RIP Fr. James Reuter

In your charity, please say a prayer for the eternal repose of Father James Reuter, a priest of the Society of Jesus, who died today at the age of 96. A Jesuit of the old school, Father Reuter's fastidiousness and zeal with which he propagated the Catholic faith, have served as inspiration for countless Filipinos who have had the honor of knowing him.

The Mass of St. Sylvestre

(This short story, by the great Filipino writer Nicomedes Marquez Joaquin, is one of my favorites. I have written about this story before, back in 2007, having posted a detailed summary of the events in the story. I am posting it here in full, for the enjoyment of my writers, a number of whom, I'm sure, have long wanted to see this short story online.)

The Mass of St. Sylvestre

To open their doors to the New Year, the Romans invoked the god Janus, patron of doors and beginnings, whose two faces (one staring forward, the other backward) caricature man’s ability to dwell in the past while speeding into the future.

In Christianity, the post of Janus has been taken over by another Roman: St Sylvestre, pope and confessor, whose feast falls on the last day of the year. At midnight of that day, the papal saint appears on earth and, with the Keys of his Office, opens the gates of all the principal archiepiscopal cities and celebrates the first Mass of the year in their cathedrals.

Manila has been a cathedral city almost from its foundation; for centuries it was one of only two cities in the orient (Goa being the other) to whose gates the New Year’s key-bearer made his annual visitation. For this purpose, St. Sylvestre always used the Puerta Postigo, which is—of the seven gates of our city—the one reserved for the private use of the viceroys and the archbishops. There he is met by the great St. Andrew, principal patron of Manila, accompanied by St. Potenciana, who is our minor patroness, and by St. Francis and St. Dominic, the guardians of our walls.

St. Sylvestre comes arrayed in cloth-of-gold and crowned with the tiara. Holy knights suspend a pallium above him; archangels swing censers and wave peacock fans; the book, the Mitre, the Staff and the Keys are borne before him by a company of seraphim; and cherubs flock ahead, blowing on trumpets. Below them swarm the Hours on fast wings. After them come the more sober Days—cryptic figures clad in silver above,  in sable below—playing softly on viols. But behind the Pontiff himself, walking three by three, are the twelve splendid angels of the Christian Year.

The first three of these angels are clothed in evergreen and are crowned with pearls, and in their hands they bear incense, gold and myrrh—for these are the angels of the Christmas Season. And the next three angels are clothed in April violets and are crowned with rubies, and they bear the implements of the Passion—for these are the angels of the holy time of Lent. And the next three angels are clothed in lilies and crowned with gold, and they bear triumphal banners—for these are the angels of Eastertide. But the last three angels are clothed in pure flame and crowned with emeralds, and they bear the seven gifts of the Holy Ghost—Wisdom, Understanding, Knowledge, Counsel, Perseverance, Piety, and the Fear of God—for these are the angels of Pentecost.

At the Puerta Postigo the heavenly multitude kneels down as St. Sylvestre advances with the Keys to open the noble and ever loyal city of Manila to the New Year. The city’s bells ring out as the gate opens and St. Andrew and his companions come forth to greet the heavenly embassy. The two bishops embrace and exchange the kiss of peace, and proceed to the cathedral, where the Pontiff celebrates the Mass of the Circumcision. The bells continue pealing throughout the enchanted hour and break into a really glorious uproar as St. Sylvestre rises to bestow the final benediction. But when the clocks strike one o’clock, the heavenly companies vanish—and in the cathedral, so lately glorious with lights and banners and solemn ceremonies, there is suddenly only silence, only the chilly darkness of the empty naves; and at the altar, the single light burning before the Body of God.

Those who have been favoured with glimpses of these ceremonies report that St. Sylvestre (like Janus) seems to have two faces—but these reports are too vague, too confused, and conflicting to be given credence. More respectable is the ancient belief that whoever sees and hears, in its entirety, this Mass of St. Sylvestre will see a thousand more New Years; and it is whispered that Messer Nostradamus succeeded (through black magic) in witnessing one such Mass, while most of Roger Bacon’s last experiments (according to Fray Albertus Magnus) were on a prism that should make visible to mortal eyes this Mass of Time’s kry-bearer. They also speak of a certain magus of Manila, who, like Nostradamus, intruded with black magic upon the sacred scene—and was punished for it.

This magus, who was known was Mateo the Maestro, lived in Manila during the early part of the 18^th century and was feared by many as a sorcerer. He was equally famed as a musician, artist, doctor, philosopher, chemist, and scholar; and in his bodega on the street of the Recollects a crowd of apprentices laboured day and night at various arts—carving wood or chiselling stone, or narrating lives of the saints on canvas, or conjugating Latin, or choiring together in rehearsals of a solemn Mass or chanted Rosary. The Maestro—a small, very shrivelled ancient with white hair flowing down to his shoulders and a thin white beard—might look as frail as a mummy, but his eyes—and his temper—were still as sharp as a child’s. Because no one could remember him young he was believed to be hundreds of years old, surviving (some said) from the days before Conquista, when, being a priest of the ancient cults, he wielded great power, wearing his hair long and affecting the clothes and ways of women, but had hidden away from the Castilians in various animal disguises to plot a restoration of the old gods—those fierce and fearful old gods now living in exile on the mountaintops, and in dense forests, and out among the haunted islands of the south, but who steal abroad when the moon dies or when typhoons rage in the night, at which times you may invoke their presence by roasting a man’s liver, and by other unspeakable devices.

The truth, however, was that Mateo the Maestro was not yet eighty years old and could not be remembered as a young man because he had spent his youth in incessant wanderings all over the country, thus acquiring his mastery of the arts, his command of a dozen tongues, and his profound knowledge of herb-healing and witchcraft. Like all magians, he was obsessed by a fear of death and the idea of immortality; but all the lore he had accumulated he found powerless to wrest the secret from life, though he had laboured over countless experiments involving molten gold and pearls, the guts of turtles, the organs of monkeys, and the blood of owls. And after each vain experiment he would bitterly gaze out the window and reflect how, a few steps down the street, in the cathedral, there was yearly said a Mass which—had he but the power to behold it—could increase his life by a thousand years.

He had consulted the dark deities in exile but was informed that the holy mysteries (except by divine dispensation) could be observed only by the eyes of the dead. Whereupon a monstrous idea had grown; the grave of a holy man was profaned; the dead eyes plucked out—and one New Year’s eve Mateo the Maestro hid himself in the cathedral, having grafted into his eye-sockets a pair of eyeballs ravished from the dead.

Just before midnight, he saw the dark naves suddenly light up and a procession forming at the high altar. Garlanded boys bore torches; flower-crowned girls carried lamps; acolytes pressed forward with the cross, the standards, and the censers; and a glittering angel lifted the Flag of the City, its Lions and Castles embroidered in jewels. Behind a company of heralds appeared the mighty St. Andrew, attired in apostolic red and wreathed with laurel. Beside him walked the virgin St. Potenciana, robed in bridal white and crowned with roses. Behind them came St. Francis and St. Dominic and a great crowd of Holy Souls who had been, in life, illustrious citizens and faithful lovers of Manila. Down the aisle advanced the concourse, the cathedral doors swung open, and the Maestro followed the procession down the street to the Puerta Postigo. There the crowd paused in its chanting, and, in a moment of silence so infinite you could hear the clocks all over the world intoning twelve, a key clicked audibly in the lock and (as in Jerusalem and Rome and Antioch and Salamanca and Byzantium and Paris and Alexandria and Canterbury and all the great Sees of Christendom) the gates opened and St. Sylvestre entered the city as the wild bells greeted the New Year, the two processions merging and flowing together to the cathedral.

Now, there was a fine retablo in our cathedral, carved in stone and representing the Adoration of the Shepherds, which at Christmas time was lugged out of its side-chapel and placed upon the high altar. In this retablo, Mateo the Maestro now hid himself, since from behind the kneeling shepherds he commanded a superb view of the ceremonies commencing below. Having been warned that the Mass of St. Sylvestre cannot but prove unbearable to human senses, inducing (like the atmosphere of great heights) a coma in the mortal beholder, he had brought along a knife and a bag of limes, wounding his arms and steeping the wounds with limes each time he felt sleep threatening to overcome him. But as the Mass progressed, it became more and more difficult, it became sheer agony to stay awake. His head swelled and swayed, the purloined eyes fought to squeeze loose from the sockets, slumber pressed down on him like an iron weight around his neck though he stabbed and stabbed till both his arms were bloody blobs of chopped flesh.

But at last the Mass drew to a close; the Pontiff rose for the final benediction. Writhing and sweating, bleeding and smarting, Mateo strained forward, leaning over the kneeling shepherds and forcing his agonized eyes open. St. Sylvestre was standing with his back to the altar—but had he turned his face or was that a second face that stared back at Mateo? Mateo retreated slowly but could not wrench his eyes away from those magnetic eyes below.. he dropped down slowly, irresistibly, to his knees—still staring, still fascinated, his mouth agape. Then he ceased to move: his bones stiffened, his flesh froze. There he knelt moveless00one more kneeling and fascinated figure in a tableau of kneeling and fascinated figures.

Mateo the Maestro had turned into stone.

And there he has remained all these years—and, for generations, bad boys who drowse at Mass have had his crouching form pointed out as a warning. But every New Year’s eve, at midnight, he returns to life. His flesh unfreezes, his blood liquefies, his bones unlock, and he descends from the retablo to join the procession to the Puerta Postigo; sees the New Year come in; hears the Mass of St. Sylvestre; and at the stroke of one o’clock turns into stone again. And so it will be with him until he has seen a thousand New Years.

Or has the spell broken for him at last? For his retablo is broken, the cathedral is broken, and the city he knew has been wiped out by magic more practical and effective than any he ever dreamt of.

…And just as soon as the Liberation Forces opened the Walled City to the public, I went to see what the war had left us of our heritage from four centuries. Nothing had been left—except the oldest and most priceless jewel of all: St. Augustine’s. The Puerta Postigo still stands, but most of the city walls have been levelled to the gorund and the cathedral is a field of rubble. Into what city (I wondered) would St. Sylvestre now make his annual entry? In what cathedral would he say his Mass? The retablo of the Pastoral Adoration has been smashed and dispersed into dust. Does that release Mateo the Maestro from his enchantment—or must he still, on New Year’s eve, reassemble a living body from stone fragments to fulfil his penance of a thousand year?

Later, I told this story to some GI friends, who straightway clamoured that a buddy of theirs, while stationed in the Walled City, had actually witnessed this entry and Mass of St. Sylvestre on New Year’s eve, 1945. Unfortunately, the buddy had gone home to the States; but I took down his address and immediately wrote him, begging for a full account. His name is Francis Xavier Zhdolajczyk and he lives in Barnum Street in Brooklyn.

Here is the letter he sent me:

“… I didn’t know all that about living a thousand years or I might have acted otherwise. If that stuff is true—what a chance I missed! We were camped just outside the walls-on the grassland between the walls and the Port Companies. That night—it was New Year’s eve—I’d come back to the camp early because I was feeling homesick. I was all alone in our tent, the other boys were still downtown celebrating. I lay awake a long time thinking of the war and the folks back home and when I was going to see them. Around midnight I woke up from a doze and heard music. So I stuck my head out and saw a kind of parade coming up the road. I wasn’t surprised then and I wasn’t surprised at anything afterwards. I just told myself that you people must be having one of your New Year’s celebrations and wasn’t it too bad your churches were all smashed up. But I turned my head just then—and there was the Walled City, and it wasn’t smashed up at all. The walls were whole all the way and I could even see some kind of knights in armour moving on top of them. Behind the walls I could clearly see a lot of rooftops and church towers and they were none of them smashed up at all.

I told you about not being surprised—I wasn’t. I simply felt I should go and take a look. So I dressed fast and ran out. The parade had stopped at a gate in the wall and a bishop was opening the gate and bells began ringing. There was another crowd waiting inside and they had a bishop too and the two bishops kissed and then they all went through the gate and I followed. Nobody took any notice of me. Inside, it was a real city, an old city, and hundreds of bells were ringing and they had a park with fountains all around abd beside the park was a cathedral. Everybody was going in there, so I did too.

You never saw such a sight! The bishops were saying Mass and it was all lighted up and the air swelled good like high mountain air and the music was so pretty you wanted to cry. Then I said to myself: what a picture you could make of this, to send home. But I hadn’t brought my camera and I decided to get it. So I ran out and down the street and past the open gate and into our camp. Nobody was around. I got my camera and raced back. When I reached the cathedral I could see that the Mass was ending. I aimed for a nice view—but right when I was going to snap the shutter the bells stopped ringing—and just like that—it all disappeared. The bright lights was only moonlight and the music was only the winf. There was no crowd and no bishops and no altar and no cathedral. I was standing on a stack of ruins and there was nothing but ruins around. Just blocks and blocks of ruins stretching all around me in the silent moonlight…”

Der Verentreute Himmel

Director: Ernst Marischka
Writers:  Franz Werfel (book) and Ernst Marischka

Summary: This books tells the story of an Austrian cook, Teta, who attempts to buy herself into heaven in a round-about way by paying for her nephew's clerical education. Teta assumes that when her nephew becomes a priest, his grateful prayers will prove her salvation. Neither her plans, nor her nephew, turn out as she'd expected.

[Brief Note: Blogging will probably (still) be light from hereon (as if you had not known that already), but will resume next month]

Ergo Propter Hoc

I suppose all liturgy, in essence, is wastefulness. All piety, too, is essentially bombast built on something that is ultimately impossible to prove empirically; and hence, all faith, it would seem, is blind, if only because it would have the believer-- the investor-- believe, that such is truly such, that such is truly there, that there never was, or never will be, a time, a place, in which such was not, or shall not be. Paradoxically, however, this extravagance is oftentimes needed for cult to sustain its mystique, its power over people; and thus, I seem to find piety itself as the keystone upon which all belief is predicated. Admittedly this kind of reasoning is circular, and does not, in the end, establish beyond reasonable doubt, that faith is true. But there is something about these extravagant acts of piety, something almost tangible, that makes one want to believe in it so badly. The desire to see and know that grace is true-- that it can be seen and touched and marred by human senses-- is so strong, precisely because it is so weak in the first place. Perhaps this is why all rite and ritual is ultimately indispensable to religion: it provides the closest thing to "solid" belief that there is. We believe that the wafer ensconced in tis golden prison is the body, blood, soul and divinity of Christ Himself; but why? Because of the flowers, the canopies, the jewelled crosses and magnificent statues and rich vestments and fiery music, the milling mass of hundreds of thousands following suit, because we see it treated as such.

Pueblo amante de Maria

This is a beautiful eight minute video showcasing the devotion to Nuestra Senora de Penafrancia (Our Lady of Penafrancia) in the province of Bicol. The procession in honor of Our Lady, held annually on September, is one of the most well-attended in the country, drawing a crowd of millions to the province. Incidentally, Bicol remains one of the most staunchly Catholic provinces in the entire country, with around 97% to 98% of its population being baptized members of the Roman Catholic Church; it, too, has had a long history of men and women entering the priesthood or the various religious orders which dot the country. It is a great pity that my long-planned Bicol vacation did not materialize-- I would have loved to visit the Basilica where Our Lady is enshrined, and there pay my respects to her.

Viernes de Dolores

 

Stabat mater dolorosa
juxta Crucem lacrimosa,
dum pendebat Filius.

Cuius animam gementem,
contristatam et dolentem
pertransivit gladius.

O quam tristis et afflicta
fuit illa benedicta,
mater Unigeniti!

Quae moerebat et dolebat,
pia Mater, dum videbat
nati poenas inclyti.

Quis est homo qui non fleret,
matrem Christi si videret
in tanto supplicio?

Quis non posset contristari
Christi Matrem contemplari
dolentem cum Filio?

Pro peccatis suae gentis
vidit Iesum in tormentis,
et flagellis subditum.

Vidit suum dulcem Natum
moriendo desolatum,
dum emisit spiritum.

Eia, Mater, fons amoris
me sentire vim doloris
fac, ut tecum lugeam.

Fac, ut ardeat cor meum
in amando Christum Deum
ut sibi complaceam.

Sancta Mater, istud agas,
crucifixi fige plagas
cordi meo valide.

Tui Nati vulnerati,
tam dignati pro me pati,
poenas mecum divide.

Fac me tecum pie flere,
crucifixo condolere,
donec ego vixero.

Juxta Crucem tecum stare,
et me tibi sociare
in planctu desidero.

Virgo virginum praeclara,
mihi iam non sis amara,
fac me tecum plangere.

Fac, ut portem Christi mortem,
passionis fac consortem,
et plagas recolere.

Fac me plagis vulnerari,
fac me Cruce inebriari,
et cruore Filii.

Flammis ne urar succensus,
per te, Virgo, sim defensus
in die iudicii.

Christe, cum sit hinc exire,
da per Matrem me venire
ad palmam victoriae.

Quando corpus morietur,
fac, ut animae donetur
paradisi gloria. 

Amen.

Update

Work has been keeping me quite busy lately, and so I have had little to no time to blog, save for some sillier pursuits (oh, Tumblr...). It is Monday after Passiontide as I write this, and with barely a week to go before Holy Week comes, I humbly beg of the few readers still following this blog to say a quick prayer for me: for I am stretched to my limits, and am on the verge of losing 'It' Now, 'It' can mean many things, and in my case, it does, though it spans a wide and nebulous collation of somewhat disparate and disjointed things. 'It', in this case, is best defined as a semblance of normalcy; of status quo; of 'workability'.

Summer has come, and it is a strange mix of hot and sweltering days interspersed with dim and rainy and humid  ones. I sorely need a vacation!

Have a blessed Lent-- what remains of it, at least.

Festival in Manila

Here follows a short account of the festivities that took place for the canonization of St. Francis Borgia in 17th century Manila. This is the first of two parts and is recounted from Fr. Rene Javellana, Sj's, book on Philippine church art and architecture, La Case de Dios.

At nine in the morning, to the accompaniment of church bells, four triumphant floats were conducted to the Manila Cathedral, the beginning of the processional route. The carros or processional floats were shaped like galleons as they had a poop deck and a prow cantilevered beyond the wheels. This construction of wood was decorated in polychrome and gold and had a fresh coat of lacquer to give it luster. Four enormous wheels lifted the body of the float above the ground and near the poop deck was raised a shelter called a tabernaculo, consisting of four columns supporting a cover.
The images of the saints were placed inside this tabernaculo to keep them secure and wobble free during the procession. The first carro bore St. Ignatius, the second Stanislaus, the third St. Ferdinand, King of Spain (1217 - 1252), and the last, Francis Borgia. The images of the Jesuits were all dressed in gold embroidered material against a deep maroon background. Ignatius wore a black biretta and a halo decorated with diamonds and pearls. Over the chest was a golden heart studded with diamonds. In his left hand was a book of beaten silver and in his right a standard of orange damask on which was the Jesuit coat of arms bearing the name of Jesus.
Stanislaus was similarly arrayed as Ignatius, except that he had a face and hands of ivory. Over his head was a silver halo embellished with diamonds and other precious stones. Stanislaus cradled an ivory Santo Nino, adorned with diamonds.
Francis Borgia was dressed like Ignatius and Stanislaus and had a gold-plated halo studded with diamonds. He held an ivory skull wearing a crown.
King Ferdinand was robed in kingly fashion, silver breeches and tunic lined with gold and blue and a red imperial cape decorated at the edges with silver and gold. The robes of the statue were embroidered with flowers of varied colors. The statue was crowned in silver with diamonds. At its feet were a silver globe and a silver pilgrim's staff in filigree. A sword with a filigree hilt hung from his side, and chains of gold crisscrossed his body. The chians alone were valued at 4000 ducats (estimated at about $418,908.00 in today's currency).
At the prow of the floats was a flat space covered with a carpet; here, a band of children dressed as angels sang, played musical instruments, and held lights. Complimenting the band was an entourage of musicians.
The procession was held later in the day. The church bells pealed from noon until two, at which time the Jesuits walked to the cathedral. Here the people of Manila, beginning with the archbishop Fray Juan Lopez, OP, and the governor general, Don Manuel Leon y Sarabia, along with the city officials and city folk gathered for Vespers. Don Diego de Cartagena y Pantoja, the cathedral's dean, led the prayers that began with music.

God's House in the Sky

Vaguely do I remember a memory from my earliest days, when memory itself was yet but an upstart for me. It came to me in a flash-- the kind that one has in the midst of a lull, in this case, while soaking under the steaming hot water of the shower, while the early morning sun was just preparing to set the sky ablaze. And like any reminiscences of such nature, the context of its retrieval does not matter, no longer matters; indeed, I can no longer remember how it came about.

That slice of memory begins with myself gazing at something in the far, unnamed distance. It is sunset, or nearing sunset; cricket chirps were in the air, the dogs were barking lazily, and I was seated on my aunt's lap on her rocking chair in the porch of the old house. My hands were grasping at the air, trying to grab something that seemed to have caught my fancy. My aunt stood up and walked to the gate, smiling at me. She pointed to the sky, which by then was already turning golden. She pointed at small wisps of cloud and the occasional bird that fluttered in the air. A plane passed by, its roar deafening even at such great heights. She pointed at the sun, which by then seemed to have been swallowed up by a gentle, misty haze. "That's where God's house is! Look! That's God saying, 'hello!'to you" I remember wanting to jump, to lunge at the sun in the hope of grabbing God: He the elusive, smiling, benevolent grandfather I never knew I had, who made His home in the skies. The clouds were His cars, I thought; the birds were His pets. "God dreams of you every night when He goes to sleep." It was a comforting thought to have.

In time (when I was five or six) I began to thinkof life as a dream; God's dream. I imagined I was a puppet, or one of the many stuffed animals I had then, who came alive every night, when God was dreaming. I was at once cloud and polyester, figment and flesh and bone; I was real, but only when God was dreaming. What happens when God stops dreaming? What happens when He wakes up? Then, we go to sleep. That is why we go to sleep, because God is not dreaming during those times. We are like puppets that come alive only when the master plays with them; the same is true of life, and of its Maker. But what happens when God drinks coffee and does not fall asleep so easily? I don't know! Are the clouds in the sky His dreams too? There was a giant dog-shaped cloud in the sky. Will it become real all of a sudden? I debated these questions in my tiny child's head, all the while never arriving at any answer. It is, admittedly, still a question I contend with now and again.

The end of that sliver of memory is a trope I've repeated countless times in my childhood. I returned inside the house for my afternoon bath; I settled down in the little book corner, where my aunt would then proceed to tell me stories from my small, leather bound, illustrated children's Bible. I sat, as always, wide-eyed and fascinated. I don't remember the story now, except for an image-- a poorly but sincerely  made watercolor of Paradise-- and behind, a plethora of clouds, huge, immense, swirling and serene, hiding behind them the hoary gates of God's palace in the skies.

"Flashing"

I've begun to attend Mass at seven in the morning recently. The chapel is made up mostly of transients-- white collar types and retirees and the occasional expatriates. Earlier this morning I noticed a lady dressed in a white blouse, a long black skirt, and who clasped a glittering rosary in stunning black. This lady was obviously rapt in prayer; she remained kneeling for what seemed like a good forty five minutes, spending the sorrowful mysteries and the novena to St. Anthony of Padua intently. Near her, an expatriate-- an elderly Englishman-- sat with his head bowed perpetually towards the altar. He didn't finish the rosary and left three mysteries in.

I always enjoy seeing people in prayer. For me, it has, and is, always where they are most naked, perhaps even more naked than nakedness itself. A man's prayer is the innermost recesses of his soul made bare and splayed before the throne of God. But unlike Adam and Eve's nakedness, prayer 'reveals', exposes a glimpse of our true selves: free from the binding of any mask of false propriety or unmitigated pride before God. Nothing stands in between God and creature; even shame is wiped away by humility. To pray, fundamentally, is to acknowledge that one is not alone: that one is subject to the gaze of an Other, and in a very religious sense, its beneficence.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and heard a gentleman's voice ask me, "Anong mystery na ba tayo?" Which mystery are we on already? I shrugged, a bit embarrassed. I obviously wasn't paying enough attention to my prayers. It was the third sorrowful mystery-- the crowning of Our Lord with thorns.

Perhaps it was God's way of telling me that I need to bare myself a little more. Nothing is ever quite annoying, really, as false modesty.

Church vs State in 17th Century Manila

I've written about this incident before in the past, but it remains one of the most intriguing and colorful in the entire history of the Philippines under Spanish rule, certainly one of the most scandalous as far as Church-state relations go. Sometimes there is a tendency among many Catholics especially of the traditionalist bent to idealize even confessional states as immaculately of the same mind as the Church; this conflict between Sebastian Hurtado de Corcuera, then governor general of the Philippines, and its archbishop, Fernando Guerrero, however, immediately puts that myth to rest. The archbishop who repelled armed soldiers with the Blessed Sacrament-- you just don't see that every day!
(Source)

Governor vs bishop in 1636

By Ambeth Ocampo
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 00:13:00 10/22/2010


DO WE sometimes mistake the conflict between individuals for something bigger? In 1636, the governor-general, Sebastian Hurtado de Corcuera, ordered the archbishop of Manila, Hernando de Guerrero, arrested and banished to Mariveles. While there were unresolved issues of jurisdiction and privilege that led to this state of affairs, was this really a conflict between Church and State or simply personal enmity between Don Sebastian and Padre Hernando? The fascinating part of the story is how the bishop stayed his arrest without an army, and without arms or ammunition. He kept the arresting officers at bay with a piece of unleavened bread. When the governors troops stormed the archbishop?s palace in Intramuros they found Guerrero in full regalia holding a monstrance with the Blessed Sacrament.

The exciting events of May 1636 began with the bishop declaring an interdict on Manila all churches were closed and all sacraments were denied the faithful. The governor requested, in writing, that the interdict be lifted so life in the distinguished and ever loyal city would return to normal. Guerrero sought the advice of the superiors of the different religious orders and all but the Jesuits agreed on keeping the interdict. When the governor ordered the Cathedral surrounded by soldiers, a host was sent for and carried to the bishop in a lunette from the Franciscan convent. This was then placed in the hands of the bishop who was described as "bathed in tears. Messengers called on the governor, warning him of more ecclesiastical censures if he proceeded with the banishment of the bishop. While the bishop's letter was being read, the governor ordered soldiers to extinguish the candles being used by the messengers. This was done with the wave of a hat.

Unable to execute the arrest order because the bishop was holding the Blessed Sacrament and was surrounded by representatives of all the religious orders (except the Jesuits), a constable was ordered by the governor to ask the religious to return to their convents and to arrest the bishop as soon as he released the Blessed Sacrament. Naturally, the priests and religious around the bishop refused to leave; some assisted the bishop, ?relieving him at times by easing him of the weight of the lunette, by placing their hands on those of the tired old man, whose eyes were turned into two fountains of tears when he reflected on the acts of desecration that they were practicing on the Supreme Lord.

Growing impatient, the governor went to the archbishops palace in the middle of the night and, seated by the door, ordered all the priests around the bishop to be physically removed, by force if necessary. When the soldiers refused to comply, they were beaten with fists and the flat of their swords. Thus some of the priests and religious, taking pity on them, allowed themselves to be seized and carried outside. Those who resisted were pushed and hit by soldiers who begged their pardon, saying they were under orders. As the religious were torn away from the bishop, the monstrance fell and the lunette broke. There was a gasp and silence. Lightning did not strike. The monstrance was returned to the bishop, with a strap attached to keep it in place.

To come to the bishop?s aid, the religious organized and attempted to go to the palace in a procession supposedly to take hold of the Blessed Sacrament, but they were not allowed to pass. Soldiers were stationed on all streets leading to the palace, and the religious were forced to return to their convents. Back in the palace the governor ordered a soldier, Juan de Santa Ana, to push the hand of the bishop. He refused and ?answered boldly that he would kill himself before he would commit such an act of sacrilege. Then drawing his sword, and placing the point (on) his breast, he fell upon it. By the permission of Divine Providence, the sword doubled up in such a manner that when the soldier fell upon it, he was not wounded at all. That incident caused great surprise to all the bystanders; but the governor was so little moved by it that he ordered the soldier to be arrested.

At 1 a.m., the thirsty bishop asked for water. The governor refused him food and drink. Armed soldiers were stationed around the bishop and the vigil continued. A Franciscan, on the pretext of tightening the strap that kept the monstrance in place, applied wet cloth on the bishop?s parched lips. This was the only nourishment he got for a day and a half. At dawn of May 10, 1636, the exhausted bishop released the Blessed Sacrament, took off his pontifical robes and was arrested by an adjutant and 50 armed soldiers. This was a bit of an overkill considering that the bishop was a tired old man of 60 years. He was led on foot toward the Pasig where a boat was waiting to take him to Mariveles. Before boarding the ?champan? the bishop, following the Gospel, shook the dust from his shoes, picked up five little stones and threw these at the ?ingrate walls of Manila.? One of these pebbles hit Don Pedro de Corcuera (sargento-mayor) on the leg. Later, it is said, in a battle in Jolo he was hit by a cannon ball on the same spot and died. This is but one of many other engaging episodes in the unwritten history of the Philippines in the 17th and 18th centuries.

Undressing the Santo Nino

The other great feast of January here in the Philippines is that of the Santo Nino de Cebu, which is held on the third Sunday of the month. According to legend, Fernao de Magalhaes-- otherwise known as Ferdinand Magellan-- gave to the newly-baptized queen of Cebu (who had received the name 'Juana') a small statue of the Child Jesus, who had been mesmerized by Magellan's tiny companion. The image was probably carved in Flanders, but sailed with Magellan's motley crew of Spaniards, Portuguese, and Italians-- and yes, even one boy from the Moluccas, Enrique. Magellan would later be killed, and the conquistadores went back to Spain, but the Nino endured, and was worshipped as a powerful rain god by the Cebuanos.

Forty four years later, in 1565, Miguel Lopez de Legaspi would return to Cebu, and there he would chance again upon Magellan's little Child, who by then had become the chief god of the Cebuanos. The natives could no longer remember a time when the Child wasn't theirs and insisted that it had been in Cebu for uncounted generations. The Nino would help bridge the conquerors and the conquered, and to this day, the Child still attracts the veneration of countless millions. The cult of the Santo Nino is probably the most diffused in the Philippines, with different 'avatars' (including at least three in Manila alone) sprouting up in practically every island in the Philippines.

Above is shown the ritual of the 'Hubo', when, after the great Sinulog feast has concluded, the image of the Santo Nino de Cebu would be ceremonially undressed and bathed. Up until recently (the 1960s), this ritual was witnessed only by a handful of people, the Nino's attendants coming mostly from the upper classes of Cebu.  The statue would then receive a change of clothes, simpler this time than the elaborate garb it wore on the occasion of its feast. The priest and the congregation chant 'Christe, exaudi nos' as each item of clothing, starting with the Child's crown, is taken off, to the beating of drums. It is a ritual that recalls to mind the simplicity and humility of the Child Jesus, who hid himself as a pagan god in order that the Cebuanos, and subsequently the entire Philippine Islands, would be converted to the Faith.

Apologia for Fanaticism

"The kiss glows in his heart, but the old man adheres to his idea."
- Ivan to Alyosha, closing the parable of the Grand Inquisitor in The Brothers Karamazov

The mammoth crowds have long since dispersed, and normalcy returned to the streets of Manila, but there can be no denying the sheer size and spectacle of the procession that snaked its way, inch by excruciating inch, along the city's mean streets on January 9th. This year's celebration of the Black Nazarene feast was the most riotous, the longest, and arguably the most well attended, in its entire history, with at least eight million choking the already arterial streets of Manila, and lasting a staggering twenty two hours from start to finish over a five kilometer distance.

Here is popular, populist Christianity at its finest:; the sheer number of people who attended this year's traslacion is only made more impressive by the fact that a terror threat was announced no less than by the Philippine president himself on the eve of the feast, which necessitated the placing of Metro Manila on heightened alert, and the deployment of nearly its entire police force-- around fifteen thousand strong-- to patrol Quiapo district, the cholesterol-choked beating heart of Old Manila. That the procession took place despite (in spite?) of the threat only serves as a testament to the unwavering, iron-clad faith of the Nazarene's devotees-- or, as some would have it, the deplorable, excessive, even idolatrous, fanaticism of the 'great Catholic uwashed.'

To the sanitized Christian observer, especially of the more Evangelical sort, it is easy to conclude that the Nazarene's devotees are sliding down the path of spiritual oblivion: such riotous, frenzied action to even just pull the ropes of the burnt statue's carriage, or better, to actually touch the charred face of the Christ, really does come across as akin to worshipping the Golden Calf. They are wild, desperate, and manic; they believe, perhaps wrongly or out of misplaced piety, that a single touch would wipe away a year's worth of soul-staining filth, transferring their guilt, responsibility, and accountability to the Man of Sorrows on the way to Calvary. At the same time, the venue also serves as a locus for their machismo to be ratified; by doing they manliest of devotions-- walking and kneeling barefoot, risking the possibility of being trampled under the weight of millions of wild-eyed and desperate souls-- they earn the mercy and beneficence of Heaven.

It can be said, then, that the devotion to the Black Nazarene has grown bigger, and definitely wilder, than the Church: it has entered the realm of popular culture and folklore, attracting crowds who otherwise might not give a damn about the institutional Church. Go to Quiapo in any Friday, and you will notice the many Muslim traders outside the church who sell calendars, statues, even CDs, related to the burnt Lord of Manila; and on the feast day itself, many of them would even act as marshals to secure the stupefyingly large crowd who come to the church in hope of a miracle, or even just to give thanks for all the benefits and blessings they have received in the course of their lives. The Nazarene is invoked by the pious and the superstitious, the orthodox and the heretic, and called upon by the shaman and the healer to hex, by the priest and the cofrades to bless.

I have stopped trying to rationalize this kind of faith long ago; in the words of the archbishop of Manila, Luis Antonio Tagle, it takes a certain kind of consciousness-- an affinity with problems of the poor and the suffering, whether socio-economic, psychological, or otherwise-- to truly understand how such muscular faith can be maintained over time. At the same time, it is also an effervescent faith, at least for some, as it does not really translate to metanoia. But perhaps this is the point of such devotion: for how can a whole lifetime of sin and alienation from institutional Christianity be overcome,without first playing to the immediate, spiritual needs of the people? "Feed men, and then ask of them virtue!", declares the Grand Inquisitor to a hostaged God-man in The Brothers Karamazov. This is cathartic faith-- purifying, cleansing, and populist-- which otherwise would have no place in official Christianity. It takes someone who has been mired in the muck of destitution, poverty, or sin to realize how badly in need he is of mercy. The Black Nazarene, as an icon, is one with whom many people of such a situation can relate: it is Christ, carrying the Cross, but at the same time serene, back straight with dignity, sorrowful face gazing heavenward, pleading with the Father. Our faith preaches a God who become man-- but not as a divine king, a conquering hero, or an infinitely wise and transcendent sage-- rather, as an ordinary man, the most ordinary and common of men, even: a carpenter.

Here is a god who is, in the words of that heinous song, 'just a slob like one of us.' The devotees of the Nazarene relate to Him easily because, more than their Creator and eventual Judge, He is also their fellow man. In light of such a profound truth, I would think that such prissy, sanitized concerns regarding 'idolatry' ought to shoved into the outer darkness, where it rightfully belongs: for who else but God Himself can rightfully be counted as the First Idolater? Isn't it also fanatical idolatry for God qua God, to actually become flesh and blood and suffer death? Here is the burning kiss of God to His people. There is no sense, no reason, no end to its contemplation, but the effects linger on, at once muscular and effervescent. And without it, perhaps there can be no freedom at all from that endless cycle of destitution.

Too Cute!

This is just the cutest thing ever!

Most readers of this blog probably don't know that I absolutely adore children. I find their innocence and innate friendliness just heart-warming. The cute little guy in this vid reminds me so much of my own little cousins, whom I spoil silly whenever I see them. There's nothing really profound to be gleamed from this post, except, perhaps, for the most obvious thing: the simple joy and laughter that kids never fail to bring. I hope the little one is baptized! Ugh, I feel like such a parent.

1/02/2012 - Embedded

Notes on the New Translation and Matters of Worship

In keeping with principle, I generally decline to comment about matters liturgical; however, I feel compelled to make a short post about this most august of subjects, especially in light of the fact that the new translation of the Roman Missal recently made its debut here in the noble Diocese of Novaliches-- whose Bishop, the Most Reverend Antonio Tobias, is a known stickler for 'correct liturgy.' Let me first state how much of an improvement it was over the monosyllabic monstrosity that was the ICEL translation, of the shelving of which I can only utter a hearty 'Good riddance.'

That said, however, while listening to the post-Mass chatter on the First Sunday of Advent, I failed to notice any sense of lingering excitement from the congregation. I myself was taken by surprise when the Celebrant for that day announced that, henceforth, our Diocese would now be using the new, more dignified translation (and off hand, I must say it is about time the Nicene Creed was recited here, and not just the Apostles' Creed!) of the Missal; but aside from a (slightly) more enthusiastic response from the congregation, I did not note any exclamations at how much more reverent and dignified it was. To be sure, the people have noticed; but the awareness that it was supposed to present Catholic teaching in greater clarity has, to some extent, been lost on the Mass-goers. This has been the case for some weeks now.

Earlier this year, I wrote that much of our liturgical consciousness today has largely been modified to accept the Mass as primarily a textual artifact: a thing read and listened to, in other words, an object that requires literacy to understand. Corollary to this, any sense of "participatio actuosa" would necessarily seem to lie along the lines of information: THIS is what is happening right now; THIS is what the priest is saying; THAT is what happens at this precise moment of the service; THAT is the point when we can leave. In some sense, it would be correct to say that the Missal (or rather, what is in the Missal) is the Mass, insofar as it contains the 'secrets that lie behind the veil', as it were-- only this time, they are printed in red ink and size 8 font between leather covers.

But of course, the Mass, in essence, is so much more than that. Of late I have been thinking that it was the High Mass that served as the great 'epic' of Christian Europe-- it certainly has a lot of the characteristics that make an epic, not limited to, among others, telling the story of a great Hero (Jesus Christ), sonorous and lengthy speeches (the Priest's parts), and surely the overall tone must count for something. Piety leads us to believe that every Mass is essentially the same event as Calvary itself: not a sui generis ceremony arbitrarily made up from disparate elements, but a 'mythical', nay, divine, return to that one event, by which all creation is restored and renewed in God. That the Mass used to be chanted and sung immediately calls to mind that epics, too, were chanted and sung; but that is not really the point of this post, so much as why it was done. I think the simplest answer to to this question was because it was the easiest way to tell the story of the Mass, and its Great Hero. To tell a story, in pre-literate societies, was more than a matter of delineating a sequence of events, and having done that, calling it a biography: rather, it was a more fictive process, in the sense that it also depended on how it was received by the audience. Song, dance, and theatricality in general were crucial ingredients in bringing the story alive, and this was not something lost on the opinion-makers who would later come to influence the development of Christian liturgy(ies).

Again, please bear in mind that I am only an amateur; as such, I should hope that my humble reader, if he spot anything that merits a correction, would notify me. The Protestant reformation and the technological revolutions that came therewith (and also the Counter-Reformation, I guess) essentially turned the liturgy into a battleground. Competing theologies would gradually try to wrest the form of the liturgy from centuries-old Tradition in order to conform it to the tenor of the times, the gradual re-assessment, or so they claim, of Christianity's internal logic. To make a long, complex, convoluted, and impossibly technical story short, the Catholic Counter-Reformation, via the Council of Trent, deigned to keep the liturgy from being 'weighed down' by the accumulated debris of popular piety and whimsy (which zealots argued alienated the faithful from the "True Christ") by redacting it to its simplest, most 'pristine' form: the so-called Tridentine Mass. Skipping ahead some four centuries later, we now have Vatican II, which, not content with the purgation of the Tridentine Mass, sought to further conform it to Apostolic principles, giving rise to the Novus Ordo.

My point in writing this brief excursus is not to theorize about the development of the liturgy, as there are others who write, and will write, about it much more impressively than I can. My point here, rather, is that such textualization of the liturgy represents, at least for this blogger, the closing, if not the collapse, of the Catholic imagination. Because it is a very self-conscious liturgy, it loses that factor which makes liturgy (at least in theory) so efficacious in the first place-- its ruse, its deceit, its identification with the 'founding event' of the religion. The Mass is Calvary, says the  Catechism: the same Sacrifice, extended through time and space, albeit in  a bloodless manner. The simple truth of the matter is that the success of the mission of Calvary depended on Christ's true nature being concealed from the powers of Hell; His ruse worked, and Hell eventually was harrowed, and made powerless forever by the Cross. In the same way, liturgy would not be able to nourish us if it did not believe what it taught itself to be; if it persisted in being "helpful" to the congregation; if it sought therapists, and not committed actors, to run the show.

A popular tradition usually observed in Good Fridays past in the Philippines was the ceremony of the Descendimento (Descent from the Cross), known as the Pagtanggal sa Krus in the vernacular. I believe I have blogged about it before; but what happens is essentially this: after the Adoration of the Cross has been finished, and the Crucifix-- usually a life-size one, as is traditional in the Philippines-- has been unveiled, the corpus would be taken down from the Cross for the procession of the Sto. Entierro. These statues of Christ usually have thick leather straps that attach the arms to the shoulders, allowing the arms to be held close, as the statue is eventually placed into a glass coffin. The ceremony itself is quite moving; usually, it is the men who take Christ down from the Cross and help secure the statue in the ceremonial casket. They dress in white; some are crowned with flowers, while others are garbed in black, their faces veiled, carrying the symbols of the Passion on long poles for all to see. The effect can be so startling, that such ceremonies have given rise to the false belief that Christ dies for the sins of man every Good Friday.

While that is deplorable, it is nevertheless the reaction that liturgy should inspire in the faithful. The greatest tragedy, I think, of the Catholic Counter Reformation is the suppression of the various rites that have developed in different parts of Europe, in favor of the streamlined, non-mythical Missal of 1570: as such, we have lost many moving para-liturgical ceremonies which have articulated so well the popular genius of the Catholic faithful. The procession of the Palmesel*, once so common and beloved in German Catholicism, is now almost extinct, reduced to a cultural relic that bears little to no resemblance to how the faith is actually lived there now.

Reverence, because it is a concept common to all cultures, is consequently one of those words which mean everything and nothing; which straddle both the Dionysiac and the Apollonian. The genius of the Catholic imagination, as I have said in the past, has always lain in its ability to synthesize elements of terror and grandeur into a cohesive, coherent whole. As such, there is space in our worship for the fantastic and the profound, the terrifying and the numinous; but never for the bland, dull, and boring. Recall that line about vomiting the lukewarm and whatnot. I believe that, if the Church truly wants to revitalize its worship, then  it must cease trying to turn the Mass into something that has none of that: let it speak for itself, in all the fiery colors available at its disposal.

For what it's worth, though, I will sleep soundly tonight knowing that I do not have to see that ghastly translation of the Gloria again!


-----------------

*Curiously, this has a parallel in Philippine Catholicism, with the procession of the Humenta-- Christ seated on a donkey, being wheeled to the church by the faithful, while women lay their tapis (a sort of cloth attached to the skirt) on the ground as a royal carpet.

Veronica's Veil

http://vimeo.com/2357416

Just for fun! I came across this video on YouTube by accident; although I've already seen it a couple of years back, it was entirely by chance that I stumbled upon it today. Fan Death is a Canadian Italo-disco duo who originally started out in New York, but who have been based in Vancouver since 2007; and that is really the extent of what I know about them. Who knew that popular Catholicism (or for that matter, Catholic tradition) could go so well with trippy beats and an even trippier video?

I think I can believe now
In the sin I've done
and that you can absolve me
And everyone 
Will be rewarded for
their faith and belief
In the sharing of your word
From the cloth you lay beneath

True Faith!

A friend shared this photo on Facebook earlier today. It is from a church in Cagayan de Oro, a province in the southern Philippines, which was recently devastated by typhoon Washi (local name Sendong). The storm has so far left almost six hundred dead. That such a tragedy could happen so close to Christmas is indeed deplorable. If one thinks about it, these people have every right to get angry with God; I know I probably would. Instead, what we see is a full church-- packed with people for the nine day Simbang Gabi (Dawn Masses held in honor of the Virgin) despite knee-deep waters. I can only stand back in awe at their faith. It is a quiet, confident trust in the Almighty that does need coddling or prodding, exaltation or ratification. It is simply beautiful to behold, even in the midst if heartbreakibg tragedy. I can only wish that my faith would reach that level someday. Res ipsa loquitur!

Rachmaninoff Cello Sonata Op. 19-3

Nothing else needs to be said :)

El Beso de Judas

I was eight years old or thereabouts when someone, probably a distant relative, perhaps a third or fourth cousin of my father, told me the story of Judas. The traitor, quoth the man, was possessed of a singularly evil mind, that gloried in betrayals and schemed cunningly and mercilessly to achieve its own ends. The former apostle, he added, was a pervert of unfathomable magnitude. In fact, he said, every year on Good Friday, in the little town where he hailed from, an effigy of Judas (usually of straw) would be paraded in town, for all the folk to jeer. Stuck to the straw man's waist was a long, dark, and terribly erect penis: a throbbing, nay, pulsing member that symbolized the glee he supposedly derived from his wickedness. Judas would then be hanged. Once, uh, hung, it would be revealed to all that the straw Judas had been strapped with firecrackers from the get go. These crackers are normally composed of packets of gunpowder attached to a very long string, known locally as sinturon ni Hudas (Judas' belt). Someone of great import in the town would then light up the crackers, setting off a huge noise and a tremendous explosion. The fire would consume the straw body of the failed apostle, leaving only behind its giant ebony member.

Interestingly, this small ceremony usually took place in the churchyard, after which someone would hand the wooden member to the priest, or else leave it in the church. Some say this was a relic of the pre-Christian past of the Philippines; still, others say that it was an act instigated by the Aglipayan church (Iglesia Filipina Independiente-- the nationalist Philippine church that was born in the Revolution against Spain) to spite the Roman Catholics, which has subsequently swallowed up the practice.

The title of this post-- "the kiss of Judas"-- comes from an old and pious belief that the treachery and villainy of Judas was of such unspeakable malice that it could not but leave a very physical wound on the cheek of Our Lord.

Virgen del Carmen

A rather fitting image to contemplate for Novemeber, when the Church commemorates the souls of all the faithful-- and indeed, of all humanity. This painting, entitled La Virgen del Carmen Salvacion de las Almas en el Purgatorio, is by the Peruvian painter Diego Quispe Tito, one of the acknowledged leaders of the Cuzco School of Painting. At present it may be viewed at the Brooklyn Museum in New York.