Pinoy Piety: Highlights of My Holy Week

A penitent on Good Friday, along a national road in Pampanga.

It started with the Pabasa. I kept hearing the Pasyon being chanted in unexpected places.  Holy Wednedsay. I was at the Makati City Hall applying for a Business Permit, and as I made my way to the City Engineer's office, I could hear the unmistakable melody, a chorus of women singing, answered by a chorus of men, alternating in their delivery of the verses.  The sound wafted through the stairwell, coming from a few stories down. I skipped the elevator, and took the stairs, following the enchanting sound... and there they were, City Hall employees, appropriating office space (and work time), to fulfill a sacred vow to honor Christ.  Makati's Municipal Government takes pride in running the most professional of City Halls, and in many ways the City Hall has indeed clothed itself in convincing corporate garb - looking and feeling ever so efficiently run. On Holy Week, however, the veneer of professionalism gives way to a persistent piety so deeply rooted, it surfaces spontaneously in every available space.  This was my experience of Holy Week last week. I saw everyday spaces being made sacred by collective acts of sacrifice.  Everywhere I looked, I saw ordinary Pinoys  performing acts of devotion. And it touched me, to the core, and led me to prayer.

Makati City Hall employees turned an office hallway into a "backyard Pabasa"

Maundy Thursday. Oliver and I invited his family to join us for the traditional Visita Iglesia. We had an epic journey planned for the night, a pilgrimage to the most visited, and most loved churches of Manila: Baclaran, Malate Church, Binondo, Quaipo, San Sebastian, San Beda,  - and the relatively new church where we got married and started our Christian family, The National Shrine of St. Therese.  But even before we embarked on our official Visita (which involves visiting 7 churches), Oliver and I took our kids to a few other churches ahead.  It felt a bit like "holy cheating", like dipping your finger for a dollop of icing before the cake is served.  I felt like we were visiting churches too early, before the "right" time sanctioned by tradition.  It was good to take our little baby boy to churches early in the afternoon, way before the crowds swelled to impossible proportions.

We stopped at the convent of the Pink Sisters along 11th Street in New Manila. And a wave of nostalgia swept through me. I used to live on 11th Street, and this was where my mother often came to pray for big petitions - the kind that the were too big for a simple rosary at home.  From martial law in the 70s to coup d'etats in the 80s, to calamities in the 90s, this was where we went to pray for our country.  Just watching the backs of the contemplative nuns while they prayed was enough to inspire me to want to pray better. How instructive they were in their stillness.  I understand why our country's leaders choose to come here for discernment in tumultuous times.

Contemplative pink sisters "behind bars" where they can pray in peace.

We also visited Mt. Carmel church, and its hall of saints. I visited my patron saint, St. Anne, mother of Mary, and the patron of Mothers. I am one of those Filipinos with a legal name in my birth certificate (Nikki) that is different from my Christian name in my baptismal certificate (Nikki Ann). Oh my, these two identities gave me problems when I was applying for a marriage license with the City Hall using my legal name, and my church required that I use my Christian name for the papers to be signed in church.  Long story made short, I had to drop my Christian name "Ann"(and the priest gave me hell for doing that), so I am now just "Nikki" legally and officially. In spirit though, I will always be Nikki Ann, and I never will never stop praying to my patron saint, more so now, that I am a mother myself.

I brought my daughter, Narra Teresa, to the image of her patron St. Therese; and I also said a special prayer for my son Guijo (Guillermo Jose), in front of his patron St. Joseph.  I felt like I was visiting family, and introducing my children to them. Psychologically, Mt. Carmel was once "home", it was our family's parish church throughout my childhood years.  Visita Iglesia gave me the opportunity to touch base, and regain my bearings.

The image of St. Anne, patron of Mothers, my patron saint.

Later that evening, we went to Baclaran with Narra (we left baby Guijo), and caught the solemn procession as the Blessed Sacrament was exposed. Thousands of people were there, on their knees.  I was surprised to see so many flat LCD screens mounted on the church's posts.  Apparently, it's been a while since I was last here. My mother has prayed here in the "prescribed" way of the folk a few times, making her way down the aisle from door to altar on her knees,  as is the custom.  I even joined her once, though I forget now what it was that we were praying for.  Baclaran church encourages a kind of piety different from what one observes at the Pink sister's convent where the pious seem to solemnly surrender their troubles and their will... there is an air of acceptance, and quiet contemplation of God's will.  In Baclaran, prayers are muttered with urgency, with faces scrunched up in earnest, in heartfelt supplication that God may grant what is so fervently requested.   

Procession of the exposed Blessed Sacrament, Baclaran church.

The separate building outside the church dedicated for candles offered to Our Lady of Perpetual Help is one clear indication of Baclaran's special place in people's minds. It is a church where intercessory prayers are deemed even more efficacious.  I felt all sorts of heat inside that building. Physical heat from the flames from so many candles; Human heat from too many people converging in the same place; and the heat of burning faith.  If lukewarmness is the work of the devil, then he's nowhere to be found in Baclaran where even silent prayers are rendered audible by transparent gestures and postures. People touch the images of saints with hands that are heavy with hope; they bow their heads and close their eyes, as though to beg; Everything about their stance screams "please, please, please, Oh Lord, please". Empowered by such fervor, I found myself doing the same, scrunching up my face, and with eyes closed, I too, said my own desperate "please, please, please, O Lord, please".  We had Narra with us in Baclaran, but she fell asleep. Oliver and I took turns carrying her, and it was a welcome burden. Bearing her weight added a sense of sacrifice to our trip.

The annex outside Baclaran church (a view of one side of the long room)

Later, even after Narra woke up, we still ended carrying her most of the time.  The task of getting from Point A to B had become more difficult as we ventured deeper into the heart of Manila, and deeper into the night. We went to that beautiful old church in Binondo, at the end of Ongpin street in Chinatown.  There was a sea of humanity inside the church, a sea fed by several rivers flowing from various directions. It is funny how this makes a lot of sense to me - having this much people in this place - after all, this is Divisoria country, the heart of commerce, where every day is a "crazy sale day".  I found the church "abuzz"...I could still hear the buzz in my head as I write this... the noisy, active, energetic bustle of a busy, excited crowd.  I had a prayer book in my hand, and I strained to hear myself pray. I imagined myself shouting inside my head so I could hear my own prayer, that's how noisy it was.  

Beautiful Binondo church, abuzz with activity.

The church in Binondo is plugged into a network of historic churches in close proximity, which pilgrims can easily navigate by foot.  You can tell by the choreography of the crowd, that they are here by habit, following a sacred sequence to fulfill their panata, or devotional vow.  We didn't have a specific sequence in mind - we just followed the herd - and found our way without having to use our GPS or google maps. We just went were the people were... which meant ending up in Quiapo. Here, I felt something different. Yes, it was also crowded, and frenzied - but it was also Christ-centered, most especially on Christ's suffering. You could tell that Quiapo church was home of the Black Nazarene. The devotees here exhibit a certain sturdiness and propensity for physical hardship and suffering. If, in most churches, people walk to the altar - here I saw people kneeling, and even laboriously crawling on the ground;  We saw pilgrims who walked the streets barefooted, from great distances - and on grimy Manila pavements too! We saw groups of people wearing special edition t-shirts, some were really cool, with graphic art featuring Jesus (one striking design had the word "Saved" written on the back; with an artistically rendered and powerfully moving image of Jesus in the front).  In Quiapo church, I felt solidarity with Jesus - I saw people participating in his struggle for our salvation - there were many acts of sacrifice and suffering.  There was an air of remorse and repentance that was distinctly peculiar to Quiapo church.

A penitent, crawling on the ground, with kneeling companions.

From Quiapo, we headed to gothic San Sebastian, which loomed large in the distance as we approached it by foot. The glorious architecture outside, was echoed inside, as the crystal chandeliers, the shiny altar, and vaulted ceiling inspired awe.  From the depths of suffering in Quiapo church, I felt my spirit soar in San Sebastian.  Narra looked like she entered a castle.  There was an image of Christ with his crown of thorns, and it seemed to me, to look like a triumphant Christ, the Redeemer and Savior.  The church was of course, full to capacity, but there were no devotees kneeling their way to the altar here.  The vibe here, is very different, almost glorious.

Narra and I outside San Sebastian church, enjoying its Gothic facade.

Inside San Sebastian, the chandeliers and altar, lit up.

From San Sebastian, we proceeded to San Beda. It was our last stop for the night, and by then, our night was reaching its climax. The street leading up to San Beda was completely blocked for vehicles and completely dedicated to pedestrians.  The vibe was exuberant!  There were groups of youth cheering!...and dancing! as they made their way to the beautiful church in San Beda. There were  vendors selling tempting treats (all of us in our group noticed the "crispy chicken skin chicharon" cart parked right by the entrance).  It was our last church for the night, and we were happy to have completed our task of visiting 7 churches. 

A gay bunch heading happily towards San Beda, with cheering and dancing!

The beautifully decorated ceiling inside San Beda church.

We ended our prayers before the stroke of midnight. Narra, who was sleepy and lethargic earlier that night, was recharged by the energy in San Beda. It was a peculiarly fitting way to end a rewarding journey through Manila's classic Visita Iglesia trail.  I was happy to expose Narra to her cultural heritage. I was very satisfied with what we saw on Maundy Thursday. 

Narra and Oliver, at the end of our Visita Iglesia. San Beda.

Little did I know, that there was more to see on Good Friday. We had a trip to Pampanga, planned out. A not-so-religious vacation at Fontana Leisure Parks and Casino. On our way there, we saw so many penitents along the road: flagellants with bloody backs; and "Christs" carrying their crosses, on their way to being crucified.  We ended up spending the afternoon watching The Passion of Christ. Even though we all knew the story, we were still glued to the screen, wincing in pain, and looking away when we couldn't bear to see Jesus suffer some more.  This made me think of the penitents we saw on the road, who partake of Christ's suffering by subjecting themselves to physical pain.

A penitent's bloody back from flagellation.

It didn't seem to me as though there was a lot of pageantry and fanfare, or spectacle - nope.  With or without an audience the penitents were performing a sacred vow, an act of devotion, a personal panata offered to God.  I was moved by their sacrifice.  I have seen documentaries on television painting our practices in an unflattering light, as a form of juvenile fanaticism, a folk Catholic practice on the brink of being a vice, rather than a virtue. I know that most of these traditions and devotions are outside the Liturgy; but they are commendable in cementing our piety, in leading us to deep prayer, and in keeping our church animated with a burning exuberance.

Good Friday, on the way to the "Crucifixion", as the clock approaches 3 pm

I have dreams for my children, that they will grow up steadfast in faith, and rooted in their Pinoy culture.  I don't think it will be hard to achieve this.  I am sure they will learn proper doctrine and practice from Religion teachers in Catholic school; and they will learn folk beliefs and practices from the streets.  Pinoy piety is alive and well, and thrives everywhere, inside and outside churches, vibrant and ever so relevant.