Why seek ye the living among the dead?

Descensus Christi ad Inferos

From the Apocryphal Gospel of Nicodemus:

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And while all the saints were rejoicing, behold Satan the prince and chief of death said unto Hell: Make thyself ready to receive Jesus who boasteth himself that he is the Son of God, whereas he is a man that feareth death, and sayeth: My soul is sorrowful even unto death. And he hath been much mine enemy, doing me great hurt, and many that I had made blind, lame, dumb, leprous, and possessed he hath healed with a word: and some whom I have brought unto thee dead, them hath he taken away from thee.

Hell answered and said unto Satan the prince: Who is he that is so mighty, if he be a man that feareth death? for all the mighty ones of the earth are held in subjection by my power, even they whom thou hast brought me subdued by thy power. If, then, thou art mighty, what manner of man is this Jesus who, though he fear death, resisteth thy power? If he be so mighty in his manhood, verily I say unto thee he is almighty in his god-head, and no man can withstand his power. And when he saith that he feareth death, he would ensnare thee, and woe shall be unto thee for everlasting ages. But Satan the prince of Tartarus said: Why doubtest thou and fearest to receive this Jesus which is thine adversary and mine? For I tempted him, and have stirred up mine ancient people of the Jews with envy and wrath against him. I have sharpened a spear to thrust him through, gall and vinegar have I mingled to give him to drink, and I have prepared a cross to crucify him and nails to pierce him: and his death is nigh at hand, that I may bring him unto thee to be subject unto thee and me.

Hell answered and said: Thou hast told me that it is he that hath taken away dead men from me. For there be many which while they lived on the earth have taken dead men from me, yet not by their own power but by prayer to God, and their almighty God hath taken them from me. Who is this Jesus which by his own word without prayer hath drawn dead men from me? Perchance it is he which by the word of his command did restore to life Lazarus which was four days dead and stank and was corrupt, whom I held here dead. Satan the prince of death answered and said: It is that same Jesus. When Hell heard that he said unto him: I adjure thee by thy strength and mine own that thou bring him not unto me. For at that time I, when I heard the command of his word, did quake and was overwhelmed with fear, and all my ministries with me were troubled. Neither could we keep Lazarus, but he like an eagle shaking himself leaped forth with all agility and swiftness, and departed from us, and the earth also which held the dead body of Lazarus straightway gave him up alive. Wherefore now I know that that man which was able to do these things is a God strong in command and mighty in manhood, and that he is the saviour of mankind. And if thou bring him unto me he will set free all that are here shut up in the hard prison and bound in the chains of their sins that cannot be broken, and will bring them unto the life of his god head for ever.

And as Satan the prince, and Hell, spoke this together, suddenly there came a voice as of thunder and a spiritual cry: Remove, O princes, your gates, and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of glory shall come in. When Hell heard that he said unto Satan the prince: Depart from me and go out of mine abode: if thou be a mighty man of war, fight thou against the King of glory. But what hast thou to do with him? And Hell cast Satan forth out of his dwelling. Then said Hell unto his wicked ministers: Shut ye the hard gates of brass and put on them the bars of iron and withstand stoutly, lest we that hold captivity be taken captive.
2 But when all the multitude of the saints heard it, they spake with a voice of rebuking unto Hell: Open thy gates, that the King of glory may come in. And David cried out, saying: Did I not when I was alive upon earth, foretell unto you: Let them give thanks unto the Lord, even his mercies and his wonders unto the children of men; who hath broken the gates of brass and smitten the bars of iron in sunder? he hath taken them out of the way of their iniquity. And thereafter in like manner Esaias said: Did not I when I was alive upon earth foretell unto you: The dead shall arise, and they that are in the tombs shall rise again, and they that are in the earth shall rejoice, for the dew which cometh of the Lord is their healing? And again I said: O death, where is thy sting? O Hell, where is thy victory?

When they heard that of Esaias, all the saints said unto Hell: Open thy gates: now shalt thou be overcome and weak and without strength. And there came a great voice as of thunder, saying: Remove, O princes, your gates, and be ye lift up ye doors of hell, and the King of glory shall come in. And when Hell saw that they so cried out twice, he said, as if he knew it not: Who is the King of glory? And David answered Hell and said: The words of this cry do I know, for by his spirit I prophesied the same; and now I say unto thee that which I said before: The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle, he is the King of glory. And: The Lord looked down from heaven that he might hear the groanings of them that are in fetters and deliver the children of them that have been slain. And now, O thou most foul and stinking Hell, open thy gates, that the King of glory may come in. And as David spake thus unto Hell, the Lord of majesty appeared in the form of a man and lightened the eternal darkness and brake the bonds that could not be loosed: and the succour of his everlasting might visited us that sat in the deep darkness of our transgressions and in the shadow of death of our sins.

When Hell and death and their wicked ministers saw that, they were stricken with fear, they and their cruel officers, at the sight of the brightness of so great light in their own realm, seeing Christ of a sudden in their abode, and they cried out, saying: We are overcome by thee. Who art thou that art sent by the Lord for our confusion? Who art thou that without all damage of corruption, and with the signs (?) of thy majesty unblemished, dost in wrath condemn our power? Who art thou that art so great and so small, both humble and exalted, both soldier and commander, a marvelous warrior in the shape of a bondsman, and a King of glory dead and living, whom the cross bare slain upon it? Thou that didst lie dead in the sepulchre hast come down unto us living and at thy death all creation quaked and all the stars were shaken and thou hast become free among the dead and dost rout our legions. 

Who art thou that settest free the prisoners that are held bound by original sin and restorest them into their former liberty? Who art thou that sheddest thy divine and bright light upon them that were blinded with the darkness of their sins? After the same manner all the legions of devils were stricken with like fear and cried out all together in the terror of their confusion, saying: Whence art thou, Jesus, a man so mighty and bright in majesty, so excellent without spot and clean from sin? For that world of earth which hath been always subject unto us until now, and did pay tribute to our profit, hath never sent unto us a dead man like thee, nor ever dispatched such a gift unto Hell. Who then art thou that so fearlessly enterest our borders, and not only fearest not our torments, but besides essayest to bear away all men out of our bonds? Peradventure thou art that Jesus, of whom Satan our prince said that by thy death of the cross thou shouldest receive the dominion of the whole world.

Then did the King of glory in his majesty trample upon death, and laid hold on Satan the prince and delivered him unto the power of Hell, and drew Adam to him unto his own brightness.

Gloria in excelsis Deo!

Libera Me

Libera Me, by the so-called Palestrina of the Philippines, Marcelo Adonay, as sung by the Philippine Madrigal Singers--appropriately at the very same church, San Agustin of venerable memory, in which the composer served as Kapellmeister. It is a pity that Adonay's works are all but forgotten in the Philippines today. I thought this setting of the Libera Me was incredible.

But this light is not for those men...

Oh my love
Look and see
The Sun rising from the river
Nature's miracle once more
Will light the world

But this light
Is not for those men
Still lost in
An old black shadow
Won't you help me to believe
That they will see

A day
A brighter day
When all the shadows
Will fade away
That day I'll cry
That I believe
That I believe

Oh my love
High above us
The Sun now
Embraces Nature
And from Nature we should learn
That all can start again
As the stars must fade away
To give a bright new day

Three Persons, One God

 

A painting of the Most Blessed Trinity, here shown as three identical Christ figures seated side by side. On the foreground are shown the figures of Saint Joseph (bottom left) and Saint Ignatius (bottom right). A definite product of the Cuzco School-- though as to the name of the painter, that has already been lost to time. This type of depiction of the Trinity was banned in Europe following the Reformation; however, it found new life in a Latin America for which the Reformation never happened, and art was sacred art was free to pursue its own, vastly imaginative course.

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.