Prof. Henry Francis B. Espiritu

This German word—Herz—means heart, but not merely in the sense of a blood-pumping physical organ. The Revd. Dr. Martin Luther, the great Reformer of the Church, once used this German word Herz to speak of something infinitely deeper: one’s calling, one’s purpose, the sacred center of one's being. Herz is the place within where the soul whispers, “This is why you are here.” Until one discovers their Herz, they are lost, drifting, like a song looking for its melody...

Thank God—I found it: I found my Herz right after I graduated from college! Or rather, it found me, quietly and without fanfare, like the way the morning light slips through my window curtains. My Herz is in teaching. It always was, it always is, and it always will be.

I was not drawn to teaching because of a job listing, a paycheck, or even a plan. I was drawn to it the way roots reach for water—instinctively, necessarily, and intrinsically. Teaching is not my profession: it is my very being. Teaching is my very own telos: my end, my ultimate finality, my Life-purpose. In June of the year 1992, the moment I stepped into the classroom to teach to my class for the very first time, the questioning about my Life's meaning and significance that had haunted me for years fell silent. There, among the eyes of my very first students hungry to be seen, known, understood—I found my peace and joy... And I also found myself.

But calling is not always comfort. There is so much that teaching asks of the heart. It demands faith—the belief that what we plant now, in broken soil, will bloom in time. Hope—that even the quietest student, the most rebellious soul, carries the seed of self-transformation. Love—of course, love—the kind that hurts when your students are hurting, the kind that keeps you up at night worrying about the ones who hide their pain too well. And patience—most and foremost of all, patience, because nothing about teaching is immediate. You give, and give, and give, and sometimes, you wait years to see the smallest fruit.

Sometimes, I have failed at the above criteria of teaching with a heart (Herz); more than once. There were days I showed up, but I was not present. Times I looked at my students, but did not see them. Moments I was so drained, so bitter with exhaustion and fatigue, so hardened by frustration, that I forgot what a sacred act it is to teach. I forgot that I am not just imparting knowledge—I am shaping and molding souls. I am standing between silence and voice, between despair and possibility. And in those moments, I strongly felt that I betrayed my calling.

I sincerely repent for the days I did not care. I carry them with me like small stones in my chest. I remember the student who always looked down, who needed someone to notice—and I did not. I remember the one who was nonchalant and apathetic all the time, and I responded with coldness instead of real concern. I remember when I started counting days when the semester ends, instead of making them count...

When teachers stop caring, they are no longer a teacher in the real sense of the word. They may still wear the title. They may still write on the board, hand out exams, and sit through consultation meetings, etcetera etcetera. But something essential is terribly lost—something vital and unseen. You cannot fake caring, for students know and will eventually know! They can always intuit whether you truly care or simply acting as one who cares.

And so I write this not as a declaration of my mastery in teaching, but as a humble confession and as a sincere reminder to myself. I am a teacher because I believe in my students. Because I believe that even one word spoken with kindness can save a life and can alter a destiny. Because I believe in redemption—not just for my students, but for others just as well, including myself.

Teaching is not simply a career. It is Life. It is joy, heartbreak, wonder, grief, patience, and grace—every single day. It is falling down and standing back up. It is keeping your heart open when it is easier to shut it. It is saying, “I see you,” even when the whole world does not...

I solemnly promise that I will strive, every day in my life as a teacher, not to become jaded and apathetic, not to close the door of my Herz to my students and to teaching. Because once you find that your calling is to be a teacher, you must never let it go, not to let go even when it hurts, especially and most importantly not when it hurts. My calling as a teacher is my very own heartbeat, my very breath, and my very own Life. My Herz is in the classroom. And as long as I still care—truly, deeply care—I will remain a teacher: in mind, heart, soul and spirit—IN MY WHOLE BEING!
(Written by Prof. Henry Francis B. Espiritu on July 11, 2025 at 7:55 PM. Re-posted in his page with minor editing on June 9, 2026 at 7:11 PM.)

I must honestly confess that there are times when I ask myself why I continue to love teaching with the same enthusiasm I had more than three decades of years ago when I started teaching in UP Cebu. After all, teaching is not an easy profession: it requires patience, preparation, intellectual as well as emotional investments, and an immense amount of energy. There are deadlines to meet, papers to check, reports to submit, and countless responsibilities that extend far beyond the walls of the classroom. Yet whenever I find myself reflecting on my life as a teacher, I always arrive at the same conclusion: I genuinely enjoy and immensely love what I do as a teacher. More than that, I cannot imagine myself being as happy doing anything else...

Whenever I teach general philosophy, ethics, or Asian philosophy, I experience a kind of happiness that is difficult to express adequately in words. It is not simply satisfaction, it is not merely enjoyment. There is something almost deeply personal and intimate about discussing philosophical ideas with my students. The moment I begin talking about virtue, human flourishing, ethical responsibility, justice, freedom, suffering, compassion, or altruism, I feel a certain excitement awaken within me: I feel passion and ecstasy whenever I teach. The classroom suddenly becomes a place where ideas are no longer imprisoned within books. They become alive. They begin to breathe Life, Light, Insight, and Wisdom. Ideas and concepts enter into conversation with real human experiences, real struggles, real hopes, and real intellectual as well as spiritual virtues.

Sometimes, while I am discussing a philosophical concept, I become so absorbed in the conversation that I lose track of time. I find myself speaking not because I have to speak but because I genuinely love the concepts and ideas that we are exploring together. There are moments when I look at my students and silently wonder whether they realize how much joy they are bringing into my life simply by their presence, of their being there, and participating in the discussion. In fact, if I am completely and thoroughly honest, I often suspect that I enjoy the lectures and discussions that I gave even more than they do. There are days when I leave the classroom feeling intellectually energized and emotionally fulfilled, carrying with me a happiness that remains long after the lecture has ended. The joy comes from realizing that I have imparted knowledge to my students, from discovering that they have likewise reflected and benefitted from that knowledge, and from seeing that I also learned from the sharings that my students gave during my conversations with them during classes.

This is perhaps why I always feel a quiet sadness whenever classes are suspended or classes ended during semestral breaks. Many people celebrate holidays and welcome unexpected class cancellations. They welcome the opportunity to rest, to stay at home, or to enjoy a break from their usual routines. I understand those feelings because everyone needs rest. Yet there is a part of me that cannot help feeling disappointed whenever I learn that there will be no classes, especially if I am scheduled to teach ethics, philosophy, or Asian philosophy on that particular day.

The disappointment I feel is difficult to explain to those who have never experienced it. It is not that I dislike rest. It is not that I am incapable of enjoying a holiday. Rather, I find myself thinking about what might have happened inside the classroom. I think about the discussion that will never take place. I think about the questions that will remain unasked. I think about the insights that might have emerged from our exchange of ideas. There are times when I find myself imagining a particular topic I had prepared for, a particular argument I was excited to discuss, and I cannot help feeling as though something meaningful has been postponed or stopped.

Perhaps this feeling arises because teaching has never been merely employment and occupation for me. I know that I am fortunate to receive compensation for my work, but the truth is that what I receive from teaching cannot be measured in monetary terms. Every class gives me something that no salary can adequately compensate for. Every discussion enlarges my understanding of myself, of others, and of the world in and around me. Every interaction with my students reminds me that education is not a one-way process but a dicursive, dialectical, and dialogic conversation...

For many, many years, I have followed a simple practice in my classes. During the first part of the class session, I deliver a lecture. I explain concepts, analyze arguments, introduce philosophical perspectives, and explore the praxis dimension of the concepts I discussed. However, I have never wanted my classroom to become a place where only one voice is heard. After the lecture, I ask my students what they think. I invite them to speak. I encourage them to agree, disagree, challenge, question, and reflect. Then, before the class ends, I ask them something even more important: I ask them how they feel about the discussion. I ask them what touched them, what troubled them, what inspired them, what remains unresolved in their minds, and how the lecture is relevant to their lives. Those moments are among the most meaningful moments of my life as a teacher.

It is during those conversations with my students that I encounter them not merely as learners but as fellow human beings. Their responses often surprise me. Sometimes they see dimensions of a philosophical problem that I had overlooked. Sometimes they offer examples drawn from their own lives that illuminate a concept more effectively than any textbook or primary reading ever could. Sometimes they express uncertainty, confusion, or disagreement, and in doing so they compel me to think more deeply about ideas I had long taken for granted.

There have been many occasions when I entered the classroom believing that I would be the one teaching, only to leave the classroom humbly realizing that I had learned something important from my students. The older I become, the more convinced I am that genuine education is impossible without humility. A teacher who believes he has nothing left to learn has already ceased to be an educator in the deepest sense of the word. This is why I often tell myself that my students are likewise my teachers.

Indeed, I truly and strongly feel that it is in the classroom and in the class discussions where the reversal of roles between the teacher and the students happen: through the mutual sharing of insights, I become a student to my students, and they are my teachers! Some people may regard this as a poetic exaggeration, but I mean it sincerely. My students teach me through their questions, through their experiences, through their doubts, through their struggles, and through their insights. They teach me because they allow me to encounter perspectives different from my own. They teach me because they remind me that wisdom is not confined to age, status, or academic credentials. They teach me because they reveal dimensions of human experience that no amount of solitary reading could ever provide!

Perhaps this is one of the reasons I love philosophy so much. Philosophy begins with the recognition that no one possesses complete wisdom. Every genuine philosophical conversation starts from a position of openness. It requires the courage to admit that one's understanding may be incomplete and that another person may illuminate a truth one has failed to see. In this sense, my classroom often feels less like a place of instruction and more like a shared journey towards understanding.

When I listen attentively to my students, I do not hear mere answers to academic questions. I hear human beings attempting to make sense of their lives. I hear young people wrestling with questions of meaning, morality, happiness, suffering, love, and life's purpose. I hear voices trying to understand what it means to live a good life in a complicated world. There is something profoundly moving about witnessing that process. It reminds me that philosophy is not an abstract discipline detached from reality. It is deeply connected to the hopes, faith, fears, dreams, and struggles that define our existence.

As the years pass, I find myself becoming increasingly grateful for these experiences. I am grateful for every class discussion with my students. I am grateful for every thoughtful question my students asked. I am grateful even for philosophical disagreements because they force me to reconsider my assumptions and refine my understanding. Most of all, I am grateful for the privilege of participating in the intellectual and personal growth of my students while simultaneously experiencing my own.

There is a certain melancholy, pathos, and bitter-sweet sadness hidden within this gratitude. Every semester eventually ends, students move on, new classes arrive, faces that once filled the classroom become merely memories. Yet even after my students leave, they remain with me in ways they may never fully realize. I continue to remember their questions. I continue to reflect on their insights. Sometimes I recall a comment made years ago by a very perceptive student, and I find that it still influences the way I think about a particular philosophical issue. In this way, my students accompany me through life and through memories long after the formal educational relationship has ended.

When I reflect upon all of this, I realize how extraordinarily fortunate I am. Many people spend their lives searching for something that gives them genuine fulfillment. Somehow, I found that fulfillment in the classroom. I found it in discussions about ethics, philosophy, and the human condition. I found it in conversations with my ever-dearest students whose brilliant insights continually surprise me. I found it in the realization that teaching and learning are not opposites but two dimensions of the same human activity called "education". For this reason, whenever I enter a classroom, I do so not merely as a teacher delivering a lecture. I enter with anticipation, curiosity, gratitude, zest, and hope. I know that I have prepared lessons to share, but I also know that there is a strong possibility that I will leave having learned something unexpected. That possibility fills me with excitement every single time whenever I enter my classroom.

And so perhaps that is the deepest truth I have discovered about teaching. The greatest gift that teaching has given me is not the opportunity to speak, but the opportunity to listen. It is not the privilege of being regarded as knowledgeable, but the privilege of continually encountering new forms of discourse and wisdom. It is not the authority associated with standing in front of a classroom, but the humility that comes from realizing that the people seated before me are helping to educate me as much as I am helping to educate them.

That is why I truly and immensely love teaching, that is why I look forward to every class, and that is why, whenever a class is unexpectedly canceled, I feel as though I have missed an opportunity to encounter something beautiful. For every lecture, every discussion, every question, and every exchange of ideas is more than a professional and academic activity for me. It is a reminder that human beings grow through dialogue and conversation, that wisdom is born through shared reflection, and that some of life's greatest joys are found in the simple act of learning and reflecting together.
(Written by Prof. Henry Francis B. Espiritu on June 6, 2026 at 6:43 PM.)

MY BRIEF ACADEMIC ESSAY, “The Beauty and Wisdom of the Sufi Teaching on 'Tawakkul' or Divine Surrender” PUBLISHED IN PRINT AND ONLINE IN THE "ISLAMIC VOICE ENGLISH MONTHLY"; A MAGAZINE AND WEBSITE MEDIA OUTFIT BASED IN BENGALURU (BANGALORE), INDIA

Tonight, I really would love to share to the readers of my page my short academic article entitled, “The Beauty and Wisdom of the Sufi Teaching on 'Tawakkul' or Divine Surrender”. This article of mine was published both in print and online by Islamic Voice English Monthly Magazine based in Bengaluru (Bangalore), India in December of 2017. I only noticed tonight that this my article was also published online at the Islamic Voice English Monthly website.

I am sharing to all my page readers tonight screenshots of the pages of the Islamic Voice English Monthly Magazine containing my printed and online article entitled: “The Beauty and Wisdom of the Sufi Teaching on 'Tawakkul' or Divine Surrender”. For the complete URL Link of my article, please check on the first comment entry of this my post.

My article explains why the Sufi mystics of Sunni Islam absolutely insist that the measure of a true spiritual person is when one absolutely depends his whole being to the divine pre-ordaining (Arabic: qaadar) of God and His divine arrangement or predestination (Arabic: taqdeer). The Arabic term for this dependence on the part of humans is “Tawakkul” which literally means the complete surrender of the co**se to the one who will bury it. In Islamic Sufism, surrender means to be absolutely dependent on God’s Divine Predestination. “Tawakkul” also means complete trust to a person who knows the way-out of a vast desert. Sufis likewise add that “Tawakkul” (complete dependence or resignation) is not just in mere surrendering of the soul to God, but in the soul’s total contentment (Raza) and satisfaction (Ridha) towards God Who knows what is truly Good and accomplishes what is truly the Best in the person’s life.

It is only God and God alone Who holds the key to Life and knows the just balance that makes the cosmos and our life in order: because it is only God, the Compassionate Heart of God alone Who truly knows the Final Good of this cosmos and the Final Goal of our life. We only see the present, but God Holds Eternity in a single vision of His Compassionate and All-Seeing Eyes. This is the very point when the Holy Qur’an beautifully declares: “No vision can grasp Almighty Allah, but His grasp is over all vision. Allah Almighty is above all comprehension, and is acquainted with the finality of all things” (See Holy Qur’an 6:103). Therefore, as believers, what can we do except to bow, submit and lay prostrate before this All-Just, All-Good, All-Loving and All-Merciful Predestinating God who pre-ordains and predetermines life with the Final Good and the Best End in mind? How can we not trust and surrender to the pre-ordainment of this God of Wisdom, Love and Mercy? This is why Sufi mystics of Islam always bow down (Sajdah) and submit (Tasleem) to the will of God by saying with trust and faith these short yet profound phrases: “In Shaa’ Allah!” (If Allah wills it) and “Wa Allahu Aalam!” (Allah knows best).

I really hope that readers of my page may somehow benefit from this short printed and online article of mine, entitled: “The Beauty and Wisdom of the Sufi Teaching on 'Tawakkul' or Divine Surrender”. I hope that this my article will, Insha'Allah (God willing), encourage the readers to fully resign and surrender their lives to this All-Merciful and All-Loving God Whose benevolent intention for all His creatures in this vast cosmos is always for their best. To read my entire article which was published by Islamic Voice Magazine and Website in Bengaluru (Bangalore) India, kindly click the URL link as provided in the very first comment below this post of mine.
(Written and posted by Prof. Henry Francis B. Espiritu on June 5, 2026 at 6:29 PM.)

ONE MONTH LATER: STILL MISSING AND REMINISCING MY ZAMBOANGA CITY JOURNEY BUT FINDING AN AUTHENTIC ZAMBOANGA CITY CUISINE INSPIRED RESTAURANT IN THE HEART OF CEBU CITY

It has now been a month since I returned from Zamboanga City for a series of lectures on the Prophet Muhammad's (peace be upon him and his Companions) teachings on peace and peacemaking, and yet the memories of that remarkable journey continue to linger in my mind with an intensity that surprises me. There are places that quietly settle within the heart and remain there long after the journey has ended. For me, Zamboanga City is a city full of bitter-sweet reminiscences and nostalgic memories. Its streets, its people, its history, its cultural diversity, and above all its unique culinary heritage have remained vivid in my thoughts. As the weeks have passed, I have often found myself longing for Zamboanga City with a sense of melancholy that is very nuanced to explain. Perhaps it is because some experiences become meaningful only after they are over, when memory begins to transform ordinary moments into treasured recollections.

Knowing how much my visit to Zamboanga meant to me, several of my beloved students, who are very dear to my heart, accompanied me for lunch at Satti Flames Restaurant that specializes in the cosmopolitan and multi-cultural cuisines of Zamboanga City. Satti Flames Restaurant is located in Saint Patrick Square along Redemptorist Street and Maria Cristina Street in Cebu City. The lunch gathering with my ever-dearest students was more than a simple. It became my opportunity to revisit, through food and fellowship, the city that had left such a profound impression upon me.

Since my return from Zamboanga City, I have been craving authentic Zamboanga cuisine, not merely because of its flavors but because each dish carries with it the history of the many peoples who have shaped the city's identity over centuries and I likewise wanted to share Zamboanga City foods to my ever-dearest students who will be garduating, hopefully with honors this semester. The food of Zamboanga is a living testament to the encounters and exchanges among Tausugs, Samals, Malays, Spaniards, Americans, and many other communities whose influences continue to coexist in a remarkable cultural synthesis of multi-cultural and cosmopolitan Zamboanga City.

My table with my students soon filled with dishes that reminded me of those rich traditions. We ordered Satti Sapi (grilled beef with special peanut and red curry gravy) and Pastil Meehon (curry puff/samosa like food filled with bihon noodles); both of which reflect the contributions of the Tausug people to the culinary arts of Zamboanga City. We also enjoyed Mee Goreng (spicy Fried Noodles), a dish whose roots can be traced to Malay Muslim culture and whose presence in Zamboanga City was enriched through the Sama people of Tawi-Tawi. Alongside it was Maggi Kari Noodle Soup, another beloved Malay-inspired dish that has become part of the broader culinary landscape of Zamboanga City. As we shared these meals together, I found myself realizing that what I had missed during the past month was not simply the food itself but the memories associated with it. Every aroma and every flavor seemed capable of transporting me back to the places I had visited and the experiences I had enjoyed during my stay in Zamboanga City.

For dessert, we savored Brazos de Zamboanga, a delightful confection made with egg yolks and milk cream that reflects the enduring influence of Spanish culinary traditions in the region. We also enjoyed the famous Zamboanga Knicker Bucker, a local variation of fruits halo-halo whose origins reflect the American contribution to Zamboanga City's culinary environment. We also enjoyed the crunchy Lukot-Lukot or Jah in Tausug and Sama languages. Jah or Lukot-Lukot is made of rice flour, with sugar and egg and deep fried as crunches popular in Zamboanga City: popular among Muslims and Christian Zamboangenos. The desserts were indeed delicious. What made the meal so enjoyable was also what made it bittersweet: it reminded me of how much I missed the city that had inspired it.

After lunch, my ever-dearest students and I spent some time admiring the interior of Satti Flames Restaurant, whose walls are adorned with nostalgic photographs depicting various scenes and landmarks of Zamboanga City. Looking at those images felt almost like leafing through a cherished family album. They awakened memories that had remained quietly dormant and rekindled feelings I had been carrying since my return back to Cebu City from Zamboanga City last month. The photographs on the walls seemed to narrow the distance between my place of domicile Cebu City and Zamboanga City, allowing me, if only briefly, to imagine myself once more in Zamboanga City whose charm had captured my affection.

We later proceeded outside the restaurant to take souvenir photographs together. What initially appeared to be a simple commemorative activity gradually acquired a deeper significance as I reflected on the occasion. These students—my ever-dearest students Moira Fructuoso, Rossel Gingo, Anica Pino, and Hazel Anino—will soon be graduating during the Second Semester of Academic Year 2025–2026. As I stood beside them, I became acutely aware of how swiftly time passes. The same students who had once entered the classroom with uncertainty and youthful anticipation now stand on the threshold of a new chapter in their lives. The realization filled me with both high pride and immense sadness. Every teacher understands this paradox. We devote ourselves to guiding our students toward success, yet the fulfillment of that mission inevitably leads to this inevitable moment of separation. Their graduation is a cause for celebration, but it also serves as a reminder that the seasons of life move relentlessly forward, carrying all of us with them.

The photographs we took that afternoon therefore became more than mere souvenirs. They became small attempts to preserve a fleeting moment before it disappeared into the past. Perhaps that is why people treasure photographs so deeply. They allow us to resist, however imperfectly, the passage of time. They preserve smiles that would otherwise fade, gatherings that would otherwise be forgotten, and moments that can never be recreated exactly as they once were...

Later that evening, I returned to Satti Flames to share dinner with my dear friend and Naqshbandi Sufi Muslim brother, Ustadhz Imam Nurdin Basang Sahib. Our conversation, accompanied by the same flavors that had reminded me of Zamboanga throughout the day, became another opportunity to reflect on the experiences and friendships that continue to enrich my life. By the time the evening came to an end, I found myself overwhelmed by a curious mixture of gratitude and longing. The day had been filled with joy, companionship, and good food, yet beneath all of it lingered a quiet sense of homesickness—not for my own home, but for a city that had somehow become emotionally significant to me despite the brevity of my stay.

Perhaps this is the inevitable consequence of every meaningful journey. We leave a place physically, yet a part of ourselves remains behind. Though I have been back in Cebu for a month, there are moments when my thoughts still wander through the streets of Zamboanga City. I remember its cultural richness, its historical depth, its hospitable people, and the extraordinary cosmopolitan, multi-cultural, multi-ethnic, multi-religious diversity that makes it unlike any other city in the Philippines. Most of all, I remember how it made me feel: welcomed, fascinated, inspired, and profoundly connected to a heritage that continues to flourish through its people and traditions.

As I reflect upon that memorable lunch with my ever-dearest students and the evening meal shared with a very dear friend and my fellow-sojourner in the Sufi-Sunni Islamic path, Ustadhz Imam Nurdin Basang Sahib, I realize that what I miss is not merely a destination but an experience—a collection of moments that have become precious precisely because they can no longer be relived in the same way. The flavors of Zamboanga City may be found in Cebu, and its photographs may adorn the walls of a restaurant, but the city itself remains distant, existing now in that bittersweet space where memory and longing meet. It is a comforting sadness, perhaps, but a sadness nonetheless. One month has passed since my visit, yet Zamboanga City continues to occupy a special place in my heart, reminding me that some journeys do not end when we return home. They continue quietly within us, becoming part of who we are, long after the road itself has disappeared behind us...
(Written by Prof. Henry Francis B. Espiritu on June 3, 2026 at 10:05 PM.)

(Photo Credits: Accompanying photos courtesy of my ever-dearest student Hazel Anino and Satti Flames Restaurant staff, Miss Janica Alfanta Ecaonapo.)