High

It all began with a video footage on Bandila two nights ago.

While everyone at home waited for any news about the high-profile drama surrounding the Alabang Boys and their busted drug syndicate, news about the Feast of the Black Nazarene splashed on the TV Screen. It was an anti-climactic turnaround of events especially for me, whose longing for real-time drama revealed how monotonous my choice of programming is late at night. The news spoke of preparations being done by the local city government of Manila for the expected deluge of devotees for the procession. It was also reported in the news that many devotees actually spend the night at the Basilica to welcome the massive statue as it is being pulled away from the altar towards the plaza and into the streets of Quiapo, where the flock scrambles to rub their towels and handkerchiefs on the icon.

The news about the all-night vigil stirred my curiosity. The thought of being with a group of pilgrims clad in Maroon who walked bare-footed going to the Basilica while carrying small statues of the Black Nazarene did not escape my thirst for something extraordinary. It may not be as thrilling as the Alabang Boys Scandal, but it is an excuse to be in Quiapo during the ungodly hour of the night.

I could just imagine the things I would find out as I join the devotees out there.

It was past midnight when I left the gym. Tired and exhausted from a heavy work-out, heading home to get some rest was an easy choice. However, the Feast of the Black Nazarene is a once-in-a-year event. I may not be given a chance to witness it the next time it happens. Icy raindrops continued to pour down as I waited for a jeep that will take me to Quiapo. The heaving skies implied that my pilgrimage would not be as easy as I hope it would be. Inside my head, I see images of people all over the city converging around the Basilica. Frosty drizzles may dampen their huddled bodies but it will never drench their pious spirit.

However, it was not the image that greeted me when I arrived in Quiapo half an hour later. What I saw was a gay pageant being held on a rickety platform just a few streets across the Basilica. The Maranao traders may have retreated back to their tiny pigeon holes but it was the homeless who crouched in fetal position as they slept on mats splayed across the deserted pavement.

These depressing scenes did not stop me from pushing towards my destination. When I emerged from the sleepy side of the Lacson Underpass, throngs of people approached me from all sides. They were traders selling icons, religious booklets, scapulars and even handkerchiefs with the image of the Poon imprinted on both sides. Flames remained ablaze on several stalls, whose trade is to sell a bundle of candles in different colors for well-wishers to burn. The sight was quite disappointing; for I see these images every time I pass by the Basilica. It was the human drama I wished to see in that place. Unfortunately, everything was as mundane as the last time I found myself there.

As I think of ways to make the most out of my time outside the Church, I mingled with the vendors whose lives have been interwoven with the affairs of the Nazareno. Most of them were resentful after the new parish priest decreed that the celebrations should be done at Luneta instead. They were expecting the traditions to go on - despite the yearly casualties that sometimes take lives during the procession. Much as I wanted to welcome the changes initiated by the Basilica authorities, I cannot help but consider how the break in tradition would affect the essence of the festivities.

Something will be lost and it would most likely be the spirit of the occasion.

The chit-chat went on until a minor skirmish between two vendors broke out on the other side of the plaza. Fearing that a riot might erupt anytime soon, I sought refuge inside the Basilica. There I found the devotees seated next to each other on pews and on the floor while doing their personal acts of veneration towards the Nazareno.

I walked past aisles, but there was no seat available. The pews were occupied by children soundly asleep while their adult companions fanned themselves as they stared blankly at the altar. Meanwhile, the old folks, whose timeless tradition they hold to even at the twilight years of their lives offer a glimpse of what human continuity could achieve: Decades from now, it would be their children who would be kneeling and clutching their rosaries, while their children's children would be the one sleeping on those same nearly-immortal pews.

I sat near the lectern and turned my head towards the pious parishioners facing me. They were the ordinary folks - the Masa crowd who often flock the Basilica during ordinary days. They were not the rich and middle-class parishioners who pay a visit at my favorite convent in Katipunan to write prayers on a piece of paper and then offer a basket of eggs to tempt the heavens to grant their supplications.

Unzipping my bag, I took out the rosary, the prayer booklet and the Bible which I bring wherever I go. The past twelve months have been transforming that I learned to keep my peace not by going to parties or engaging myself in sexual affairs, or engaging learned people about the values of our generation. I found serenity in reciting prayers passed on to me by my mother when I was still a kid. It is faith that holds me in place and whenever I find myself in a house of prayer, I take every opportunity to get in touch with my spirituality no matter what other people would think.

My fingers began to feel the wooden beads despite having no prayer intentions in mind. As I looked around for one last time before shutting my thoughts and turning myself inwards, what I still see were faceless people seating, kneeling and praying in front of me.

Bible passages were read, as each succeeding sorrowful mysteries drew me closer to that self fulfillment I seek. As the last of the Holy Mary's were being recited, I knew that my journey was coming to an end. This Pilgrimage will go down as one of the highs of this year. After doing the sign of the cross, I picked my bag and left the Basilica without ever getting noticed. Devotees were still coming in, while outside, traders braved the unbearable freezing temperature to sell trinkets that would remind non-believers of how profitable religion is.

It was time to go home. The Pilgrimage had restored my faith. It doesn't matter if the Nazareno truly answers prayers or heal the sick; I already have my goals. However, it seems like the Source was not over with me yet. Something is about to unfold and it would truly make my expedition as spiritual as it could be.

I remember reading a passage in the Book of Matthew while reciting my prayers earlier. It speaks of the messiah telling his listeners about his father wanting not sacrifices to offer but kindness for all his creations. For some reasons I made a mental note of that passage, only to find out what it truly meant while walking pass snoozing bystanders slumbering beneath the cold, lonely underpass.

As I was about to climb the steep flight of stairs leading to Hidalgo Street, a young woman clutching an infant approached me. She was asking for spare change. Feeling the contents of my pocket, what I found was a bunch of coins worth eight pesos. It was all the money I have left. I knew it wasn't enough for the lady and her infant. To apologize or pretend that I did not hear anything was an easy choice. However, coming from a very personal communion with the almighty, leaving her ignored and abandoned will take away the essence of my journey.

On my right hand was a half-filled bottle of Cobra Energy Drink I bought from a convenience store not far from the Basilica. It was the only thing I could offer. Extending my hand, I asked if she would like to have my drink instead. Without hesitation she smiled and took the bottle away like a thirsty wayfarer taking a break from a long and difficult trek she had to overcome. Her acceptance gave me a sense of relief. "Finally a good deed done after receiving the good news," I told myself. As I bowed to the lady before I left, a moment's glimpse suddenly blurred my vision.

It felt like the encounter sums up everything I did in Quiapo.

The devotees may spend a day and a night reciting the most poetic words to venerate their icons. They can form a line as far as the eyes could see just to wipe a statue whose miracles according to legends could bring fortune and healing to the sick. The Feast of the Nazarene is a religious event for those who believe and those who wish to believe.

I recall the beginnings of my journey towards the end of it; when a lady carrying a child approached me begging for alms. I responded not by offering food or money but by giving her my drink. In that small act, I discovered that the fulfillment I seek was not inside the Basilica or in the wooden beads which my fingers run for almost an hour.

Hours after arriving home, the smile on that thirsty lady's face remains deeply embedded on my head. Words were never spoken, but when our hands held together the plastic bottle I was giving her, it was almost like meeting the lady and the child whose image appears in front of my prayer booklet.

And whose assurances I sought when prayers were spoken from my lips.

When our hands held close, it was the only time I truly felt complete.