The Certainty of Death and the Mystery of Faith

Israel Centeno

Sunday is approaching, and I have decided to write something confessional. I have reached an age where death is no longer a distant appointment but an imminent possibility. There is no drama in this; it is simply the awareness that, at almost 67 years old, if I were to die today, no one would say, “He was taken too soon.” Just a few decades ago, reaching this age was an achievement.

When I was young, I rejected death because I was full of life. I lived with the feeling that every moment had to be squeezed to the last drop. I wanted to devour the world, transform the dull into the extraordinary, experience everything without restraint. Death was not a concern because, deep down, I believed it was a remote, almost illusory possibility. A fallacy, yes, but a functional one.

Now the situation has changed. My relationship with death is no longer one of rejection but of expectation and hope. Yet there is a small demon in my head whispering: What if it’s not true? Despite years dedicated to philosophy, despite delving into phenomenology and unraveling the riddles of thought, my conviction sometimes wavers. I understand the contingency of all created things, the absence of a sufficient cause in the tangible world, the impossibility of pure causality without potency. These certainties once gave me strength, even a sense of perpetuity—until I noticed how my own mutability had accelerated in recent years.

If a sufficient cause exists, it must be linked to a personal relationship between an infinite being and His finite creature. But what a puzzle. If everything has been revealed and it is so simple, why do we complicate our lives? They say that faith must be defended with reason and that hope must withstand the test of logic. But we forget that faith itself rests on mysteries. We cannot interpret the mind of God, and yet, we know that He loves us. But do we love Him enough?

This unease grips me when I think about crossing the threshold. Will I die in pain? Will I be able to remember who I am? It is at that moment of absolute vulnerability that faith is challenged. That is when I pray and ask: Lord, is it true? And I look for signs.

I go before the Blessed Sacrament and gaze at it, trying to grasp eternity. The church I attend lets in a cold breeze even in winter. I don’t know where the air sneaks in from, but I have entertained the fantasy that the Holy Spirit moves swiftly through during the offering. And in the midst of all these questions and tribulations, instead of receiving an answer, I feel a voice challenging me: Why does it always have to be about you?

I would like to deceive myself and say that my search is out of love for apologetics, that I need arguments to defend the faith. But God is not fooled. He knows all my tricks. And the truth is, I am afraid. Not of death itself, but of uncertainty. I want to be reassured about what I already know. And that is a failing.

“Whoever believes in me, even though he dies, will live.” It was a promise. Not made by a philosopher, nor a political leader, nor a visionary mystic. It was the promise of the one who conquered death—the only one in all human history who, according to witnesses, rose from the dead and ascended into heaven.

And if faith is built upon mystery, why should the nature of the universe be any different? Light, gravity, matter, elementary particles—everything we call reality—is an enigma that will likely remain forever indecipherable to the finite mind. No matter how many equations are formulated, how many experiments are replicated, how many artificial intelligences are created, they will always be the product of limited thought, a reflection of contingent intelligence. No machine will ever unravel the absolute, because its very essence will always be that of the contingent.

And while I wrestle with certainties and doubts, between faith and fear, I lift my gaze and see a broken world. A world made by broken men.

The Pope lies convalescent in his sickbed. Christians are beheaded in Congo by a group affiliated with ISIS. Senseless wars multiply, hatred spreads like a plague, cruelty becomes spectacle. Barbarism no longer shocks us, and the suffering of others blends into the background noise. And in the midst of this scene, one question becomes inevitable: Are we truly redeemable?

At the end of the day, it was for this, too, that He was lifted upon the wood, after enduring torture and humiliation.

No, this is not just about me and my questions about death. It is about the world—this disaster of a civilization crying out for redemption.

En el Principio

Israel Centeno

 En el principio, el Padre creó

el alma de mi padre,

y el alma del padre de mi madre.

En el principio, el Padre creó la pureza,

y todos los días felices de un infante,

la risa primera,

el aire tibio sobre la frente nueva.

En el principio,

su respiración dibujó la geometría del universo,

hizo vibrar la luz en el seno del vacío,

y expandió las órbitas con su precisa gravedad.

¿Cuál es la naturaleza de la luz?

¿Cuál es la fuerza que sostiene el universo?

la naturaleza,

la semilla y el brote,

y la carne del polvo

te creó pura

y en tu pureza se conmueve mi alma.

El Padre miró a la Madre

y la Madre miró al Padre,

y en su reflejo,

una sola causa suficiente.

El Verbo se hizo hombre.

En el principio,

la pureza lo precedía,

iba y venía el Espíritu sobre el abismo,

una llama que no consume,

un río que no erosiona.

En el principio, Dios creó tus ojos,

que han de tragarse la tierra,

pero no tu mirada.

Y al final, cuando se corra el velo,

en la gloria de quienes salgamos del fuego,

nos veremos de nuevo,

en la inocencia

de lo concebido

antes de todos los tiempos.

The Social Doctrine of the Church, Between Politics and the Hope in the Kingdom of God

Israel Centeno 

The Catholic Church is neither a political party nor just another actor in the ideological struggle. Its mission is not to build a terrestrial kingdom aligned with the interests of the left or the right but to proclaim the Gospel and guide humanity toward the Kingdom of Heaven. Since its foundation by Christ, its purpose has been to lead souls to salvation, announcing a truth that does not bend to the circumstances of history.

However, in the modern world, it is often pressured to take sides, adapting its doctrine to the demands of different factions. The right accuses it of populism when it denounces social injustice; the left labels it reactionary when it defends life and the family. But the Church is not a prisoner of these disputes. Its commitment is not to human power but to Christ and His Kingdom, which transcends time and politics.

1. The Church and Its Commitment to the Kingdom of Heaven

Christ made it clear that His Kingdom is not of this world:

“My kingdom is not of this world. If my kingdom were of this world, my servants would fight so that I would not be handed over to the Jews. But now my kingdom is not from here.” (John 18:36)

The Church’s mission is to announce this Kingdom, which began with Christ’s coming and will be fulfilled with the promise of a new heaven and a new earth (Revelation 21:1). Therefore, the Church’s action in the world is not aimed at establishing a definitive political order or a utopian society. Its social and moral work is an expression of Christian charity, rooted in the hope of the Kingdom of God.

Throughout history, the Church has been a steadfast defender of human dignity because it knows that every person is called to eternal life. Its work on behalf of the poor, the marginalized, and the persecuted does not stem from ideology but from Christ’s teaching:

“For I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave me something to drink; I was a stranger, and you took me in.” (Matthew 25:35)

This mission, however, must not be mistaken for a political project. The Church does not seek to build paradise on earth but to ensure that every man and woman lives with the dignity inherent to being a child of God and reaches salvation.

2. The Church in the Face of Liberalism and Moral Progressivism

While the Church has historically been a refuge for those suffering injustice, it has also remained firm in its teaching on life, family, and morality. In a world that has relativized truth, many demand that the Church adapt to the trends of the moment. When it defends life from conception to natural death, when it reaffirms the complementarity of man and woman in marriage, or when it upholds the dignity of the human body, it is accused of being outdated and rigid.

Here, it is essential to remember that although the Church is in the world, it does not belong to it. Its teachings are not shaped by public opinion or cultural shifts. The truth it proclaims is eternal. As Pope Benedict XVI stated:

“If the Church were to limit itself to defending social justice without proclaiming the truth about man, it would be just another NGO. But if it proclaimed the truth without concern for love, it would betray its mission.”

One of the Church’s most significant contributions in this regard is the theology of the body, developed by Saint John Paul II. This teaching reminds us that the human body is not merely matter but has a spiritual significance. Man and woman, in their corporeality, are called to reflect divine love. Secularism has sought to reduce the body to an object of consumption or manipulation, but the Church upholds its dignity and transcendent purpose.

3. The Church Belongs Neither to the Left nor the Right but to Christ

Many expect the Church to align with their political preferences. Some demand that it take a more activist role in social issues, while others insist that it limit itself to matters of worship and morality. But the Church does not belong to earthly authorities. Its only loyalty is to Christ and the mission He entrusted to it.

The principles of the Church’s Social Doctrine—the dignity of the human person, the common good, solidarity, subsidiarity, and the preferential option for the poor—are not political ideologies but expressions of Christ’s teaching. They are not subject to negotiation or external pressures.

In an increasingly polarized world, the Church remains steadfast in its mission: to proclaim the Gospel, defend human dignity, and prepare the faithful for the coming of the Kingdom. As Pope Francis said:

“The Church must not be part of ideological factions but must always walk the path of the Gospel, with a clear commitment to justice and truth.”

The Church does not seek to build an earthly kingdom but to lead humanity toward the Kingdom of God. Its commitment to social justice, the defense of life, and human dignity does not stem from political interests but from Christ’s teaching.

This is why, when the Church denounces injustice, some call it communist. When it defends morality and life, others accuse it of being ultra-conservative. But its path is neither left nor right; it is the path of Christ.

Our hope rests in the Lord’s promise:

“Behold, I make all things new.” (Revelation 21:5)

And while we await the new heaven and the new earth, the Church continues its mission: to proclaim the truth and accompany every human being on the journey toward eternity.

The Engineered Migration Crisis: How Geopolitical Gambles Reshaped the West

 

Israel Centeno

The ongoing mass migration crisis in the West did not emerge in a vacuum. It is the direct result of a series of geopolitical maneuvers that disrupted global stability, created power vacuums, and unleashed waves of displacement. While many focus on the symptoms—border crises, demographic shifts, and social tensions—few examine the root causes. A closer look reveals that these seismic changes can be traced back to U.S. foreign policy decisions, particularly those driven by Democratic administrations.

Breaking the Pact: NATO Expansion and the First Domino

The end of the Cold War brought an implicit understanding between the United States and the collapsing Soviet Union: NATO would not expand to Russia’s borders. This understanding was promptly ignored. NATO systematically absorbed former Soviet bloc countries, increasing tensions and setting the stage for future conflicts.

The intervention in Yugoslavia further shattered regional stability. By forcibly redrawing borders, the West set a precedent for dismantling sovereign states, a strategy that would be repeated in the Middle East and beyond. The consequences were immediate: displaced populations, ethnic tensions, and the first waves of refugees seeking asylum in Western Europe.

The Middle East Wars: Fueling the Migration Crisis

The U.S.-led invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan under the pretense of combating terrorism created long-term instability, forcing millions to flee their homelands. The destruction of Syria, exacerbated by Western-backed insurgencies, turned a civil conflict into one of the largest refugee crises in modern history. Then came Libya. The Obama administration’s decision to intervene in Libya and overthrow Gaddafi led to a complete societal collapse, transforming the country into a hub for human trafficking and mass migration routes into Europe.

Each intervention displaced millions, sending waves of refugees and economic migrants into Europe, reshaping the continent’s demographics and straining its political and social fabric.

Obama’s Proxy Wars and the Ukrainian Chessboard

The destabilization didn’t stop in the Middle East. Under the Obama administration, the U.S. actively supported political upheaval in regions historically within Russia’s sphere of influence, such as Georgia and Ukraine. Washington’s involvement in Ukraine’s internal affairs, particularly its backing of anti-Russian factions, provoked Moscow and led to the annexation of Crimea in 2014. The crisis in Ukraine further contributed to displacement, creating another migration wave.

Many of these interventions—whether in Eastern Europe, the Middle East, or North Africa—occurred under Democratic administrations. The strategy seemed clear: erode Russian influence, redraw borders, and destabilize nations under the banner of democracy and human rights. The result? Human displacement on an unprecedented scale.

Latin America: The Ignored Crisis

While wars in the Middle East and Eastern Europe sent millions into Western countries, another migration crisis was brewing in America’s backyard. The United States, rather than countering the rise of authoritarian regimes in Venezuela, Cuba, and Nicaragua, allowed them to fester, creating massive poverty, corruption, and repression. This led to the second great migration wave—millions fleeing toward the U.S. southern border.

The Biden administration’s open-border policies have only exacerbated the problem, encouraging further migration while failing to address the root causes: economic collapse, political oppression, and criminal networks flourishing under socialist regimes.

Was It Negligence or Intentional?

Given the long history of interventionist policies that have directly contributed to mass migration, the question arises: was this merely a series of miscalculations, or was it by design? Some argue that these policies were not blunders but strategic moves meant to reshape Western societies through demographic transformation. The influx of migrants has altered political landscapes, driven social unrest, and created new power dynamics—often benefiting the same elite policymakers who engineered these crises.

Conclusion: The Consequences Are Unfolding

Today, the West is grappling with the results of decades of reckless geopolitical gambles. Europe faces cultural clashes and economic strain due to uncontrolled migration, while the U.S. struggles with border security and internal divisions. The mass migrations that have reshaped these nations were not accidents but consequences of deliberate foreign policy choices.

If there is to be a reversal of this crisis, it must begin with an honest reckoning: how did we get here, and who truly benefits from the chaos? Only then can real solutions be pursued.

Slip

 

Israel Centeno

---

Snow poured down thick and steady, silencing sound, muffling the world. It should’ve been beautiful. It wasn’t.

Rubén Tenorio walked along the riverfront, the Monongahela before him an open wound, dark and frozen. He didn’t speed up. Didn’t look back. Didn’t run. He was not going to die winded and crazed, crashing on ice like a stampeding deer.

The puff-puff of footsteps in the snow behind him was even and steady. Three men. Maybe four.

He fingered the Glock at his hip. There was comfort in that. The weight of it. The surety of it.

He remembered the first time he’d seen snow. London, fifty years ago. He was a boy, standing in a street that he felt was too clean, too gray. The flakes were soft, almost warm in their buoyancy. He had seen them melt on his skin, disbelieving the cold.

This snow wasn’t warm.

This snow swallowed.

Juan el Cubano was in charge of the hunt, although he wasn’t Cuban. He was Dominican. Los Narcisos. A gang within a gang. Los Profesores sin Títulos—the Professors Without Degrees. A name that almost sounded respectable. Yet nothing respectable about them. They were men whose specialty was helping people disappear.

The order was clear.

Kill him. Make it clean. Dump him in the river.

The Monongahela River had been iced over for four days. The temperature hadn’t gone above -15 degrees Celsius. He didn’t need to calculate it.

Two minutes. That’s all it would take.

“Two minutes,” Juan el Cubano had once stated. “And you don’t come back.”

Rubén didn’t run. He trudged through the wall of snow, the bridge ahead appearing spectral amid the whiteout. His breath seared his throat. The Gates of Purgatory. That’s where he was headed. St. Patrick’s pilgrimage in Ireland, without shoes, walking in the way of penitents, with men who had done unforgivable things, men who walked through worse than this cold, with nothing on but rags, waiting for redemption.

If he could just get there.

If he could just—

But no.

Pittsburgh wasn’t done with him yet.

A voice behind him.

“Hey, Rubio.”

Rubén didn’t stop.

Juan el Cubano chuckled. It was a warm, rich sound, as if they were old friends running into each other at a bar.

“¿Para dónde, chico? No camines tan rápido. No hay apuro.”

Rubén slowed down, but only because it was necessary. He held his hand close to the Glock, but did not draw it.

Juan appeared, smiling beneath the streetlights. The snow fell, softening his angles, but not enough. He was a block of a man, small but muscular, bundled in a heavy coat, black gloves, boots thick as bricks. Three others, shadows in the haze, behind him.

“Well, this is a bad night for a walk, eh?” Juan smiled. “Too cold, too lonely.”

“I love the cold,” Rubén said.

Juan laughed, genuine. “Yeah? I don’t. Fuck this shit. Too much math. Celsius, Fahrenheit, whatever the fuck. I grew up with sol. Not this.”

Rubén gestured toward the river. “Well, then maybe you should go home.”

Juan’s smile stretched. “Maybe.” He cracked his knuckles. “But first we’ve got some business.”

Rubén’s hand clenched tighter around the gun’s grip. “You don’t want to do this.”

Juan sighed and shook his head. “Ah, but look, that’s where you’re wrong, mi pana. I don’t want to do this. But I have to do this.” He pointed to the men behind him. “They have to feel like I’m still leading. That I finish what I start.”

“You’re not in control,” Rubén said. “Maduros’s men are. And they’re using you like they use everybody.”

Juan didn’t blink. The smile remained, except something hardening inside it. “Doesn’t matter. In two, you’re gonna be part of the river. Maybe the Allegheny. Maybe the Thames. Maybe the fucking Styx.”

Rubén pulled the Glock.

Juan was faster.

A fist in the ribs, a grip like iron. The gun fell from Rubén’s hand and landed in the snow with a dull thump.

Juan shoved him.

Hard.

Rubén stumbled back. His foot landed on a patch of ice and then—

Air.

Cold.

Nothing.

He broke through the frozen river. Ice fragmented around him like glass, slicing his skin. Water consumed him, a vise squeezing his chest, a hunk of iron pulling him under.

Two minutes.

Through the water’s distortion, he saw Juan turn to his men.

“Ni dos minutos,” he laughed. “I’m telling you, I’m a professor of shipwreckology.”

They laughed with him, those chucklers in the snow. And then one of them patted him on the back, too roughly, too intimately.

Juan’s smile flickered.

Then, he was airborne.

Shoved, the same way he had shoved Rubén.

His arms flailed; his mouth opened in a curse or a scream—

And then—

Splash.

Two bodies now, sinking.

Two men lost to the depths.

Except—

Except—

Rubén was no longer in Pittsburgh.

He gasped and coughed and broke the surface of the water, pulling himself up onto a bank.

He sank to his knees and staggered back to his feet, soaked to the bone and the world around him shifting, spinning.

No city lights. No bridges.

Just mist.

And ahead, a long and winding road.

Men shuffling barefoot, soles torn and bloody, backs bent under unseen loads.

He knew this place.

He had dreamed of it.

St. Patrick’s Purgatory.

The other side of the world.

The other side of the veil.

And there at his feet, smiling and pointing to the walls around him, was St. Patrick himself.

They were covered in words.

No—

Not words.

Intentions. Promises.

The things men promised they’d do. The stuff men swore they would never do.

And the fire licking at the walls consumed them, one by one.

Juan el Cubano was gone.

The gang was gone.

The river was gone.

Only the path remained.

Rubén took a breath.

And he started walking.

Ireland Won’t Pay Me a Mass

Israel Centeno 

He had always believed he would have the chance for a third exile, a final one, in Dublin, with the sea as his witness, gazing toward the strait that separates it from England. He had pictured himself in a white house with windows facing east, watching the tide rise and fall with the cold Atlantic wind, a solitary figure by the shore, the damp air settling into his bones like an old promise. The green snot-sea, as Mulligan pointed it out to Daedalus in Ulysses, the vast rolling waters, an expanse of infinite regress, swallowing his gaze as he imagined walking through those streets, crossing over the bridges, stepping into the pubs where voices curled around the dark wood and the smell of old ale. But that was long ago, and now he was here, where the air hung heavy, pressing down on his shoulders with the weight of mornings that brought nothing new. The dream of exile had grown brittle, and he was too tired to pretend otherwise.

The trip to Ireland had become absurd, a fragile fantasy that no longer fit within the dwindling parameters of his life. He no longer had the breath for an airport, for the long corridors, for the artificial light that flattened all faces into the same dull expression of transit. He knew, with a certainty that settled in his chest like damp stone, that he would never again walk down Notting Hill Gate at dusk, never again feel the slick cobblestones beneath his feet as he crossed from park to park, weaving his way through half-empty streets, chasing the faint scent of a perfume he could not name, the whisper of a memory that had lost its edges. If he wanted to return, he would have to do so in a dream, slipping into the loop where time turned back on itself, where the same steps could be retraced with the precision of ritual, where nothing had yet been lost.

He could see it still: the soft glow of a pub’s entrance, the low hum of conversation, the warm spill of bodies pressed against the bar, the way his fingers curled around a pint, the taste of it thick on his tongue. The women were beautiful then, or perhaps it was simply that youth had the power to cast everything in a golden light—faces he could no longer summon clearly, eyes that had looked at him across tables, laughter that had echoed against the low ceilings. They had aged, as he had aged, scattered now into lives that no longer touched his own, but somewhere, in the closed circuit of his mind, they remained fixed in their perfection, waiting in doorways, standing beneath street lamps, flickering back to life whenever he let his thoughts drift toward them.

He caught his own reflection in the mirror and felt a flicker of recognition, a startled moment of confrontation between past and present. The worn face, the deep lines, the skin grown thin, fragile as old parchment—how much longer before it split? He was not hunched over, but he dragged his steps, his weight pressing downward, anchoring him to a body that had grown foreign to him. His breath came heavier, his limbs slower, and even the act of movement felt burdened by reluctance, as if his own bones resisted the effort.

Every night, he whispered the words of Psalm 51 in the dark, the cadence of them familiar, steady, a rhythm he had repeated so often that it no longer required thought. “Have mercy on me, O God, according to your loving-kindness; according to the multitude of your tender mercies, blot out my transgressions.” He recited it not with faith, but with the dull persistence of habit, his heart pulling itself into the shape of repentance though his mind remained unsure. He had always believed God listened, but he no longer knew if God still had patience for men like him. He felt reluctant, unworthy, as if even his regret had become something worn out and useless.

But it was not just his own failures that gnawed at him—it was the weight of what he had done to others. His greatest regret, the one that surfaced unbidden in the restless hours before dawn, was that he had hurt everyone he had ever loved. Every woman, every friend, every person who had truly mattered—he had left them wounded in ways he could not undo. He had spent his life moving forward without looking back, and now that he had stopped, now that there was nowhere left to go, all of it came rushing toward him, the accumulation of every careless act, every word spoken in anger or indifference, every door closed, every hand let go. It hollowed him out, left him with nothing but a weary resignation, a quiet certainty that no absolution would ever be enough.

Lately, he found himself more irritable, his patience thinning with each passing day. Small things set his teeth on edge—the hum of the refrigerator at night, the flickering television from the next room, the distant murmur of neighbors moving through their own lives. He had not always been this way, but something in his mind felt stiff, unyielding, as if parts of him were calcifying, slipping beyond his control. Perhaps it was sclerosis, perhaps something else, some slow erosion of the self that crept in unnoticed until it became impossible to ignore.

He sank into his chair and closed his eyes. If he was lucky, if sleep carried him in the right direction, he would find himself back in London, walking through the rain-slicked streets, the neon reflections stretching in puddles, the low hum of the city pressing against him. He would step into the warm glow of a bar, the scent of old wood and whiskey thick in the air, and for a moment, just a moment, time would collapse, and he would be there again, young and unbroken, untouched by all that would come after.