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.

Admiring a National Cultural Treasure in Boljoon

Alex, Jay, and I admiring the carved facade and bell tower of Boljoon church.

One of the occupational hazards of motherhood is the high probability of being afflicted with the treacherous disease of myopia. The tendency to hyper focus on our children's welfare is ever present as the home becomes our world and we become consumed with domestic dilemmas.  This weekend, we took an energizing trip to Cebu and I saw the big picture again. What a relief it was to  view the world from a wide-angled lens.  We spent the weekend exploring an island and swimming with whale sharks, and on our way home, we stopped by the picturesque town of Boljoon, along the coast, to admire the town's national cultural treasure, its lovely stone church, which is the oldest of its kind in Cebu. I saw in the church's facade, the coming together of worlds - architectural influences from Europe, filtered through the Americas, combined with Asian flavor.  This building tells a story of confluence - it tells the history of our nation, and our identity as a people. We see a bit of Spain, and a bit of Mexico...and a bit of China - and a lot of Cebu. Our travel companion, Alex, points out a pair of lions carved into the stone, on the base of the entrance arch, on either side of the church doors - a traditional feature in Chinese architecture.  The church's bell tower looks like the  church steeple in some little Mexican pueblo wearing a Chinese pagoda-like roof on its head.  

The painted ceiling and steel beams over the church's nave.

Inside, the nave is long and grand, with a beautifully painted ceiling running its entire length. The building has been retrofitted with steel beams to hold the structure in place. It borrows a lot from Europe, and yet, it holds its own distinct personality as a church from our side of the world - it shows in the local materials used - coral stone walls, lumber from our native trees - the church offers a strong sense of place - we are here in the islands. It is a place of worship, but also built for defense - a fortress of sorts, to protect the townspeople from Moro raids. The belfry is at the same time a watch tower. The church is poised, facing the sea, like a rook in a game of chess, standing guard. 

St. Michael the Archangel facing the sea.

That the church is ever prepared for battle is seen in the choice of a warrior saint on the entrance arch. I could almost hear the fervent recitation of the powerful prayer for protection against strong adversaries: "St. Michael the Archangel defend us in battle...". I recite this prayer countless times myself, when I am alone with my children and the dogs howl in the middle of the night.

The main altar.

In keeping with folk tradition when visiting a church for the first time, I approached the altar to ask for three wishes. I stared at the old santos and imagined the countless petitions surrendered at their feet  through the centuries.  These statues are not just statues - they are not merely inanimate objects or symbols of faith - they are alive and infused with a spirit force fueled by the people's belief in their intercessory power. I prayed for health - my children's, my husband's, my parents', my own - and that of my career's. I can pray for these things anywhere else, in front of my own altar at home, or at any of the usual churches I visit for Sunday mass. But I wanted to leave my prayer here, in this potent place. An old church always feels more efficacious to me, because I feel as though I am tapping into a collective prayer that has gained momentum through many generations.  

The choir loft, adorned with elaborate wooden cut-outs. 

Outside, next to the church, is a striking building made of stone and wood. It is marked thus: Escuela Catolica on top, with the year 1940 inscribed above the entrance door on the ground floor. As we posed for a photo on the front steps, we could hear a haunting rendition of the song "Yaweh I know you are near" being sung by unseen old women hidden somewhere inside the old building.  Each note seemed to drag a tad bit longer than prescribed, with superfluous trills and vibratos, giving the song a chant-like quality, akin to the delivery of the pasyon. Their singing makes the familiar song sound foreign to me, even if I know the song by heart.  I am amazed at how a modern song in English is made to sound like a melody that harks back to Spanish times - even older! Did our babaylans communicate with their anitos in this voice? The old women's singing, as with the church's architecture, are acts of translation, and appropriation - of localizing the foreign by stamping our unique flavor on things borrowed, and making them our own.  

Escuela Catolica, a stone and wood building built in 1940.

My mind wanders back to my current occupation of being mother to two young children. I think of my own acts of localization. I read up on research and medical advise on parenting and child rearing borrowed from elsewhere, but I rarely apply what I read to the letter - always, or at least more often than not, I will add a twist - or translate things to suit my environment by using materials available to me. Foreign recipes end up having ingredients substituted to include bahay kubo vegetables. Foreign children's stories end up being translocated to our forests and seas.  Foreign melodies are wedded to local words. In such a way am I a Filipino mother, global and local - always on the internet virtually exploring the world, but forever striving to root my kids in this, their Philippine reality. I embrace the foreign but make it my own. Just like those women chanting their song. Just like the church builders in Boljoon carving things Spanish and Chinese onto Cebuano coral stone.

The Lovely New Church in Westgrove Heights & My Call To Prayer

St. Benedict Church, Ayala Westgrove Heights, Silang, Cavite.

Some churches are grand and flamboyant, they announce their presence with their height and embellishments. The gargoyled Notre Dame in Paris and the gaudy (pun intended) Sagrada Familia in Barcelona come to mind. They are majestic edifices that excite and overwhelm.  Then, there are those churches that are subtle, stately, and subdued. They quietly work their way into your consciousness, making you succumb through gentle persuasion.  The recently completed St. Benedict church at Ayala Westgrove Heights is one such church, and when I visited it for the first time this weekend, I found myself praying a bit  longer than I originally intended.

The courtyard and the church's austere facade.

The elegant church sits right by the entrance gates to Westgrove. Its whitewashed walls and tiled roof are immaculately clean, betraying the church's young age. In terms of lay-out and general-feel, however, it is traditional and classic. It is reminiscent of serene Carmelite convent churches, similarly structured with inviting courtyards.  But it is a suitably updated interpretation, a successful mix of the old and new, with clean modern lines, and effective use of repetition of circles and angles.

The nave and the main aisle.

It seems like a perfect size for a wedding: grand enough for a dramatic walk down the aisle, but small enough to feel like an intimate gathering of family and friends.  Oliver and I found the baptistry appealing. IF we'd have another child (dear God in case you're listening, just to clarify, I am not asking for a third child...yet), it would be nice to hold our next baptism here.  I can just imagine how solemn it would be.  We'd invite family and friends to take a short drive out of Manila for a nice week-end lunch in one of the restaurant rows in nearby Santa Rosa, or even scenic Tagaytay, and enjoy a pleasant breather from the mega city's pollution and congestion.  I imagine, the church's calming architecture will be worth the drive.

The Baptistry.

The altar, in particular, is peculiarly compelling in its minimalism. A lone figure dominates the altar, Christ on a cross standing on an awesome solid block of hard wood. Behind the cross is a dome,  ingeniously repositioned on its side, a refreshing departure from the usual dome on top of the altar. Covered in a gold leaf finish, the dome is visually disorienting, creating the feeling of falling into the wall, as though one were being drawn closer.  The dizzying trick played on the eyes by the dome-lain-on-its-side can be solved by focusing on one object - the Christ on the cross - which offers stability of vision.  I reflected on my life, and the confusion and dizziness I feel, and the sensation of falling - even drowning - and I think of my faith, and my need to train my eyes on Christ to achieve the balance and stability I seek. I know not the name of the architect who orchestrated this inspired moment, but if I were to meet this person in the flesh, I would say "thank you for bringing me closer to God".

The altar with the gold dome.

It's my first visit to this church, and following Filipino folk practice when visiting a new church, I came in with the intention of asking for three wishes. That simple objective gave way to a deeper meditation, as I knelt in front of the altar, I found myself in spiritual reflection. I realized how much I missed having a village church to go to regularly. In the last few years, I have been uprooted, and moved from one living arrangement to the other, and exercised a nomadic worship in various churches. I feel the burning desire to be anchored in one parish, my parish, where I can serve as a bona fide parishioner. And this church could be it! It could be my family's spiritual home in a few year's time.  Oliver bought a lot in Westgrove the year we were married, and we have hopes of building a house here.  Could Narra and Guijo grow up here? And go to church here? Do we want to move our family out of Manila? There are many factors to consider when establishing a family and choosing a lifestyle.  And having a church in the vicinity completes the picture of what I dream of as an ideal set-up for raising a Christian family.

  

Side Entrance/Exit.

The way out of the church is as inviting as the way in. One walks away on shady paths with lush vegetation, as though being escorted out with a gracious despedida.  I want to keep coming back here. This building communicates something to me, an invitation to pray, and I respond to it warmly. I am so grateful to make this lovely church's acquaintance this weekend, and I look forward to developing a deep friendship with it in years to come. See you again soon, lovely church of St. Benedict. 

Treasures of Las Piñas: The Bamboo Organ, The Boys Choir, and a Filipino Christmas

The famous Bamboo Organ.

There it was. The Bamboo Organ. One of the more beautiful reminders of the colonial encounter - the meeting of Europe and Asia embodied in an instrument.  Engineering know-how and musicology from the West combined with the local craftsman's innate musicality and intimate knowledge of indigenous wood.  Oliver took me to a Christmas Concert held at the famous church in Las Piñas so we could marvel at two of the area's musical icons:  The Bamboo Organ and the Las Piñas Boys Choir.  European compositions were being played on the organ, and Christmas carols, even in German, were being sung by the adorable boys.  Foreign material as interpreted soulfully by the Filipino artist.  The concert we watched was entitled Silent Night and it was the type of concert that moves you to be still.

Posing with the Las Piñas Boys Choir. Little did I know
that I was carrying my own tiny boy in my belly.

This was Christmas last year. I was just suspecting I was pregnant. I bought a pregnancy test kit, and  was disappointed when the results came out negative. I really felt pregnant, I was sure. It wouldn't be until two weeks later, when I took a second test that my intuition would be  proven right. Sometimes, the heart, or the gut, knows ahead and with conviction, what science can only affirm later.  So there I was at the concert, with pregnancy's gift of heightened senses. I was seeing, hearing, and feeling everything - the church, the music, the lighting and the decor - and I saw connections and creations - of beauty and balance, history and harmony. I was in love. With my husband for bringing me here to Las Piñas, for knowing me well enough to anticipate that I would love a night like this. With my country for everything good it is capable of, past, present, and future. A night of revelation, in the old center of town.

The altar decorated with abaca lanterns.

I marveled at the Church's altar. At how finely crafted it was, brick on brick, in delicate layers, from the floor to the ceiling - ah, the ceiling, it was another awesome sight: supported by beautiful stone arches, and done in bamboo. How many hours must have gone into selecting only the best pieces of bamboo, to be perfectly positioned, side by side, to cover the entire length of the church.  I've seen many churches in my travels, and craned my neck upwards countless times to admire painted ceilings and domes - but never like this. I have never been awed by simplicity like this - how could one be made to stare so long, at one material, done in one color, with only one thing happening: it's just bamboo lined up - but how I marveled at it, at its grand expanse.

The church's bamboo ceiling.

Then there were the grand chandeliers made of capiz shells, and festooned with garlands made of abaca. The bamboo, the capiz, and the abaca, all gave me a strong sense of place. I am here. I am home. I am no longer a young graduate  student lost on a lonely Sunday in some European city, desperately seeking comfort in a cold old church, dreaming of home. Now, the situation is reversed. I am in a warm (nay! hot!) church in the tropics, but also no longer young, already wife and mother, reminiscing about my  days of freedom in cold Europe. Watching a concert, even a silent one, really makes the mind dance.

Capiz chandeliers.

The church on any normal day, is already a sight to behold, but at Christmas? Even more so! I loved the hanging abaca lanterns against a backdrop of centuries-old grills and stained glass.  I loved the elegant garlands and understated Christmas lights above the windows' deep stone frames.  

I loved the parols, also done in abaca. Floating silently from the ceilings. What gracious solemnity. I often associate Christmas with gaiety, and Filipino decorations with loud colors to the point of being garish and gaudy- but that night in Las Piñas church was a silent night, for the ears, and also for the eyes. And most importantly for the spirit. I wonder if the music of that night imprinted on my son, and helped create his calming demeanor.  My son has that kind of energy signature, his star shines like an abaca parol, big and grand, beautiful and glorious, but peculiarly quiet and subtle. Just there in the background, while being there at the center. It is part of my baby boy's appeal, his unobtrusive, gentle magnetism. 

The church after the concert.

I write about last year's concert now, because it is Christmas once again. From Christmas to Christmas, things change, sometimes for the worse - like when loved ones die - sometimes for the better - like when you welcome a precious baby boy into the family. This year, more than at any other Christmas in my life, do I feel the passing of generations. It's been quite a year of changes, of funerals and baptisms. And I thought of this old church built in solid stone, a building that houses an eternal Christmas, where carols from foreign lands will always sound strangely Filipino when played on a bamboo organ; where the same Silent Night will always be sung by choirboys to the ever-changing generations of churchgoers who people the pews beneath the hanging abaca stars.