom. We live in an illusion of control, convinced that we own what we only have in custody for a limited time. Thus, the idea that we own something is only a fleeting comfort, a way of confronting the certainty that everything, without exception, is lost and our obsession with maintaining control over what we cannot contain. Death will take away what we have so laboriously tied to our being. And in the same sense, the goods we accumulate, the material things we value so much, are as ephemeral as our own life, destined to become the property of others, at the moment of our departure.

Ultimately, everything is mortal, everything is marked by decay. Conceiving that the beings and things to which we cling also have their own life cycle is a way of preparing ourselves for the inevitable farewell. Attachment only makes the departure more painful because we believe we have the power to preserve what does not belong to us. Perceiving the fragility of everything we love liberates us, teaches us to live with the awareness that nothing lasts forever.

Admitting our vulnerability, our mortality, and the transience of all that surrounds us is not an act of despair, but an act of liberation. By accepting what we cannot change, we can live with greater fullness, with greater freedom. We can offer others what we have, knowing that nothing belongs to us and that everything is a loan. In that sense, the greatness of life lies in the wisdom of living without attachment, without fear of what we cannot retain, in the ability to live fully, to be aware of our finitude and, from it, to give to others the best of ourselves. This is the message that urges us to understand and to live, not in search of the eternal, but in the certainty that each moment, however brief, is sufficient.

And it is in this context that I think of Pedro, who today dwells on the threshold of my soul. Neither in the memory of his face, nor in the moments past have that we once shared, but in the living imprint had he left on me, in his presence that now extended beyond his absence. Sitting here, surrounded by memories that do not dissipate, I feel how his memory, far from fading, unfolds within me with more force than ever. He is no longer in the form in which I knew him; he is not in his laughter, in his voice, in his gestures. He is not in what he was, but in what, through his life, continues to be. Today, Pedro lives in the reflection of his legacy, which has not died with him.

And in that understanding, as simple as it is profound, I find peace. Not the peace that seeks oblivion, but the peace that is born from embracing the ephemeral with gratitude, from living with more light, with more love, and with the freedom that comes from knowing that, in the end, all that we are, all that we love, is just a step on a path that does not end here.

Francisco Massó Mora.

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