🕯️ Letter to the Church — April 4, 2025

𝑻𝒐𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒔 2 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓. What followed wasn’t just grief—it was silence, betrayal, and the quiet erasure of my name, my presence, and my right to exist in his story.

At his wake, I stood among people who looked at me in disbelief. They had been told I was long gone. I wasn’t just mourning my brother. I was witnessing myself being mourned—while still alive.

𝑰 𝒌𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕. 𝑭𝒐𝒓 2 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔. Out of respect. Out of patience. Maybe out of exhaustion. But not anymore. 𝗧𝗼𝗱𝗮𝘆, 𝗜 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲.

✊🕊 MY NAME. MY TRUTH. MY STORY. After two years of silence, I’m finally speaking.

🕯️ Today, April 4, 2025, marks two years since my brother, Rev. Fr. Melvin Pasco Castro, passed away. Not long after that devastating day, I reached out with a heartfelt plea—for fairness, empathy, and a simple measure of transparency. That letter, written in the middle of grief, was met with silence. And for two years now, that silence has remained—turning into indifference, and eventually, into something that feels like betrayal.

You may never fully understand the kind of isolation I’ve lived with—not only because I lost my only sibling, but because during his very wake, I found out that many who had been close to him were surprised to learn I even existed. Some were even more shocked to know I was still alive. Imagine standing among people mourning your brother, only to realize that you yourself had been mourned in silence, long before you were ever gone. That you had been quietly erased—not just from someone’s story, but from your own.

That wound was made even deeper by how I was treated by the Church during what should have been a moment of dignity and trust. On the day arranged for the turnover of my brother’s personal belongings—including sensitive documents—I arrived to find that the priests had already handed everything over to someone completely unauthorized. This was done behind my back and against clear agreements. Despite letters, requests, and even formal legal action asking for transparency and a proper accounting, the Diocese of Tarlac never responded. 𝗡𝗼 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻. 𝗡𝗼 𝗶𝗻𝘃𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗴𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻. 𝗝𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘀𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲.

And all of it under the name of an institution that claims to stand for truth, justice, and compassion.

Maybe they protect their own. Maybe they see no robe on me, no title—and believe I don’t belong. But I was there. 𝗜 𝗮𝗺 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗜’𝗺 𝗱𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀.

Since I was a child, I stood by the Church—not because I was told to, but because I believed in what it stood for. As a young boy, I stepped forward to serve priests during Mass when no one else would. I even organized and led a group of sacristans we called the 𝗞𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗔𝗹𝘁𝗮𝗿—a small brotherhood of service and devotion built out of nothing but sincerity. I accompanied an old priest into remote, forgotten places of poverty where no other sacristan would go. I didn’t do it for recognition. 𝗜 𝗱𝗶𝗱 𝗶𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁.

As a young adult, I was asked to intervene during a Holy Mass, when a young woman was being threatened by a terrible act unfolding right there inside the church. While others froze—priests, sacristans, religious members—I acted. 𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘆. 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝗻𝗲. 𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗯𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗲. 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝗳𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗱 𝘁𝗼𝗼. But someone had to do something. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗜 𝗱𝗶𝗱.

After all that quiet loyalty and service, this is how I was repaid: Betrayal. Silence. Erasure.

I’ve heard many versions of my story told by others—shaped to fit their needs, whispered to protect their narrative. I stayed silent. But not anymore.

𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲, 𝗜 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝘆 𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆.

𝗜𝗻 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀. 𝗜𝗻 𝗺𝘆 𝘃𝗼𝗶𝗰𝗲. 𝗪𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗳𝗲𝗮𝗿.

It will be shared publicly—decentralized, permanent, and safe from censorship. 𝗡𝗼 𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗱𝘂𝗮𝗹. 𝗡𝗼 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗶𝘁𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻. 𝗡𝗼 𝗽𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗿 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻.

𝗜’𝗺 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗮𝘀𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗽𝗶𝘁𝘆. 𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻𝗴𝗲. 𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗴𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.

𝗜’𝗺 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗶𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗻: 𝗠𝘆 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲. 𝗠𝘆 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝘁𝗵. 𝗠𝘆 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆.

✍️ — Mildfred P. Castro

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