Never Been Known To Fail

Growing up, I have to say that my mental image of the Church has always been defined by the 'landscape' in which I lived. It was, for me, experienced primarily through a series of images: women in veils, Sacred Heart scapulars, walking on one's knees, sampaguita-clad statues of the saints, golden retablos, and the graphic depiction of the sufferings of the Crucified. These for me served as a background of sorts, a tapestry on which I somehow based my idea of what the Church was. One of the most ubiquitous components of that tapestry is the novena to St. Jude.

I'm sure you've seen them everywhere. They are usually hidden in some back pew of a grand church, photocopied or printed individually. I've collected a lot of these 'pamphlets' over the years; when I was a student in the sixth grade, I recall plundering our parish for copies of the novena, intrigued by its audacious claim of 'it has never been known to fail'. In 2002, I had the chance to visit Mission San Juan Capistrano in California; St. Jude was there, too, only it was a pamphlet-slash-booklet, containing nine copies of the prayer within. When I started college, I began to collect more and more of these novenas. They range in size from A4 bifolds to 3in by 3in laminated squares small enough to fit in your wallet.

I've never prayed the novena, though. Despite always being intrigued by it, I guess I was never desperate enough to give it a try. But with the worsening economic crisis and other factors, there seems to be an influx in the saint's devotees. I think it's quite fitting (and bitingly ironic) that the shrine of St. Jude in Manila is proximate to Malacanang Palace, the seat of the national government.

Perhaps one reason why I'm so reluctant to give the St. Jude novena a try is because it always seemed like folk magic to me. I have blogged before about the somewhat neurotic religious environment in which I grew up, where evangelical Protestantism seemed to mesh with traditional Roman Catholic piety. While I learned to cross myself, say the Our Father and the Hail Mary, I was also being told about the end of the world, the rapture, and all of that. I took this all in, as any child is wont to do, never really distinguishing one from another. Thus, I would kiss the foot of a saint while believing, simultaneously, that one should not commit idolatry (that is, bow before a graven image, as most prottys define it).

For some reason, whenever I would feel myself in a lull in my spiritual life, I am always buoyed up by St. Jude novena, even if I have never prayed it before. Maybe it was the sheer audacity-- and consequently, hope-- that it promises, but I end up telling myself 'Your life isn't too bad, you know.' One time, I saw an old man, who could not have stood more than 4'10, and whose skin looked as if it had been parched and burned by years walking under the sun, walk his way toward the altar of the church, carrying several pieces of paper with the novena prayers printed on them. The church was practically empty, as it was only 7 in the morning (or perhaps they had already left since the first mass there was at 5.30), and with the exception of the man, most of the people there were preparing to leave. It was such a nice little scene to observe, so peaceful and so hopeful. You would never know that he was beset my so many problems.

I don't think anyone could really determine in an empirical way whether the St. Jude novena delivers on its promise. In the end, one really has to have faith. But that's just the problem with us nowadays: we don't really believe anymore. It's all a matter of convenience and pleasure. Perhaps, one day, God will make me desperate enough to try something so audacious and so comforting as the St. Jude novena. Lord, that I may see.

Sagada Mountain Province - All Souls' Day

Just an incredibly haunting photograph, found online, and whose source I am trying desperately to find. The people of the Sagada, instead of lighting candles to remember their dead on All Souls' Day, light small bonfires instead. First is the practical consideration-- one simply cannot expect wimpy candles to last long in the battering winds of the mountains. The more mystical side of this ritual centers on the belief that, the brighter the flame one lights, so too is the intensity of the deceased's suffering alleviated. It is especially interesting, too, since Sagada is not exactly a region where Catholicism is that entrenched-- the Anglican communion is stronger there, having been brought by American missionaries to the Philippines at the dawn of the twentieth century.

Radio Melodrama

I took a cab home today.

I don't usually commute and from school; I'm lucky enough to have my own car (an old Honda :/ )but for some reason, I thought it would be fun to go it like an ordinary college student. Jeepneys, on general, tend to make me feel queasy, mainly from the dust and heat (I am very prone to migraines) and cabs, well, let's just say taxis in Manila tend to make even the worst NYC cabbie look like a kitten. It was easy enough, but I did have to lug my big bag all the way, which had almost 30 lbs of stuff inside (it is 'hell week' already for students in the city).

It was the return home, however, that was quite... entertaining. I live around 30 to 40 minutes away from school, depending on the traffic, and many cabs usually take me in without much trouble. I flagged down this badly bruised Toyota, which screeched to halt around five feet from me. I got inside, and luckily, the taxi driver was a pleasant man, quite talkative, really. I told him my destination, and judging from the way he spoke, he seemed pretty familiar with where I lived.

Five minutes in, mister taxi driver asks me in a somewhat sheepish tone if he could switch the radio station so he could catch his favorite radio drama. It wasn't a problem, I told him; so he switches from FM to AM, and lo, I start hearing the most over the top, overwrought, hyper-melodramatic dialogue ever.

The first involved an evil grandmother (who sounded like she had smoked her peace pipe for too long) berating and harshly treating her granddaughter, who was literally crying her heart out. It was difficult to make out what she was saying, but here I've tried to transcribe it to the best of my memory:

'Pero... (sob) Mahal.. (sniff) Mahal ko siya!!! (cries heart out) Hu hu hu! Ma...(sob)sama.. kang.. tao!! (sob)' (sniffsobsobsniff auugh guhuhu raaah, unintelligible noises)

[English: But...(x)I love...(x) I love him!!!(x) Hu hu hu! You...(x) are..(x)An evil woman!(xxx)]

For 15 minutes, there was not one sentence that was not punctuated by a sob, a sigh, a sniff, or an invective against the evil grandmother. I personally did not know whether to laugh or cry, but I found myself gritting my teeth in some instances, especially when the grandmother spoke, that shrill, cackling, vulture-ish voice inciting my inner sap to join in the drama. The driver must have seen me making faces through the rear view mirror (not a very good sight), and offered to explain the whole plot line-- plot ribbons and knots, more likely-- and it went by so fast I had to ask him repeatedly about it.

'Ah kasi, 'yung lola, ayaw siyang ipakasal kay (didn't catch name), kasi, mahirap. Gusto ng matanda, si ganito na lang daw, dahil may utang pa siya dito. So 'yung babae na lang daw pambayad utang niya. Pero itong si apo, ayaw, kaya nag-iiiyak sa lola, pero rinig mo naman na malupit siya, diba. Si lola, malupit sa lahat, pati sa sarili niyang anak. Lalong lalo na sa mga mahirap. Proud ba siya! Hahaha!'

[It's like this, the grandmother, she doesn't want her to be married to that guy (didn't catch name), because he's poor. The old lady wants her to marry so and so instead, because he's rich, and she still owes him. But the girl, she doesn't it (the fact that grandma is intruding into her personal life), that's why she's crying her heart out before her grandma, but as you've heard, she's downright mean. The grandmother, she's cruel to everyone, even on her own children. And she's even proud of it! Hahaha!]

I listened to him narrate the rest of the story, from its unfolding to the present. As I said, there was not a full minute that passed without hearing a sob, a sigh, or a sniff from the radio. Sometimes I ask myself, What's the point of all this obsession over suffering? Haven't we, as a people, suffered enough? You'd think a housemaid would be the last person on earth to listen to her radio counterpart scream and sob from her latest beating; but no, she listens to it, even giggles at it. I don't understand it, really. Maybe it's because of our 'bahala na' (lit. 'It's in God's hands) attitude, or the fact that we tend to be most serious when we are laughing. He definitely seemed to be enjoying himself.The driver eventually stopped talking, allowing me to hear the rest of the glorious melodrama.

I guess, with all the poverty in the world today, it's sometimes good to take a pause and laugh it all off. After all, your life can't be that bad; just be happy you don't have an evil bitch of a grandmother giving you off to be married in order to pay a debt, or an evil stepfather who likes the beat the s4it out of poor people. Yes, it's grossly exaggerated stuff, and I can't help but think that this is also the reason why it is so true.

'Ayan na si Bernardo! Ha, sige, lagot ka ngayon!'[There, it's Bernardo! Ha, wait till her hears of what you did!'], he says to no one in particular. Maybe it was cathartic, or it was just that entertaining. The radio drama eventually ended, but not before advertising cheap brandy, an online classified ads website, and a bad jingle for an even worse cola. Finally, the familiar, booming voice of the announcer announces the name of the cast members, reminding us all that it was (thankfully) just make believe. The show closed with a bad techno remix of Ennio Morricone's theme from 'The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.'

Altar of Cebu Cathedral, circa 1930s

The altar of the Cathedral of Cebu, as it appeared in the 1930s. Interestingly enough, this altar would be demolished in 1934, when Cebu was elevated to an archdiocese in the 1930s. Supposedly, Bishop Gabriel Reyes was responsible for the brand-spanking new, but vastly pared down, American style altar (that is to say, wedding cake Gothic) that replaced this one. The new altar was made of carrara marble, and if I remember correctly, had three stained glass windows above it. Currently, however, the Cebu cathedral is once again under renovation, and the present altar (long since changed from the Gothic one)will be replaced by a new, more classically-designed altar (reredos, actually-- in the Philippines they're interchangeable). The new reredos will come from Pampanga, a province known for producing classical and baroque inspired altarpieces.

Psychic Surgery

Here is something I have meaning to post for a few days now but have always forgotten to do so, mostly due to stress. One of my guilty pleasures is reading travelogues of people from all over the world, and this one, written by a Briton who has been in the Philippines for five months now, is especially interesting. Here is the link; but I have also pasted his whole account here for the benefit of the readers. Check out his other posts as well.

Psychic Surgery and Healing With A Double-Edged Sword
by Edward Adrian Vallance

I screamed with pain as the healer swung his double-edged, razor-sharp sword full force into my belly. It was agonizing but somehow felt more like being hit by a metal rod than a sword.

"Stop, stop," I cried, "I don't want any more!" But I had begun now, and other people held me back. I received two more blows to the stomach and three on my leg, all equally excruciating and producing cries at a similar volume. Afterwards I looked at the areas of flesh he had struck and sure enough there were three long thin red marks where the blade had hit me but somehow not penetrated my skin. Two weeks later, as I write this, huge black bruises still cover the area.

The room in which we found ourselves and the people we were with looked, outwardly, highly Americanised. The healer was no shaven-headed Tibetan monk in long red shawl, no wild-haired, pencil-thin Indian Yogi - he was a fat, simple-faced, warm-hearted Filipino in jeans, a T-Shirt and a baseball cap. We were in no Himalayan temple or Buddhist shrine, but on the twenty first floor of the Herrera Tower in downtown Makati, surrounded by the vast shopping malls and reflective glass windows of Manila's flashiest area and answer to Singapore. Yet this bizarre ritual took place amid all this seeming hyper-modernity. The other "patients" were highly-educated working people yet they must have believed in the efficacity of the ritual otherwise why would they have been there? Relaxed and trusting, they did not scream while being hit. My own agony upon having the blade unleashed upon me was apparently due to my skepticism; fearing the worst, I had unwittingly tensed all my muscles in useless preparation for the blow.


"Where are you from?" I asked the healer when the ordeal was over.

"The island of Leyte, Sir," he replied.

"And what did you do before you became a healer?"

"I was just a farmer, Sir."

"How did you realise you had this gift?"

"One day God just told me, Sir. I left home and lived in the wild for a year, fasting during the day and never once washing. Then I came back and started to help people." He seemed straightforward, down to earth, and without a cunning bone in his body.


The owner of the clinic in which the ritual had taken place quoted a couple of verses from the Bible which mentioned metal rods and double-edged swords representing the Word of God which could protect people from death.

"Perhaps it felt more like a rod than a sword when he hit you?" he asked, looking from face to face. He went on to show us some photos of the ritual on his computer where a bright shining light inexplicably appeared near the sword, or where the sword became transparent. We checked our own photos and, sure enough, in one of them the sword was transparent. In another one Lizz had captured the sword just as it hit my leg; it was definitely the blade, not the flat, that was striking me and, what is more, the blade appeared to be partly buried in my flesh.

"Anyway," the owner went on, "this should build up your protective aura enormously and prevent you from getting hurt." He went on to site a list of examples of policemen and soldiers who had taken the same treatment then survived without a scratch after being shot at point blank. Another young man at the clinic told us that after having the treatment one day he had had an sudden urge to change buses then had watched as the bus he had left blew up in a terrorist attack.

"The clothes you are in now, you can't wear them for a year," the owner said, "unless you are going into a particularly dangerous situation, then they will protect you. For the next three days you cannot shower, eat pork or have sex. For the rest of your life you cannot shower, eat pork or have sex on Tuesdays or Fridays. Whenever you eat meat, you must never skewer it with your fork. And, most importantly, you must say these prayers every day at 6am and 6pm." He handed out several pages of Tagalog and Latin prayers that would take at least twenty minutes to recite.

"We have to say them all twice every day?" I asked with a sinking heart, knowing full well that I would not be able to keep it up.

"Indeed, otherwise you will lose your protection."


We had decided to undergo the treatment by alternative healers because for us it summed up a number of aspects of the Filipino culture, above all the deep, almost fanatical spirituality which scratched below the surface of the Americanised exterior. The sword healer was apparently a one-off, just a man who had been given a gift by God not to be found in anyone else. Our next experience was to be of one of the most controversial healing practices to be found anywhere in the world: that of psychic surgery. This practice, revered for its successes by the spiritualists and denounced by conventional doctors as giving false hope to people who would be much better off putting their faith in Western medecine, is extremely popular in the Philippines.

I had seen a documentary on TV in the West in which psychic surgery had been proven to be a hoax. When I mentioned this to the owner of the clinic where I had received the sword treatment, he replied that in the whole world there were only about forty genuine psychic surgeons but plenty of people out to make money by faking it.

We were in a tricycle taxi bumping along a small winding street in a poverty stricken part of the Pasay area. The power-dressed, briefcase-clutching businesspeople of Makati were gone, replaced by street vendors, karaoke bars and crowds of children playing in the street. The cries of "hey Joe!" and "Where you going, man?" that had greeted us everywhere in the provinces but had disappeared upon our arrival in Manila were once again all around us. Fifteen minutes after leaving Makati we were already in a different world, one that reminded us of any number of small provincial towns in Palawan, Panay, Negros, Mindanao, Romblon or Mindoro.

The tricycle drew up outside a small church whose wide doors opened onto a street that was buzzing with life. It made me reminiscent of the provinces. Here people knew everyone around them, laughed and joked with one another, watched the newcomers with excited curiosity; in Makati, as in any big, developed place, the huge numbers of people concentrated in one area silenced each other and shut themselves off from anyone they did not already know.

We entered the Church, a modern little affair whose walls were hung end to end with tapestries depicting different saints, and were greeted by a group of spiritual healers who worked there giving free treatment to the poor of the neighbourhood.

"What we do first is a sort of spiritual x-ray on you to find out what you need doing," a woman told us, "then we operate. The healer will collect all the toxins and bad energy in your body together and materialise it into one piece of blood or flesh or something then draw it out of your body."

Lizz went first. It began by an injection from one of the tapestries. A tassel was somehow attached to her arm and prayers said over it by several mumbling voices. Next came the spiritual x-ray; a man stood over her, hands just above her head, muttering prayers for several minutes. He then plucked a hair, put it in a spoon and boiled it over a candle.

At a desk at the front of the church a woman began scribbling down her diagnosis. Behind her stood another, stroking the tassel of another tapestry and making motions with her hands as if to sprinkle the power of the tapestry onto the head and breasts of the one making the diagnosis. When it was finished the woman finished her writing and slumped back in her chair for a moment, seemingly unconscious, before reawakening with a distinctly disorientated look in her eyes. I had the impression that she might be sick at any moment.

Lizz lay down on a table and after a quick massage the surgery began. Several hands were placed on Lizz's stomach and the surgeon himself began shaking and went into trance before he began his work. Then I saw his hands begin to move and blood bubbled up all around. A couple of other people had their hands on her stomach and the skeptic in me felt sure this was to block my line of vision so that I could not see whatever trick it was that they were pulling off. I came in closer, bent down right next to the action and sure enough, as far as I could see, the surgeon's finger was actually inside Lizz's stomach, blood coming up all around it. This went on for a couple of minutes until eventually some evil-looking black material was pulled out along with something that reminded me of the tail of a radioactive worm that had featured in one episode of the X-Files. The operation was finished, blood wiped off her stomach and no scars left to show for it all.

Next it was my turn. Being a smoker, the operation was concentrated more on my lungs than stomach. I lay on the table, received the massage and closed my eyes like I was told. Suddenly there was a burning unlike any sensation I had known before coming from right inside my chest and I could feel the surgeon's fingers inside me. They moved gradually down to my stomach and despite the intensity of the burning that followed them I felt no urge to cry out. It took only a few seconds this time before I felt the fingers squelch out of my belly accompanied by the feeling of something being sucked out from inside me. The surgeon told me to open my eyes; he was holding a tiny, tangled mess of flesh and blood which he quickly placed to one side in a metal bowl.


Could the sword healer somehow have swapped the razor sharp blade we both felt for a blunter weapon just before the ritual? Unlikely but possible. Could it, or what I saw happen to Lizz, have been optical illusions? Most probably they could. Was there some potion they could have rubbed on my skin that made me feel the burning and somehow made it seem like the movement of the surgeon's fingers were inside me while in reality they were on my skin? Possibly. But none of these rational, scientific explanations answer the question of why the healers, who work helping poor people at no profit to themselves, would want to deceive their patients.

"How did you find out about your powers?" I asked the surgeon.

"Everyone has them, but God only tells a very few how to use them," he replied. "It's a gift, not something you can learn."

I, a devout skeptic, left the church confused and unsure what to believe - my own senses or my logical Western mind.

It should be noted that the 'church' here in question is, in all probability, not a Catholic Church, despite what its outward resemblances to one. In many rural areas, especially where deep catechesis has never really penetrated, Catholicism is lived out in the 'samahans'-- brotherhoods or fellowships centered around a particular individual who often claims to have a divine mandate to perform a specific mission for the betterment of the community. These leaders can be male or female; the more radical among them may claim to be an 'incarnation' of Our Lord Himself (if he be a man), or the Blessed Virgin (if the leader be a woman). As is evidenced by the photos in Mr. Vallance's post, the Catholicism of these groups often remain on a very superficial level. However, this does not usually stop even devout Catholics from availing of the 'miracles' peddled by these men and women, especially when desperation sets in.

Rizal's Poltergesit

(I heard this story from a Jesuit professor of mine. I will resume blogging 'regularly' sometime toward the end of Lent; right now, though, school requirements are killing me. I take solace in quirky, curious little anecdotes like this one.)

One of the more curious apocryphal anecdotes about the life of Dr. Jose Rizal, the Philippines' national hero, held that he was tormented by a poltergeist for three days and three nights. The story goes that, upon his exile to the quaint island of Dapitan in Mindanao, Rizal immediately set about to work as an ophthalmologist. There, he shacked up with his Hong Kong raised Irish paramour, the lovely Josephine Bracken. Now, Rizal, like a lot of his fellow illustrados in the Philippine Revolution against Spain, was a Mason. This meant that he could not contract an ecclesiastical marriage with his beloved; but during his entire stay in Dapitan, he considered Josephine as his lawfully wedded wife.

One night, the two awoke to strange noises in the house. Pots and pans were banging, strange whistling sounds howling through the dead of night. Josephine was alarmed, and even Rizal himself was left wondering as to the source of the previous night's strange events. This went on for two more nights, the attacks getting noisier with each passing night. On the fourth day, Rizal resolved to contact the local priest, a Jesuit, indeed, one of his former teachers at the Ateneo. The priest addressed the first question to Josephine: 'Are you an espiritista?'The woman answered in the negative, stating that she had been raised a strict Catholic and had been one all her life; to believe in such things would be superstition. The priest blessed the house, and told Josephine to say some special prayers. This she did, and on the fourth night, they were left in peace.

Somehow, Josephine got wind of the news that her stepfather had died in Hong Kong. This she reported to Rizal; whereupon he, amazed, immediately wrote the local parish priest, thanking him profusely, and ending his letter with the statement: 'Truly there is no greater proof of the immortality of the soul.'

This may seem like a trivial episode in the life of Rizal, but if it were true, then it would have planted the seeds of Rizal's rejection of Masonry at the end of his life. This remains a particularly thorny issue today, with nationalistic and anti-clerical historians claiming that he never recanted. The Jesuits of his alma mater, on the other hand, are certain that he rejected Masonry, and that he had confessed three times and received Holy Communion most devoutly on the eve of his execution. I believe that he rejected Masonry, if only because he never seemed to doubt the existence and providence of a personal God, even in his time as a Mason. Fr. Javier de Pedro argues very eloquently for the retraction of Rizal in his excellent book 'Rizal Through the Glass Darkly'; do check it out if you can.

Prayers for Amiel Alcantara

I couldn't sleep last night.

Julian Carlo Miguel 'Amiel' Alcantara was a ten year old student in the fourth grade at the Ateneo de Manila grade school. On Tuesday, as he was crossing the street to get to his car, he was bit by a van and crushed between two cars. The impact was so strong that the can further collided with three vehicles before coming to a stop. Little Amiel was hit and run over, his head pinned beneath the wheel. His 65 year old nanny also suffered serious injuries. She tried to push the boy away from the careening car but they were too far from each other. The really heartbreaking part was that it was his 13 year old brother and his driver who had to extricate his body from underneath the car. He was rushed to the hospital, but died in his brother's arms an hour after the accident.

Read the full story here and here.

I am really shocked and distraught. Reports are saying that the driver of the van, herself a mother, might have stepped on the wrong pedal. I can't help but feel for her, too, since it is her children who will undoubtedly carry the shame of having a mother for a killer for the rest of their lives, accident or not. And pray, pray, pray for Amiel's family, that they will have the strength to bear this cross.

According to a statement from his father, Amiel Alcantara was a very studious son, who liked to swim (he had apparently swam in the lake in Taal Volcano)and was a member of the Boy Scouts. Let us pray that such a senseless tragedy may never happen again. What a sad, sad event.

Oh. Em. Gee.

Mortify yourselves with this.

The Descent from the Cross

I found these two pictures on the Life archives on Google. They depict a paraliturgical rite of taking the effigy of Our Lord from the Cross. I remember reading about this in a book-- at the 12th station of the Via Crucis, the Franciscans process into the Greek Orthodox chapel bearing the Cross, and vested as if for Mass. Gradually they remove the vestments and the ritual climaxes in the image of the dead Christ being wrapped in an altar cloth (I think) and taken into repose. I'm not really a liturgics geek so I would welcome any and all corrections about what I have posted.

Worshipping in Style at the Old Sto. Domingo Church

This account came from an American tourist to the Philippines, a certain George A. Miller, in the country's American colonial heyday. The book he wrote, 'Interesting Manila', chronicled the life and times of the City as it was before the traumatic destruction of World War II. Here he describes a scene from the pre-war, Neo-Gothic masterpiece that was the Santo Domingo church, home of the beloved and revered image of Our Lady of the Most Holy Rosary, and often cited as one of the grandest-- if not the grandest-- church in all of Manila.

The Church:

One of the most impressive and interesting of all the Manila churches is old Santo Domingo. The exterior with its embattled towers and climbing buttresses is stately and massive. The view from the Ayuntamiento is striking, and the old Gothic windows of the semicircular apsis have a strong ecclesiastical flavor.

If there were nothing of Santo Domingo but its doors it would still be worth going to see. The interior is Gothic, being the only example of the kind in the city, and with its beautiful marble bases and altar steps, its choir and altar railings of worked brass, its colored glass and curved pulpit(said to have cost four thousand pesos), it readily weaves a spell of magic over the beholder. Its sacristy contains many objects of beauty and interest and the mellow tinge of time lends a halo to the whole pile.

My first experience in a Manila church was at High Mass in Santo Domingo at the early hour. There were sixteen hundred candles shining in the gloom of the old sanctuary, and a thousand worshipers were kneeling on the polished floor. Among the high arches gathered the smoke of the incense, and way up in the dome the morning sun streamed red and gold through the colored glass.

The chanting of the priest reverberated through the aisle like the noise of a cataract, and the answer of the prostrate people was like the murmur of many waters upon the sand. Then the great organ with its thundering reeds made the old pile ring and shout like some strong giant in sport, and in the succeeding silence the people waited in awe for what might follow. What did follow was the chanting of the boy's choir without accompaniment, and the effect from the high gallery was as if the voices came from everywhere, the very stones had suddenly become vocal and joined in the acclamation.

At last it was over, and the multitude filed slowly out past the great marble basons, and there remained only the flickering candles, the fragrant incense, the glittering altar and the slanting sun-beams of orange and purple. What a place for reverie, what a spot for romance! What shades of the forgotten past knelt behind the "dusty" images, and hovered among the pointed arches!

With all its painted pillars and glaring colors the old church has a fascination about its rich tone and its gothic lines that holds one, Whatever it may be, it is a church, and it weaves over the visitor the spell of the old gothic motive, that insistent pointing upward that lifts men's heart to the sky.

The Pipe Organ:

The guardian of each church are liberal in their praises of of their particular organ, as is natural. Perhaps the best organ in the city is the one in Santo Domingo. It contains a fine "double open diapason" on the pedals with the longest pipe reaching up eighteen feet above the floor. Like all the old organs it is rich in reeds and the full organ is something terrifying in the empty church. The European plan of placing the heavy reeds in a horizontal row just above the player's head has the advantage of getting the most noise out of a given number of pipes, but it must be a boiler-factory experience for the organist. The organ referred to contains some dozen stops on each manual and has three or four "mixtures." Rough as the effect may be, when the full organ is used as support for forte passages with full choir, the result is impressive and has a tonal dignity that can not be disregarded. What such effects must be upon the native worshiper, with his susceptibility to impressions alike of sights and sound, may be better imagined than discribed.


The Bells:

A good story might be found in almost any of these places if the bells could speak that which they have seen, and therefore should know, but while bells are talkative enough, they have discreet tongues and tell no tales exept those they are hidden by their lords and masters. Now bells are doubtful members of the family of music makers, and Manila bells, as they are hung and rung, have little claim to anything except discord and crashing noise. Cowper sang of the soft music of village bells that fell at intervals on the ear in cadence sweet, but evidently he had never been in Manila at six o'clock p.m. There are half a dozen really fine bells in the city but they are never heard to advantage, because of the impertinent raps and clatter of the small fry that clang simultaneously and incessantly whenever their elders essay to speak. The largest bell is in the tower of Santo Domingo, and, being too big to swing, is rang with a hammer. If properly struck its tone is rich and full, but is rarely heard.

The destruction of Intramuros eradicated a large part of Manila's Catholic patrimony. An anecdote about the post-war Dominicans, who were discussing plans to build a new Shrine out of the confines of Old Manila, said that they wanted absolutely no reminder of the past, save for the image of the Virgin. The present day Santo Domingo church in Quezon City, while beautiful, simply cannot hold a candle next to its much lamented predecessor.

Ruins of the Franciscan Church, Intramuros

One of the greatest losses brought about by the War was the destruction of Intramuros and its seven great churches. Today, only San Agustin, the oldest, survives-- the neo-classical San Ignacio, and the neo-Gothic Santo Domingo, among others, are now no more than memories. Up until the American colonial rule, Intramuros retained an air of mystique that was nothing short of medieval, with purple and black clad penitent women wandering about at any given time, the sonorous tolling of bells announcing the time, the multitude of lights and flowers that flooded the streets in any major procession. I would have loved to have spent even a day in it.

Akira Ifukube - Prayer for Peace

Ifukube wrote this piece for the first Godzilla movie, 'Gojira', in 1954. Whoeever said that monster movies are all bad should definitely see this movie-- there is stark poetry and somber grit in it that rival even Kurosawa's work (Ishiro Honda, who directed the film, was Kurosawa's best friend in real life). In the movie, this haunting tune was instrumental in Dr. Serizawa's decision to use the Oxygen Destroyer against Godzilla, and his ultimate, tragic death by his own hands to seal the secrets of his most terrible invention. The movie has definitely lef its mark on me.

La Muerte

In the town of Daet, Camarines Norte, the Good Friday procession is led by this image of La Muerte. I have, sadly, no further information at this point regarding the origin, age, or provenance of the image, or if its 'cultus'. Suffice to say, I am intrigued. I would venture a guess and say that this was probably a Mexican influence-- the style and iconic representation certainly reminds me of the celebration of the Dia de Los Muertos.

The Finding of the Sto. Nino

When Miguel Lopez de Legazpi arrived in Cebu on 13 February 1565, he was greeted by fear and hostility by the natives-- a fact which his companion, the explorer turned Augustinian monk Fr. Andres de Urdaneta, duly noted. Urdaneta had been a companion to Magellan on his first voyage to find the fabled Spice Islands, but who had subsequently discovered the Philippines today. Being able to speak Malayan, which evidence would show has striking similarities to Cebuano, he was able to deduce the reason for the hostility that now greeted them, whereas Magellan, when he first arrived more than forty years before, had been met favorably.

From a Muslim trader, he learned that a pack of Portuguese traders had come to Cebu, announcing themselves as the Spaniards who had befriended their forefathers years past. However, the true intent of the Portuguese party was to sow the seeds of discord among the Cebuanos and the Spaniards; they killed many people and kidnapped more, selling them in the slave markets presumably. For Legzpi, the fact that some of the Cebuano chiefs had been baptized earlier enforced a sort of moral obligation on him to see to the well-being of their faith; he also knew that he had to disabuse them of their errors.

Easter Sunday, 21 March 1565, saw Legzpi sailing to Cebu to set the record straight. Three times did they assure the Cebuanos of their peaceful intent. On the third try, Legazpi, still met with a fierce hostility, reluctantly agreed to use his cannons. The Cebuanos fleed from the superior weapon, but not before burning their settlement to the ground in an effort to starve off the Spaniards. And so one morning found the Vizcayan Juan de Camus loitering on the beach, to see what little of the burnt village he could salvage."

"While sacking, then, the Cebuano houses their owners had abandoned and had been spared from the conflagration, a sailor of the flagship-- called Juan de Camus, but by others "de Bermeo" since he came from this place in Vizcaya-- and a companion named Pedro de Alorza from the same ship, were doing the usual soldiers' thing."

"Camus entered a native chief's hut and found two bundles tied up (doubtless to bring them with their clothes on fleeing to the mountain). He opened one of them and found only a boar's tooth and a large cup. Hoping to satisfy his wats, he went farther inside the house and found another case tied with Castilian cord and abaca string. Surprised by its weight, he broke the strings, and opening the case, there inside, he found arranged in a pine box (a wood not found in these islands), a statue of the Child Jesus."

"Totally surprised, as though beside himself, he went out joyfully because of his find, in bad Castilian, since he was a Vizcayan, "For the body of God, Son of Mary, you have found!" Everyone crowded inside the house and the General, on his knees, tears in his eyes, and with acts of special devotion, venerated it. These were joined by those men from the fleet. Everyone admitted that God was rewarding the General's constant devotion to the Holy Name and his burning zeal with which he was undertaking a temporal conquest that would result in the spiritual conquest of such a multitude of souls!"

In due time, the Spaniards held a most solemn procession in honor of the Child, before celebrating the Holy Mass. They transferred the image of the Senor to a provisional shrine, the first Catholic house of worship in the entire Philippine archipelago. However, the biggest surprise came when two Cebuano chiefs and a retinue of about thirty followers were seen observing the pomp and majesty of the liturgy.

To the Spaniards' shock, upon interrogation, the Cebuanos had claimed that they had venerated the Sto. Nino since time immemorial, even calling it 'their god'. They claimed He was a powerful rain god whom they honored with feasting and dancing. And when He failed to deliver on His promises, they would take the image out of its case, and place it on a decorated altar before singing prayers and religious hymns to it. When that failed, however, and the rains still would not come, they would take the Nino by the sea, and stripping it of its garments, they would submerge Him upside down in the water and hold Him there until the rains fell. They gave Legazpi and his men the assurance that this has never been known to fail.

In Keeping With the Theme...

"Utang na Loob"

The cursory traveler will note that the common thread binding the peoples of Southeast Asia is the concept of smooth interpersonal relationships. Described as a way of maintaining harmony and conflict-avoidance, SIRs are central to the Southeast Asian understanding of community and kinship ties. In the Philippines, the concept of 'utang na loob' (debt of gratitude)is intrinsically connected to maintaining harmonious relationships. But utang na loob transcends the petty legal outlines of an ordinary debt; rather, his desire to maintain harmony will push the Filipino to view reciprocity to a favor granted him as a moral debt.

One thing I've noticed about the many flagellants and penitents who crowd the streets of Manila and its neighboring provinces during the Lenten season -- and more specifically, Holy Week -- is that they view their panata (i.e., religious vow) almost as a moral obligation. Failure to fulfill the panata almost always means bad luck and sparse blessings for the year ahead. Thus, the men and women who vow to 'serve' the Lord in some way or another are, in a way, paying a debt. But deeper than this goes the concept of utang na loob. One thing that always impressed me with the character of the penitents is that very few of them, if any, have a victim complex. They go about their rituals and penitence of their complete and utter accord, knowing full well the the dangers of the activities they are about to enter.

Contrary to popular opinion, the Philippine concept of penitence is not confined exclusively to crucifixion and flagellation (although these are probably the most prevalent, especially the latter). There is the tinunggong of Laguna, where boys as young as ten roll sideways on the barren ground on the way to church; another province has a peculiar tradition of macho men donning grass skirts and headdresses, thereby humiliating themselves by dressing up as women. But how does one explain the popularity of such an extreme practice as self-flagellation, let alone crucifixion? Is fanaticism, then, never far off from the practice of religion?

Here is where the concept of utang na loob comes into play, I think. Through their extreme, almost gruesome acts of penitence, the penitent is symbolically repaying his gratitude to the Crucified; by taking on the same sufferings as his Patron, he is reciprocating that which can never be truly reciprocated, namely, the salvific death of Christ. He thus sees his act of mortification as an act of thanksgiving, even an act of love, offered to God. In other words, the concept of mortification and penitence has been 'recast' in the Philippine context to include the dimension of thanksgiving.

But the analysis does not end here. If it is true that utang na loob is a necessary tool by which one maintains a smooth personal relationship with a kin-group, then it must be the case that extreme acts of mortification are also a way of maintaining one's favor in the eyes of God. Call it 'palakasan', which is a Tagalog concept that basically means 'a test of one's influence'. The penitent also symbolically opens up and extends his kin-group to the Divine, and thus, God and His favor are 'assimilated' into one's sphere (which is defined by the aforementioned kin-group). Thus we see how these acts of penitence can theoretically bring about blessings and graces to one who 'co-suffers' (as I once heard from a Jesuit) with the Lord, and by extension, his family.

To be honest, of the penitents who go to extreme lengths to secure God's favor, many, for the most part, are unchurched. It is not uncommon to hear of a devout 'Kristo' willing to be crucified for ten, fifteen years straight but who only goes to Mass once a year, or one who crawls on his belly to church while being beaten with sticks who keeps three to five mistresses simultaneously. Yes, they are bad Catholics, hence they make up for it, for that nagging blight on their conscience, by reciprocating the sacrifice of Christ in their own little way. It is naive thinking at best, and perhaps sloppy at worst; but spiritual progress is often slow and ponderous, and I would not be so quick to discard this ethic.

A person who keeps on receiving favors but does not reciprocate is the worst kind of person in traditional Philippine society. He does not recognize the gravity and the extent of his benefactor's favors, and thus, separates himself from his kin group. Consequently, because he is 'walang utang na loob' (absence of debt of gratitude), he cannot, should not, expect to be blessed forever. He is essentially taking on the characteristic of absolute and utter self-sufficiency-- the greatest act of pride that man can commit. There is a remarkable profundity and truth to this; for the man who does not need a kin-group is essentially saying that he does not desire to be with the whole company of the Church, whether her members still fighting the good fight, or those who now reside in eternal beatitude and glory.

The concept of utang na loob reveals the surprising level of just how incultrated the Faith has been cultivated in Philippine soil. It is virtually impossible now to think of Catholicism in these islands without the concept of penitence. But what is truly unique is how penitence itself has been redefined as an act of thanksgiving, and ultimately, an act of love. Tunay nga na nakaluluwag ng loob (It is truly enriching for the inner self).

Lord of the Poor

Friday, Jaunuary 9th -- otherwise known as the Feast of the Black Nazarene here in the Philippines -- has come and gone, but the excitement and fear and fervor of that day are still fresh with me. This year, the authorities are reporting that as much as 3.2 million people joined the five kilometer long procession, which took nearly thirteen hours to conclude. As in years past, the sheer devotion and spectacle of that day took on an earth-shattering intensity, as the never-ending sea of devotees ran to the much venerated image, jumping at the carroza and wiping the limbs, face, and cross of the Lord in the hope of securing a better future for this year.

I guess it is the greatest blessing of God that I have never had to attend a procession like the Black Nazarene's; my own life, though not perfect, is ultimately far better than the millions of the poor and destitute in this country who struggle to eke out a living amidst all the corruption and scandal. I have written enough about the procession last year to paint a picture of the devotees: they are mostly male, ranging from pre-pubescent teens to grizzled adults, and mostly poor. But one of the greatest miracles of the Nazarene is its bridging of that yawning chasm that separates wealthy and destitute in the developing world-- there are, too, wealthy devotees, politicians, businessmen, even doctors praying for a miracle of their own. They come to that throbbing, engorged artery that is Quiapo, heart of Manila, dressed in scarlets and yellows, barefoot, dirty, grimy, but animated by a divine zeal bordering on fanaticism.

The stories of the devotees' private miracles, in contrast, are mundane, boring, perhaps even considered totally ordinary by the educated; they range from being able to send sons and daughters to school, landing a rank-and-file job, even having enough food to survive on for the previous year. But poverty is often the greatest motivating force behind man's reasoning, and these people believe, even in the deepest pits of their quivering guts, that it is through the Lord's mercy and beneficence that their life hinges on. It is a sobering, humbling thought, at once deeply inspiring and offensive to our burgeoning pride. The urbane, especially, find it ludicrous that a 400 year old burnt statue could dispense miracles, grace, and blessings from merely being wiped by a towel, almost as if it were a soda machine.

But these condescensions are only possible because we have never had to suffer the thought of our children dying in our arms because we could not provide them with a meal, because we have always taken our menial jobs for granted, because we have our own rooms and homes and do not sleep in ten-to-a-bed tenements and hovels , because we have all the comforts of the middle class and suburbia. But even a cursory look outside our comfort zones will show that the world is far from perfect, a vastly different world from the postcard-perfect homes of smiling housewives and SUV-driving teens-- the real and unattainable pipe dreams of the rest of the world. It is the educated, the urbane, the pleasant who are different.

Perhaps I am being jaded, but I am no longer surprised by the number of people joining the procession of the Black Nazarene; granted, three million people is a large number anywhere in the world, and it definitely attests to the continuing faith and devotion of the Filipino people to a the God of a transplanted religion, and really its ways and culture. But with the number of the poor rising every year, and especially because of the global recession which hovers like a cloud on the mythical, indestructible cities of the First World (and by osmosis, the developing world), I can see why and how Faith is becoming more and more important-- so important, that many are at a crossroads whether one should continue persevering in it, or discard it completely. In many ways, this country is still a Catholic country, but the situation is by no means perfect. For example, there are 3,000 priests at best in the Philippines serviving 70+ million souls. That the West thinks that the Third World will be the salvation of the Church is optimistic at best, but the reality is far from ideal (something which Arturo also touches on in this post).

In the Feast of the Black Nazarene, is is said, there is neither rich nor poor, only the destitute. The housewife struggling to raise her rebellious children, the jeepney driver trying to kick his drug habit, the banker trying to break off his multiple extramarital affairs, and the policeman torn whether to to work within the framework of the law or take justice in his own hands are just some of the devotees of the Suffering Lord. In the procession, they bring to him their cares and worries, hatreds, problems, and sins, hoping they could at least earn their redemption by joining the unending, undulating sea of people who push, jostle, and shove in the hopes of attaining the same thing. But rather than scoff at the perceived hypocrisy of the sinners who make the Lord their patron, the depths of the mercy and love of God are, to me, revealed; for He too grew and lived in the same conditions, amidst the dregs of humanity and the most hardened of sinners. It is perhaps the greatest meditation on the limitless love of God, and it rightfully brings a chill down my spine just thinking about it. Sometimes, we need to remember that we are sinners in order to realize the obvious-- that God loves us, and that He died for us. It really is that simple. It is really that profound.

Evil exists in this world, whether we like it or not. We can try to avoid it by building walls of comfort and pleasantness all around us, but this only mutes, and does not eliminate, the fact that the world is awash in the filth and scum of our own doing. And as long as poverty, hunger, sin and death exist, man will always try to find a way to escape it. Perhaps the greatest sin of suburbia is that good and evil do not exist in its worldview; there is only comfort, complacency, and gratification (have you ever seen an episode of 'My Super Sweet Sixteen'?). We are the very lukewarm which Our Lord condemns in the strongest terms. Many people today condemn the failures of religion as ritual-wrapped-redemption; they sneer at it, telling the 'poor, ignorant' religionists to go on and live their lives as they please. But for most of us, survival is far more pertinent than worrying about closet space for the newest designer clothes.

Hours before the grand procession ended, the news showed a clip of a woman in her late 70s, dressed in the scarlet of the Nazarene's devotees and a gigantic white veil, hobbling toward the image in the mere hope of seeing it. Her face was scarred and pitted by years of disease, her small, gaunt frame clearly ravaged by the vicissitudes of age and countless concerns. But the woman smiled, and I saw in her smile the same gratitude of relief and thanksgiving that must have characterized the faces of the womanizers, drunkards, pimps, and criminals who seek forgiveness and redemption in the procession. And they will continue to troop to the suffering Christ, even as their souls are caked in sin, because of their immutable faith that, there is, in the end, a loving God Who understands them. I thank God for blessing me and my family with a prosperous life; I thank God, too, that He has made me see his goodness and love.

Adios, Reina del Cielo

This hymn is traditionally sung by pilgrims after a visit to an image of the Blessed Virgin Mary, in the Philippines as in the rest of the Spanish-colonized world. This particular version is sung in honor of Our Lady of the Most Holy Rosary-- or as she is more popularly known in these parts, Nuestra Senora de La Naval. The Tiples de Sto, Domingo, the resident boys' choir of Sto. Domingo church, the Dominican mother church in the Philippines, is responsible for this recording. Posted after the video are the lyrics, in Spanish, largely unchanged from the original.



Adiós, Reina del Cielo, Madre, Madre del Salvador
Adiós, adiós
Adiós, dulce prenda adorada
dulce prenda adorada
de mi sincero amor
adiós, Reina del Cielo, adiós, adiós
Madre del Salvador
De tu divino rostro la belleza al dejar.
Permiteme que vuelva tus plantas a besar;
He que da do O María, abrasado en tu amor
Que da te adiós Señora, adiós, adiós
Da me tu bendición, Madre del Salvador
Dame tu bendición, Madrel del Salvador
Madre amorosa prenda de amor
Adiós, adiós

Puer Natus Est Nobis, Et Filius Datus Est Nobis

Glória in excélsis Deo
Et in terra pax homínibus bonae voluntátis!
Laudámus te,
Benedícimus te,
Adorámus te,
Glorificámus te,
Grátias ágimus tibi propter magnam glóriam tuam,
Dómine Deus, Rex cæléstis,
Deus Pater omnípotens.
Dómine Fili Unigénite, Iesu Christe,
Dómine Deus, Agnus Dei, Fílius Patris,
Qui tollis peccáta mundi, miserére nobis;
Qui tollis peccáta mundi, súscipe deprecatiónem nostram.
Qui sedes ad déxteram Patris, miserére nobis.
Quóniam tu solus Sanctus, tu solus Dóminus, tu solus Altíssimus,
Iesu Christe, cum Sancto Spíritu: in glória Dei Patris. Amen

A merry and blessed Christmas to all! May the good Lord bless you and yours in the year to come, and may the peace of the Christ Child abide in you all the days of your lives.

Himno Oficial del Primer Congreso Eucaristico de Filipinas

I borrowed this book from the library about the 1937 International Eucharistic Congress in Manila, Philippines. The event, the first in Asia, gathered personalities ecclesiastical and civil from all over the country, and also from Rome. Then Archbishop of Manila, the indefatigable Irishman His Excellency Michael J. O'Doherty, would lead the nation in giving thanks to the Almighty for this illustrious privilege. Attached to this post are scans of the score of the official hymn of that Congress, written in Spanish.