Encounters With A Fundie

Careless musing, an observer will say. I should have exercised caution when I let my thoughts out in the open, lest I may court opinions completely opposing mine. It all started with a shared image, of a conversation among teenagers asking about the relevance of science. They contend that science disproves the existence of God, thus, should be given a choice, it should be removed from the curriculum. The fetid smell of ignorance in their exchanges didn't escape my senses. I could not help but post it on my Facebook wall to express, not only my indignation but alarm. In all my years in the academe, we were taught to embrace science more than any other subject, and reading posts from these pre-teens invoking God's wisdom over mankind's quest for knowledge defeats the purpose of our existence.

While many friends agree with my observation, a lone dissenter nearly caused me to go ballistic and start a nasty exchange on my own wall. He was a classmate in high school. Someone who was given privilege to study in Diliman, and eventually, migrate abroad to lead a better life. Had he been someone whose accomplishments were less stellar, I would simply brush off his opinion given his intellectual limitation. But this is a UP graduate disagreeing with me, and his defense would have disappointed all those progressive thinkers who continue to draw the line between religion and reason.

"Those young people might have not presented and discussed this matter in an intellectual way but actually they are right. Evolution is wrong and very wrong but the problem is the educational system is still feeding them to our children, and for that reason I'm seriously considering not sending my kids to a public school. All evidences points directly against evolution but many scientists deny it. Why you ask?! Because evolution is the only way some scientists prove that God doesnt exist."

Nganga. That was my initial reaction. I would have said there and then that the Bible doesn't logically narrate how creation started. "God creates heaven and earth in six days." Who would believe such crap? Figuratively, it would hold ground, but if my Creationist acquaintance will assert the literal interpretation of the Holy Book, I might as well unfriend him as I don't want to associate myself with Christian Fundamentalists. I've had enough of their trash talk back when they used to bully people like us in high school.

"I've always questioned the theory of evolution and how we all got here. Hard evidences clearly point to a young Earth (10,000 years) and not billions of years. Plus the Creationism clearly explained how the first people reached the Philippines."

I decided to avoid direct confrontation, and instead, let others talk on my Facebook wall to share their thoughts. But this guy's conviction would never let him stop. He would continue insisting his Intelligent Design view when doing so would make him look silly to those reading his post.

"Actually evolution debunks the existence of God so evolution and creation cannot coexist. It is either one is true and the other is bogus. Evolution states that we became human due to random events while creation states that God created us in His own image."

I'd like to disprove his statement: how could they not coexist when creation precedes evolution? Evolution states that all creation begins from atoms and single-celled organisms, and through natural selection and adaption, only the fittest survives. It might sound like there's an uncaring universe out there, a world view where God apparently doesn't show grace. But the fact that the miracle of creation happened, and life multiplied in ways no scientist still could not explain already debunks his claim that evolution proves a creator doesn't exist.

It would have been a waste of time to argue my beliefs and counter his claims of Science being anti-god, but if Hollywood has a better explanation of why the Bible version of creation and Science's evolution theory complement each other, this short clip tells all.

When Prayers Are Not Enough

In grief, and in tragedy, we first remember our maker for sparing our lives. It is human instinct drawn from a time, history no longer recalls: to seek higher power for solace and consolation; to carry on the painful task of picking up the pieces of broken lives. For those whose eyes and ears only see and hear the catastrophe, we offer prayers as expressions of sympathy. That no matter how difficult the days ahead, someone remembers, and wishes relief for the burdened.

But relief comes in more tangible forms. Like thick blankets and clean water, like life-saving medicines and warm meals to feed the starving. Given the scale of the calamity - the temblor that struck the entire country of Nepal a few days ago, the poor nation of over a million souls is unready to cope with the disaster.   

As the dead begins to pile up, the international community makes a hasty entry. Countries far and wide* sent rescue teams and makeshift hospitals in a race to save lives. News agencies report the events on the ground, and while social media continue to broadcast words of solidarity, these are the times when words, including prayers are not enough.

It is time for ordinary people to step up.

The wake up call was sounded by a skeptic, an old friend I haven't seen in ages. He questions mankind's priorities with its hashtag #prayfornepal when there are ways to really help. While my worries linger closer to home, (the great destructive "twerk" might flatten the city any moment soon) I was struck by his observation, and in my own way, sought to play my part in the relief efforts to save as much lives as possible. 

When online companies like Paypal invoke corporate responsibility as their new marketing strategy, I took some time off from the raketship, despite the looming deadline, to make some donations to organizations that deliver aid. Red Cross, Habitat for Humanity, World Vision, just to name a few, I have come across these names and thought to divide the cashless payment so as to spread out my pledge. While this gesture won't be known to many, aside from those who would come across this entry. I simply found it fitting to perform the act of charity before letting everyone know in my social media accounts that there's a way to render aid, not just with prayers but with real, hard cash.

I think my maker, which I seldom speak to lately, would be more pleased with this arrangement.

Paypal Donations Page

*China Rushes Aid to Nepal After Deadly Earthquake; Taiwan Is Turned Away

The Five Blessed Days

Take away the religious traditions and blind adoration and all you can see is pure joy: reverie; the collective goodwill of 100 million souls.

- Thoughts while watching the flock attend Pope Francesco's Eucharistic Celebration at Luneta while a storm passes overhead.

The Gift Of Giving

  

The cylinder piggy bank stood undisturbed in a corner for almost a year. I have this disaster scene in my head where money-dispensing machines fail and people kill each other in queues just to get hold of cash. Nobody knows the piggy bank's real purpose is for emergencies, and its existence would have remained unknown, had I not learned that it can no longer accept spare change.

My first reaction was to buy another so I can fill it with coins. The original need is still in place, and given the children and the aging matriarch at home who would be in danger should my disaster porn happen in real life, I would be eternally grateful for the foresight caused by my disturbing thoughts.

But a new belief is emerging. Something that is full of compassion: an act rather than self-preservation, it leaves everything to chance in exchange for fulfillment in performing deeds that benefit the greater whole. 

After all, nothing good comes out from worrying.

And so I picked a recipient that would find the coins most useful: The organization that sends the first teams when disaster strikes in the country. I already lent my strength and time with them to repack relief goods when a powerful storm hit Tacloban. I saw them work to provide aid. 

They resoundingly delivered.

It was a two-hour walk from home to their office in Intramuros. Mind not the method of the piggy bank delivery. I had spare time, and thought, the stroll would be a good way to work out. I arrived, barely unannounced. Even the guard was baffled with my presence. After being escorted in the receiving office, a volunteer opened the cylinder repository. The coins were carefully separated and then counted. The spare change accumulated was worth more than two thousand pesos.

More than an act of kindness, I find the deed a civic obligation. A responsibility, each and everyone in the community should be made aware of. And because it was done a day before Christmas, an obvious intention to mark the occasion, my wish is for this new habit to take root and become a tradition. In a time of prosperity, and relative harmony at home, may this be an offering, an expression of gratitude for that providence that keeps on giving.

Sharing the gift of lovingkindness from my family to yours. Merry Christmas! 

  

The Prayer Place For The Downtrodden

At the back of the Nuestra Senora de Remedios Church in Malate is a little shrine beside the road. It was put up on the remnants of a fallen tree trunk, where a menagerie of flowers made of fabric appear to bloom around the makeshift altar. A piece of wood, probably picked up from a bin serves as its roof. Hanging on the wall are crimped images of the Holy Family, and at the base are relics that were thrown away only to find a purpose in this divinely inspired oddity.

It's discovery is not fated. My feet led me there after it was featured on Carlos Cedran's Facebook page. It was not far from the gym either, so a pilgrimage isn't really out of the way. Then one day, when I had this urge to whisk away some religious icons at home to be placed at the altar, I found myself at the spot, and was enchanted by its elegance. It almost felt like the sacred outpost was erected by some mendicant under direct instruction from the almighty.

The hands behind the shrine put great care to his opus. It was built by design. The craftsmanship, no doubt, belonged to an artist. As to what purpose it serves, or what narrative tells behind its creation, I didn't bother to ask. What was seen during my brief visit, are the homeless finding temporary shelter on the sidewalk, desperate for some relief from those who bothered to stop, and unravel the mystery of this temporal installation.

Ampalaya Ginisa Flavored Mix

A few hours before daybreak on the last day of the love month, a gay guy thought of pouring his heart out on Twitter. It caught the attention of the audience and soon enough, another guy felt a relation to the post. The gentlemen seem to share the same sentiments about being unlikable and unloved. Two emotional conditions I have never felt in a long time. So I paid close attention to their conversation; and find out if there is something to learn from their musings. 

"According to a very reliable source, hindi ako likable at hindi ako loveable. K, fine. #foreveralone."

"Me too." The other guy segued. 

"Hindi kaya!"

"Oo nga, kaya nga ako iniwan diba?"

A keen observer, known for his compassion made attempts to lift the sagging spirits of the two men. He succeeded only in bringing out the pain and bitterness the guy who recently broke up felt within.

"Huwag ganyan, makakahanap din tayo ok?"

"Di naman ako naghahanap and I don't think papasok ako sa isang relationship ulit."

"Di naman kasi hinahanap yun, kusang dadating kapag panahon. Kapag handa na ang puso." 

"Ayoko na. Wala ng darating. Sarado na ang puso ko." He dropped his words with much anguish and spite, I can't help but feel sympathy for the guy.

"Don't say that. Iinom na lang natin yan. Kailangan mo ng kausap. Ako, hopeless romantic for life."

"Ako din. Love is only for those lucky enough to have found it. At last. Forever. But forever is just a concept, so is love."

"First off, nothing is forever. Not life, neither is love. Once you've accepted that, you can love without promises."

"I used to believe in love. Not anymore."

The written exchange ends there. Nothing follows. The empath may have given up on the jaded, or the pair felt it best to take the conversation away from the prying eyes of the audience. As for the guy who said he is unlikable, he chose not to reply and participate in the dialogue. I would rather not speculate on his reasons, but he did engage others in a breezy banter.

Biases aside (the guy who initiated the conversation is someone I used to follow on that micro blog, and the one who was ditched by his partner is known for his abrasive personality), the reason as to why the two seem to share a common fate is caused by their own doing. I may not know much about how they engage others, but judging by how they deal with impressions, it is easy to glean the image they show in public.

The empath, who claims to be hopeless romantic is right. There is no such thing as forever, and given the temporal state of things, would it count to give your best before your time is up?

From the way I let someone in, and in ways I transit out of people's lives, I keep in mind that moments will always be judged by the kindness I have shown. Let's take love out of equation, not even the possibilities of romance. All I know is that as long as you keep the faith, and see beyond the cracks and molten fissures of life, being unlikable will never be a question of state.

Light, no matter how faint attracts attention when loomed by darkness. And kindness, no matter how little overturns impressions of the nastiest kind.

The Heirophant

And you... Just let your thoughts run freely into that vast space of nothingness. Think of me as your seer as I wander in your thoughts.



At present, you are determined to go your way, driven to finally get what you want on your own. Whatever it takes. But someone close to you is somewhat getting in your way of going where you want to go.

And you value that closeness that you yield your own plans.

There is something you truly want, but it seems to be already there, waiting for you to grab it. But still you can get hold of it.

An opportunity awaits.

Your family is what influences you the most. What drives you perhaps.

At a nearby past, there is a burning desire of passion. That influenced where you are right now.

In the near future, there is an approaching material stability.

Your inner talent.

You have the ability to let go and liberate yourself from the old and start anew in whatever way.

How other sees you: wise. An old soul.

You deny yourself.

Outcome of all these: You will have something to celebrate about.


Thank you for the card reading.

Dogma

"Traditionally, the position of the Church regarding other religions was clear: The Catholic Faith is the only true religion, and outside of the Catholic Church there is no salvation. With all charity, the emphasis was on bringing the lost sheep back to the fold so that Our Lord's desire "that they all be one" might be fulfilled."

It is one of those little known churches in New Manila. 

Built along a quiet street, in a sloped corner surrounded by mansions, whose thick, concrete walls rise up to block the mercy of heaven, the House of God doesn't even have a parking lot for pilgrims. A hint, that maybe, it doesn't want to court attention.

The sanctum was a chance discovery. Mom and I were having our Visita Iglesia when someone belonging to our party suggested a sound idea: that we should give up our journey to the Church of Jesu in Ateneo and Parish of the Holy Sacrifice in Diliman.

"Mahal masyado sa gasolina." They reasoned. My mom agrees. "Hanap na lang tayo ng mas malapit na simbahan." She said.

With the aid of Google Map, I searched the area for places to visit. Something closer; better if it forms a string - like a rosary - with the last two churches to complete our pilgrimage.

"Kanan ka sa Betty Go-Belmonte," I instructed the driver. "Kung saan maraming tao, nandoon ang simbahan."

But the road was eerily empty. There were no faithful marching towards their destination, not even cars lining up as each one look for a tight space to park. As we cruised deeper into Betty Go, doubts begin to cloud our vision. Maybe there's no church there after all.

And then, we passed by a strip where a traffic build up happens when there is supposed to be none. Cars line both sides of the road as well. "I think we found our church," I said in a hushed voice. The holy shrine, shrouded by trees, was a little bigger than a chapel. It has no courtyard, and the gate directly leads to the balcony. If not for the people wandering outside, nobody would ever think they are standing in front of the Our Lady of Victories Church. 

The Our Lady of Victories is a two-story edifice, whose naive and altar lie above ground. Parishioners must climb a steep stair to reach the entrance, and it was this flight of stairs that initially puts us off. Only when the security officer told us of a ramp at the back of the church did we decide to pick my mom, who was waiting inside the car, and visit the sanctuary. 

Upon entering the chamber, a first-time guest will be amazed at the church's opulence. The wrought iron chandeliers suspended on the low ceiling, the ornately crafted hardwood pews, the massive retablo in front of the gilded altar, and fine terracotta covered the floor. The naive harkens to the old days. There is a whiff of Baroque in the interiors.

Looking around, I was thinking. Maybe, a very rich patron had given away his fortune - including his estate - and this church was the fruit of his charity. It is when I noticed the pious ladies with long, flowing veils covering their heads did I realize we have entered a place very different from the ones we used to go.

Turning my head around I saw pamphlets on top of a coffee table. I took one to read its contents. Seeing the words "Pope Pius" and "Vatican II," I began to grasp the idea behind the founding of this Church. It finally answers the question why there was a sign outside saying "Latin Mass only".

I turned a page of the pamphlet and read the article's title. "Who are we?" In bold capital letters. There and then, the remnants of the Dark Age appeared in the austere faces of those around us. At this time and age, there will always be people flinging themselves to the trenches, resisting the march of modernity; and whose religion had seen better days, before a grand council wiped out the old, orthodox ways of communion with the almighty.

In silence, they still profess their righteous conviction.

And I wish one day to take part in their celebration.

-tobecontinued-

      

Tampo

In my sleep, I was in a distant place. Somewhere stateside, where the air was dry and nippy, and at the heart of downtown were rows of Art Deco office buildings criss-crossed by four-lane one-way streets.

To get around, one must walk in layers of clothing I would not imagine wearing in the tropics. I recall putting on my hoodie for the cold weather gives me headaches. Part of the nocturnal narrative has now warped into oblivion, like smudged ink on a wet paper. But I remember stepping foot inside a hall occupied by a huge well-kept library.

I didn't stay long inside the library - with musty bookcases that touched the ceiling. Instead, the library's narrow corridors served as passageway to the other side, where a courtyard gave way to old oak trees. Beyond, was a chest-high concrete fence separating the verdant refuge from the post-modern avenue.

Before I could even walk out the door, I remember catching up with a Caucasian guy, who didn't seem to notice my towering presence. I followed him as he walked past the courtyard and into the street outside. I kept tracing his footsteps when a familiar voice called my name.

"Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!" It was my dad.   

I stopped following the Caucasian guy and walked towards my father instead. His face could not hide his disappointment - like he was, the last time he paid a visit. He told me that my life was going nowhere; that he didn't expect me to end this way. I didn't heed his words, nor paid attention to his observation. It seems this time, the old man is growing impatient.

It's been years since my dad passed away. And for some reasons, we kept correspondence in my sleep. I told these bizarre encounters to my mom, and she too is mystified. After all, she and my sister never got a visit from my dad.

Not even in their sleep.

Back in my dream, we decided to take a stroll. Nobody talked. We passed by a Chowking restaurant and I invited him to eat.

He declined my invitation. 

"Dalawa na apo mo ah," I tried to break the ice once more, hoping the news would put a smile on his face. But he remained aloof, silent, like he just showed up to say something straight from the gut.

"Huwag ka na magpapakita sa akin!" He said in a stern voice.

Before I could say a word, the dream was over. It was almost noon and no matter how I twisted and turned in bed, I can no longer go back to sleep.

Stunned, I told my mom what happened. Once more, we tried to weave a reasonable explanation to all these disturbing and recurring visitations. I wish to know the cause of his anger and if there is something that could be done to win back his favor.

"Baka naman dahil hindi ako nakapunta sa sementeryo nung Death Anniversary niya?" I was looking at the mirror while I spoke. The footprint of years my face no longer hides.

"Baka naman narinig niya yung mga sinabi mo kagabi?" She said in a jest. My dad's sister sent a text message the night before. I thought it would be prudent not to reply.

It's no secret that I had a falling out with my dad's kin; that I am no longer swayed to my aunt's side as she recounts the hardships of having a troublesome son. My cousin, in his outbursts in the past punched her in the face. Without work to support his two kids and a wife that didn't even finish high school, their house relies on dole outs and occasional remittance from a TNT uncle. 

Perhaps, I have grown tired of their hopelessness; of the cycle of violence and my aunt's refusal to act on it. At a time when everyone at home struggles to keep the house afloat, hearing word about the troublesome cousin only adds to my frustration.

Sometimes I wish we were never relatives at all.

So I told my mom before I went to bed that their problem is no longer my concern; that I would rather waste my strength keeping my own house in order.

The contents of the text message no longer matter. Even my sometimes-vile sister said it serves our cousin right. Meanwhile, my mom said it would give my aunt the freedom to run the house the way she sees fit. And so we all agreed to get on with our lives and not mind her troubles. That was until my father showed up in my sleep, and received a rather icy reception.

"Ikaw na nga tumatayong padre de pamilya ah." My mom rallied to my defense. "Hindi ba niya yun makita sa kabilang buhay?"

Her assurance sufficed to ease a troubled heart. I was even saying that dad could have at least approached me nicely. But I guess, one's nature doesn't change - even in the afterlife. He was, and will always be the ill-tempered father I had known.  

And like how our father-and-son relationship had been, it was easy to ignore the dream. It can be seen as a manifestation of the subconscious; a mere creative expression of the mind. But at a hindsight, who am I to defy the departed when he chose to speak to me? Can families simply walk out from each other, when our ties have been close - at best?

So I let my heart lead the way and overturn the instructions of the mind. After all, I may speak of the family tragedy in all its regrettable details. But never can I claim that we were left without flotsam to hold on. We can still afford to lend an ear, even when our eyes refuse to see the misery in our midst.

"Akala ko kinalimutan mo na ako." My aunt sobbed as we walked away from my father's grave. "Ang hirap hirap..."

"Maging matatag po kayo." I hugged her tight before parting ways. "Hindi kayo pinapabayaan..."

She may not know the reason for my unannounced visit. But most certainly in the great beyond, a restless soul has been appeased.

Custodian of Heaven

The earth is the cradle of humankind, but one cannot live in the cradle forever.

Konstantin Tsiolkovsky, Russian Rocket Scientist, 1895 

Ascent it goes into the night sky, as dozens of distant white orbs still visible to the naked eye envy its passing.

More luminous than the morning star, and closer to Terra Firma than the silvery Luna, the International Space Station glides quietly, as the rest of humanity remains unaware of its swift and sudden transit.

Word came out around mid-afternoon. I was about to cross the street when the message alert was sent to my Gmail. Early this year, I signed up to a service that tells when the orbiting laboratory will be over one's head. 

I thought it was a fluke. 

But on that day the Spot the Station did wonders. The outpost in the sky will make a dazzling flyby. Rising from the sea and into the moonrise direction, the space station, with half a dozen souls taking up temporary residence will dash across the city at quarter past daybreak.

I raced towards open grounds to witness the spectacle. The waterfront was my direction as the open waters allow for an unobstructed view. But time was against me, and my luck was running out. With night time fast approaching, I was left with a nearer choice from the train station: 

Luneta.

I arrived at the park with just minutes to spare. Putting on my eye glasses, I craned my head upwards in search for the celestial apparition. Venus blinked twice, along with Jupiter and the Pleiades. In the northern sky, close to the horizon was a faint red dot. 

Mars appeared on the hunt. 

Into the makeshift stage I walked, and then lied on my back upon reaching its surface. It was at the middle of a clearing, just behind the dancing water fountains. The spot was densely packed with people. Below the stage were a couple of lovers dating. Not far were friends relaxing. It would have been amazing to see them scouting the sky.

But their lives are bound by earthly pursuits.

Between flipping my phone and looking up to scan the heavens, I invoked the genius of the science gods with a thought prayer.

"May their calculations never prove incorrect, and the satellite's trajectory put it where it should be." I searched the sky for signs.

"I didn't go all this way to see nothing." 

And then, as it was written in the electronic mail; and as described in Wikipedia, a bright, slow moving object appeared where the sun had earlier set. It crossed directly overhead like a lone angel watching over the mundane lives of a busy planet.

International Space Station (Center)

Not even a kid asking for solicitation could disrupt my moment. My thoughts were with the man-made object as it flew overhead. Mistaken as an airplane, it moved without a sound. Its luminescence said to be the third brightest comes from the sun, as its rays bounce off from the orbiter's solar panels.

As the ISS graced the sky, my thoughts go back to a time when the machine was still being conceived. Science fiction or science fact, dreamy friends spoke of tomorrow, like our lives dwell high above the earth plane.

"Eternity lies in the heavens." I whispered as the International Space Station disappeared from my sight.

And as time - my own time aligned with the present, and the voices of old friends faded into memory, I left the stage slightly stunned and buoyant.

Somewhere over the mantle of darkness, my eyes had seen what lies beyond the cradle.

Age of Restoration

I was sitting in the outer pews, in a church that has always been home.

In quiet solitude, I sat there as the breeze playfully caressed my skin, and the frosty afternoon sun yielded behind the mass of clouds. It's been ages since I returned. Nearly five months after I have said that one prayer that turned my life around.

I could have been some place else, perhaps at the Manila Seedling Bank to scout for herbs to put outside my window; or in the nearby hills where I retreat to watch the city illuminate as darkness blanket the sky. But I chose the monasterio as my destination. To restore old ties maybe, to confide to my creator the contents of my heart.

"Carlos Celdran convicted for Damaso Act," the feed read on Twitter. I was about to perform my acts of redemption when I thought of checking my account. The timeline fills with collective uproar against the decision. The indignation was directed at the priests who run the holy shrines I found myself in.

It is no secret that I have experienced doubts with my religion. I had my share of condemnation, repugnance, even disdain to those who blindly followed instructions I never embraced. I have seen how some men-in-robes sunk to such lows one could never thought doing. With my modern leanings in full swing and hypocrisy shoved down my throat by the same church I belong, I was close to believing that my faith no longer aligns with those of my religion.

I was tempted to join another sect.

But faith is something I have, without the trappings of doctrines. For this reason, I have deep respects for other creeds that don't lay claim monopoly on salvation. I may not show up during Eucharistic celebrations or pay attention to holy icons occupying the corners of my home, but I still know where my belief lies, even when it was being shrouded by forces I could no longer understand.

I sat there, in that long wooden chair, with moving kneeling pads across my feet. Not sure to pursue my intentions, or walk out as another non-believer.

"Do you still affirm that the temple is in your heart?" I contemplated.

"What brings you here in the first place?"

And then, like a sudden passing of the wind, I remember how I fell from grace. From that one intercession "to end the cycle," to the painful disunion that came a week later.

It was never easy to crumble into pieces, and lose the very earth that keeps you grounded. Something within had been disillusioned, and for this, I stopped going to church. But for some reasons, I have managed to stay afloat. Wounded and hurting, faith never faltered. And even when it seemed like I had to go through the most difficult upheavals on my own.

Somewhere in the cosmos never left. It took me some time to see it, but revelation is getting through.

"Count your blessings," the inner voice said. "Even when your heart could not easily see, the light shining before you."

"And don't mind the priests. They're as imperfect as you are."

I smiled.

With a pocket bible beside me, and a teal rosary wrapped around my hand, I began the Apostles Creed with my eyes closed and with my mind recalling the graces.

"...The pay raise, the chance to manage a project and earning the goodwill of the client, the arrival of the weatherman, meeting the Barakos, a prosperous holiday, a flat-screen TV from a relative abroad, the return of the helpers who have left, the random acts of kindness I never spoke, the recovery of Diego from sickness, the new laptop from the favorite aunt...."

So many to thank for. And my eyes began to see.

An Angry God

"Hala ka, magagalit si Papa God niyan!" An elder used to say to make us behave when we were kids. The warning always worked, as it reinforces the belief of a higher being, more supreme than the adults who used to take hold of our lives.

It is an instinctive response that never fails to sway blind obedience, as each generation gets to know the Almighty by his wrath. How unfortunate that those more knowledgeable in the life of Christ has omitted the truth: That God so loved the world, he sent his son to redeem us all.

The scare tactic dates back from the time of our beginnings. When our ancestors used to worship a different pantheon forever exiled in the fringes of our collective memory. Bathala, whose name the babaylans invoked in their prayers has now been replaced by another creator. To this day, a nation still gazes on his face for a whisper of redemption. 

Obedience would have worked, if the flock still get swayed by fear. But with the light of reason, the nation gets to question the pronouncements of these men-in-robes, whose human failings find its way into the spotlight all the time:

Priests molesting kids.

Priests cavorting millions of pesos from church donations.

Priests, whose medieval thinking clash with the modern age.

It's no wonder, every pronouncements the bishops make; every instructions they hissed at the pulpit disheartens not only the believers but those, whose faith has been dimmed.

“Ewan ko lang kung yan ay coincidence lang o dahil nga may pinapasabi ang Diyos sa atin na kapag iyan ay pinag-uusapan ng matindi ay parang may mensahe na nangyayari na maraming kahirapan na nagaganap sa atin," Pabillo said in an interview with Radio Veritas.

I do not know which side God takes on the issue of the Reproductive Health Bill. I do not bother to ask, for my heart already tells me that we are too many to be nurtured by the planet. But to come from the Bishop's mouth, that the cause of all these sufferings brought by the recent typhoon was the controversial bill, then in the name of the same God, I strongly condemn his position.

To be the voice of dissent, when not a single spiritual figure disapproves the insensitive remark continues to draw me away from the flock. But I'm not giving up yet, like many others who share my principle. For when the sounds of fear are less heeded and the mandate of love becomes the new gospel, there is this belief of redemption for my religion, still.

And in times of great tragedies - like the one that wiped out the towns of New Bataan and Cateel, my humanity tells me that it's not time to invoke a wrathful God. Rather, a compassionate Vicar of Christ must step forward and lead, so that everyone - cynics and believers - would work together to ease the suffering of the fallen. 

In an enlightened age, this will be my church.

News

The Good News

Once, I got a book.

It was a token from a classmate in Diliman. A Filipino-Chinese, who spends most of her time running the family business. It was a parting gift given during our last day of class. And I didn't give it much thought until I got home.

I unwrapped the present to learn that it was a religious book. Not the inspirational or self-help literature but a Manga. A graphic novel that was inspired by the life and teachings of Jesus Christ.

Manga Messiah, as the title says, is an illustrated novel lifted from the passages of the New Testament. Done in Japanese style of drawing, the book covers the life of Yeshua from his birth to his resurrection. Its fresh approach to the stories in the Bible makes it very appealing to people of all ages, especially the ones who grew up watching Anime.

The book lingered in my bookcase for more than a year. Sometimes, I would take it out so I could lift a few pages, and then I would return it again to hibernate until kingdom come. Not until my faith was challenged did I appreciate its true value. Ganoon pala. When you're looking for anchorage and you can't find it on earth, it is when you start looking up to the heavens for an ounce of solace.

It happened once. Yung mag-seek ka ng assurance that everything will be alright, even if you have to live with the guilt because of the choices you made. It happened once. Yung mag pray ka over and over because it is more dreadful to wait with an idle mind. It happened once, when you're too helpless to walk out of the room and that voice in your heart tells you to get that book. Not because it has the answers, but to let you know that you are not alone.

And I felt comforted.

I was able to resolve my troubles without anyone knowing what I have been through. With my faith hitting an all time high, the rosary and the pocket Bible became traveling companions inside my bag. I was able to put my life in order, and secede from the person who was tearing me apart. I was able to finish reading the Manga. But in all the years I searched the Christian bookstores for copy,

My expedition always fails.

Until someone at the Manila International Book Fair this week handed me a fresh copy.

No longer am I sure to give my extra copy. At P250, the Manga isn't something you can simply give away. I don't even know who among my cousins and godchildren read graphic novels these days. But just to pass on the good news these illustrated pages have shared with me,

Come Christmas, the book shall shed light to its new keeper.

The Purpose

At four in the morning, I knew sleep won't come. My work begins at 6 o'clock and to make a shut-eye tempts an overstay in dreamland. So rolled over I did, until I was at the edge of the bed. I then got up, looked at the mirror, said hello to my puffy eyes, before leaving the room with a moist towel. 

And just when the water from the plastic dipper cascaded down my head, the sky bursts open, sending a downpour heavier than the one it sent the night before. The gentle patter became a chorus of drums, and within minutes, I knew the main street, a block away from home, had sunk again under ankle-deep waters. 

Under half an hour, I was ready. I left the house with a flimsy, dark-blue umbrella, a thick cotton jacket to top my body-fit shirt and a pair of rubber boots to cover my legs - these were the implements I prepared the night before. But they would prove feeble to the elements - to the man-made river - that would greet me once I reach the flood-prone street crossing.

Somehow I saw it coming.

When I reached Ramon Magsaysay, I saw no boulevard. Instead, a lake had swallowed the busy highway. I tried to get close, but I haven't even stepped down from the gutter and the water line was already inches away from the rim of my boots.

I could have turned back and tell the boss that I cannot go to the office. My agents could work-from-home, as planned.

But my stubborn and adventurous self insists that I should go. There is an overpass nearby, and maybe, I could reach it by wading through the shallow areas of the gutter.

I could still make it through.

A few clicks from the street corner and I found myself not far from a Tapsilogan, which recently, has been converted to a dull and nameless beer house. The flood has almost spilled over the mouth of my boots, and the people behind me walked - without wearing any protective gear. I wasn't even done hopping from one shallow spot to another when suddenly, a G-Liner bus appeared. A behemoth, whose water trail ripples as it passes through. 

Impulse tells that I should find higher ground. But from where I stood, there was none. The first wave came like a raging tsunami. I arched my feet, hoping that the few extra inches would spare my boots from the sudden tide. Alas it didn't. Just as I feared, the rim of my right boot has been breached. 

Sewage got in and submerged my foot.

Dazed and defeated, I returned home with a squeaking footwear. I should have listened: It was unwise to make an attempt with a scraped leg. And with Leptospirosis on the rise, I've put myself at risk. Washing my soaked leg with soap, before dousing it with a bottle of alcohol, I've finally sent word that I'll be working from home.


But had I succeeded in climbing the overpass and finding a jeep, these waters, I will have to tread before reaching the workplace:

V. Mapa, Santa Mesa

Kalentong, Mandaluyong

Looking at how my day went - from running two shifts effectively and conveniently from home, to sparing the matriarch the trouble of having to worry a son stuck in the streets, to staying dry and cozy at the bosom of my bedroom, it wasn't as bad as I thought the disgusting flood breach was.

The Dalai Lama Speaks

Given the scale of life in the cosmos, one human life is no more than a tiny blip. Each one of us is a just visitor to this planet, a guest, who will only stay for a limited time. What greater folly could there be than to spend this short time alone, unhappy or in conflict with our companions? Far better, surely, to use our short time here in living a meaningful life, enriched by our sense of connection with others and being of service to them.

Daybreaker

It was one of those nights, when one's body clock keeps a sleeper away from slumber. For me, it's those wretched midnight spells. Unable to repeat the REM after a three hour nap, I woke up, only to say goodnight to Baabaa and went on to finish the last leg of this season's raketship.

Writing the children's article took two hours to put to sleep. And when I'm done, I checked the time and it's already past 4 in the morning. "Time to start my day," I said while shutting down my laptop. No matter how dank and dark it was downstairs, I went to the kitchen to heat some water.

I have to be at the monasterio before sunrise.

It was raining when I left the house. Saw the next-door neighbor open her store for early risers inside the compound. The water puddles mirrored the lighted stairwell of a multi-floor apartment. My umbrella held its shade, despite the freezing rain pouring in. It didn't help that I wore a light shirt and a walking shorts going to my destination. The LRT Station, while still empty of human presence was already showing traces of activity. There was a lone teller who gave me the magnetic ticket and the security guards roaming the platform for any soul stupid enough to jump across

and fly. 

Inside the train, laborers and students were already filling the empty seats. Meanwhile I turned my gaze outside, to the distant lights of a waking cityscape.

"Indigo sky. Lovely. This is the reason I love daybreaks." I posted on my Twitter. I've always been a sunset person. The one you'd see staring blankly into space as the sun disappears on the horizon. But there are times I turn my back and crane my neck to the east. It's difficult for a nocturnal person to chase the sunrise, but seeing the world in slumber, about to open its eyes to a new day is a sight worth waiting.

The Santa Clara Church has always been a refuge in times of helplessness. The habit I got from my elders. I go to this place to seek divine intercession. Mom says I should write a letter to the nuns. But I digress. I tell myself,

God knows my reasons.

I used to go here late in the afternoons. To find bliss; to feel the earth moving as the sky swallows the sun. But these past two visits, I show up at sunrise, along with the geriatric flock who attends the morning mass. I skip the Eucharistic celebration because of personal beliefs. But one would find me at the spot where the candles give up their light.

A quiet reflection at the monastery and the hearty breakfast at Jollibee along Katipunan would turn out to be just a stopover. For what the early morning trip really gains to accomplish is to stay up late so I can wake up my partner for his job interview at 10.

What I didn't see in the pattern is that he can simply rouse himself from sleep and refresh his memory about the subject he will talk about. And that's what he did when I got a text message while chomping my Champ. Unlike the last time we both woke up late for his job interview, this time, he thought of reading his notes before showing up to the human resource representative.

"Uwi ka na..." He said.

"Opo." I answered, before having a bite of the criss-cut fries. The limited offer I learned from an online acquaintance early that morning.

But the truth is, I'm not done yet. Not when I'm fully awake, and has no plans of turning around and sink beneath the growing mass of cars and trucks converging along Katipunan Avenue. Instead, the passage took me to the last remaining trees of Diliman, where daisies bloom on concrete islands and hovels - once homes to humble families - become ruins of a road-widening project.

The sun peeked through the clouds when I reached the great highway. Suburbanites from the northeast line the intersection in hopes of finding a bus or an FX that will take them to their destination. The brutality of the chase; of grabbing an empty seat before a fellow passenger does might be too much for an unseasoned commuter. For someone who hardly goes through such an ordeal, the dizzying road scene makes him appreciate living accessibly to his workplace.

Most people I've seen that morning have already reached their workplaces and schools when I reached my destination. A place full of life, but often overlooked because of shopping malls looming over the horizon. Though my head was filled with dreams of turning my home into an oasis of greens. Learning from the past, the Eden project I had in mind must be approached with baby steps.

And I guess coming from this daybreak trip, I've figured where to start.  

Dream Journal Twenty Five

I was crouching in a street corner. With my knees folded and my hands pressed against my face. Not far away is a dying man surrounded by a crowd. I could hear them saying, "lumalaki yung ulo niya o!" (his swollen head is about to burst!)  But I didn't care. So are my other two companions who were close by. Their backs turned away from the commotion.

And then without a word, someone wrapped a piece of cloth around my eyes. The stranger then asked me to stand up. I learned that I would lead the grieving procession to the hospital because I'm the only one who could wade through the huge crowd.

With blindfolds on, I started walking. Slowly, making sure not to trip or the heavy object on top of my head would fall. I could feel his coldness with every step, like a slab of metal left inside a freezer. After a few steps, I heard the crowd cheering. Suddenly, the man I was forced to carry regained consciousness and is now healthy and alive. 

The tide of rejoicing pushed me into a curb, while the now electrified crowd continued to carry the man away. I went back to my companions to check how they're doing.  While walking away, I even thanked one of them for healing the sick. (It was hinted in the dream that she's an angel) My friend, who is a dear confidant just smiled and said she didn't do anything.

"Ikaw ang may gawa niyan." (You did it yourself)

The three of us continued walking - me, my college friend and my World History teacher until we reached the main street where we all went our separate ways.

Self-Help

I pray, not just because I'm scared.
But because I have pushed myself to the edge.
My body suffers from abuse in ways I can never tell.

Bumangon ako ng kama na walang katiyakan kung mag-aabsent ba o hindi. Maari rin naman kasi na pumasok na lang ako ng hapon, gaya ng paalam ng isang katrabaho na nag-beach at sumali sa isang Miss Gay Beauty Contest sa Bataan noong linggo. Subalit nagsabi nga pala ang officer-in-charge sa umaga na ito ay magwo-work from home. May sakit kasi ang kanyang anak at wala itong kasambahay. 

Kailangan niya itong bantayan.

Binalak ko sana dumaan ng Mercury Drug habang naglalakbay papasok sa opisina. Kailangan ko nga pala ng multivitamins para patibayin ang resistensya ng aking katawan. Pero sarado pa ito. Sa halip, nauwi na lang ako sa 7-Eleven para bumili ng Bacchus.

Hindi ako tatagal na walang tinutungga na energy drink.

Nagsimula ang shift na isa lang ang kasama ko - ang agent na naiwan sa pang-umaga. Nang dahil sa retrenchment at sunod-sunod na pagreresign ng mga empleyado, naubos na ang mga tao sa floor. Ito ang dahilan kung bakit gustuhin ko man humabol ng tulog at magpa-late ng dating, SOP na dapat ay may managing officer na haharap sakaling dumating o tumawag ang director.

Someone has to report and tell the things that are happening in his company.

Work starts na-pipikit-pikit ako habang nasa harap ng computer. Nandoon ang paminsan-minsang paglagok ng energy drink sa pag-asang ikatatagal ito ng aking pagmulat. Isang oras ang lumipas. Mabagal ang progress sa aking ginagawa. Mahirap magsulat habang ang diwa ay napapariwara. Matapos ang isa pang oras ay sumuko na ako.

"Ms. Judy, idlip lang ako ha?" Tumango lang ang aking kasama.

Hindi kaila sa mga agents, lalo na sa morning shift na garapal ako magpakita ng antok. Balot ng kumot, hindi ako magdadalawang isip matulog habang naka-recline sa aking upuan. Sa kalagitnaan ito ng pagiging abala ng lahat. Namana ko ang ugali sa kumpanyang dati kong pinapasukan. Palibhasa ay family business, walang issue kahit tulog ako sa oras ng trabaho.

Mga dalawang oras rin ang lumipas bago ko napagpasyahang bumangon. Tuloy-tuloy lang ang calls habang nagbabanta namang mag-alsa ang sikmura dahil sa gutom. Lumabas ako ng building at tumawid ng kalsada. Hindi malayo sa aking kinaroroonan ang isang vegetarian store na affordable at masustansya ang mga pagkain.

Pagbalik ng floor ay tumakbo muli ang oras ng hindi ko namamalayan. Dala na rin marahil sa trabaho at mga panakaw na tulog na inaabot ng kalahating minuto sa tuwing ako ay magbre-break. Nandoon rin na tatlong beses ako tumakbo sa banyo matapos humilab ang tiyan. Hindi yata nagkasundo ang Bacchus at vegetarian sausage na aking pananghalian.

Natapos ang weekly planning meeting dala ang pag-asang magbabago ang ihip ng hangin ngayong linggo. Samantalang sa aking project na usad-pagong pa rin ang takbo, nagbigay ako ng salita na submission will take place before I leave the workplace.

Ang mga agents sa morning shift ay napalitan ng pang-hapon. Umikot man ang buhay ng mga tao sa paligid ngunit tila napako na ako sa aking cubicle: Nagpaalam si JC na manonood ng Lady Gaga Concert kasama ang mga kaibigan. Habang nagkuwento naman si ex-girlfriend tungkol sa bago niyang crush, at bago matapos ang hapon, isang malungkot na balita ang pumawi sa ngiti ng aking mukha.

Isang kaibigan ang nagpaalam na ng tuluyan.

Bumalik ako sa aking kinauupuan at sinilip ang relo. Alas kuwatro. Isa't kalahating oras pa bago magsara ang bangko. Sampung items pa bago mai-transmit sa client ang kanilang pinapatrabaho.

Ganun pala ang pakiramdam ng naghahabol ng oras. Gusto mong gawin ang lahat kahit alam mong ito ay malabo. Kapag hindi talaga kaya, pinipili mo ang priority sa maaring ipagpabukas pa. Kung kaya naman, a little routine adjustment accommodates everything.

In my case, kailangan ko magbayad ng isang credit card dahil ngayong araw ang cut-off. Naroon rin na kailangan ko magplano para sa kaarawan ng isang minamahal. Ang body-building workout ay ilang araw ng nakakansela and on top of that, there's a deadline to finish, and toiletries to buy.

Paano ko nagawa ipagsiksikan ang lahat ng tasks sa isang hapon?

Submitting the project became the top priority. And when this was done, I went to BDO to pay my credit card. Turns out, they were open until 6:30. I was an hour ahead of closing time. I was able to transfer what remains of my salary to my savings account as well. After that, there's a Puregold nearby. Masuwerte lang, available ang sabon at deodorant na ginagamit ko sa katawan.

The work-out will resume tomorrow, and this time wala na atrasan. As for the birthday plans, I will leave it as surprise, even to me. Sa ganito naman talaga ako magaling, sa pagiging spontaneous.

Looking back, I was able to finish the biggest tasks I had set this morning. Despite being broken and defeated by my sleeplessness and fatigue. But most of all, this entry deserves to be written and published for one thing and one thing alone.

It is to acknowledge his presence, and to show my deepest gratitude. Kasi, I wouldn't have done it - all - if I didn't ask for help when all seems lost and crumbling.

Bonding (Last Part)

"Let's attend the mass ha?" 

"Gusto ko kasing mag-communion eh..." She added.

I didn't pay attention to her request. Instead, my thoughts were filled with images of the church in Ateneo. And how I would love to show her around as daybreak blankets the sky.

"Huy, nakikinig ka ba?"

"Opo mama." I answered just before the FX stops in front of the church near Araneta Avenue. But since we started our Visita Iglesia late, I knew we won't reach the Church of Jesu in time for the holy mass.

"Doon na lang tayo sa Mount Carmel o kaya sa Pink Sisters."

"Baka mas kaunti ang tao dun."

But it wasn't how the events of that day took shape. A snarling traffic forced us to park our car a few blocks away from the Carmelite Shrine. When we arrived there, it was packed beyond capacity. The priest was delivering his homily, but we cannot understand a single word. So instead of listening, we chose to do our station of the cross.

Maybe, another church might be opening its Eucharistic service by evening.

We left Mount Carmel for Pink Sisters, only to witness the procession ending the mass. There, the lay ministers were dressed as apostles, and behind them, an altar boy marched with a wood instrument in place of a bell. The instrument produced muted, clapping sound that blended well with the sombre atmosphere. The church was packed too, only this time, with parishioners who were obviously residents of the upscale neighborhood.

And they won't be having any service after that. 

I don't know if my mom was just good at hiding her disappointment, or she was more worried of her black eye after she went off balance and hit the window while disembarking from the car. But from that point on, we both knew she won't be having her mass and her communion.

It's just the Via Crucis for us.

The journey goes on. From Pink Sisters we went to Christ the King. Then Santa Clara, the Ateneo Church and finally capping our pilgrimage at the Parish of the Holy Sacrifice in Diliman. We covered seven churches, all serving, if not wealthy neighborhoods, are cut off from the main roads.

The Visita Iglesia itself didn't turn out to be a cakewalk. I had to push the wheelchair on steep, bumpy roads; break its descent on ramps - with sweaty palms; and sometimes, even lift the contraption including the occupant on sidewalks to keep my mom away from vehicle exhaust and passing cars.

"Buti na lang nag-gygym ka..." I smiled as beads of sweat rolled down my face. If only she knew I was close to fainting. I didn't eat well before setting off on a pilgrimage believing my own strength would keep me going until we reach the final church.

However the struggle, the trip was peppered with little joys that made the effort worthwhile. From the soothing, angelic voices of the nuns singing at Pink Sisters to the blissful silence filling our hearts as we took a break at the Church of Jesu, the essence seems to be more than the religious experience. Who would have thought it will be fun eating fish balls with your mother, when just two decades ago she forbade you to buy them from passing vendors. And just when we both realized that attending the mass wasn't really the heart of our Visita Iglesia, messengers were actually sent, to reinforce what we knew all along.

At the Christ the King.

"God bless you." A priest approached my mom out of nowhere.

"Thank you father..."

"Where you able to hear the mass?"

"Hindi nga po eh..." My mom said, feeling embarrassed.

"Ay nako okay lang yun no." The priest whispered, smiling. "Ang mahalaga you came and joined us."

"Besides, if you know that you don't intend to avoid it, That you were not aware of the time. God knows you did your best."

His words gave me goosebumps. For at the Altar of Repose a few minutes earlier, a stranger also said the same thing. I didn't know if I was merely connecting the events, but after meeting two close calls before arriving at Christ the King, and resigning to the fact that we did miss the mass;

What I said to my mom, was actually the very answer we wish to hear.

"Ang mali ko, namimili ako ng simbahan to hear the mass." I said while resting in the pews.

"They say the same thing naman." Mom was silent. Perhaps she wasn't done yet with her intentions.

"But you know what, in the end, it's not the Visita Iglesia we're after."

"It's the bonding between a mother and her son."

"Oo nga..." she finally agrees.

We left after saying the Sorrowful mystery, only to be cornered by volunteers selling candles. For some reasons, mom bought one despite its one hundred pesos price tag. She decided to light the candle at the Altar of Repose, just before the two strangers came and assent our epiphany.

Bonding (First Part)

"Anak, may lakad tayo sa Thursday ha?" 

"Yes ma..."

She would tell me this over and over since Palm Sunday. It was about her plan to go Visita Iglesia to make up for the one she missed last year. Being the more spiritually connected, she had set her mind to go on a pilgrimage. To fulfill her journey, she would need me around.

Searching for a companion, a street navigator, and for someone to push her wheelchair as she moves from one church to another, any mother would pick her son.

As for me, the Visita Iglesia is just an excuse to leave the house and see the city - at a time when everyone travels to the countryside. I would also love to stay home, and spend my remaining rest day docked in my pad. For this reason, I received her invitation lightly. At the back of my head, I would be more pleased to know that she's changing her mind. So complacent I was, even the churches to pick for our destination wasn't even final yet the night before.

"Any church that is far from the main street would do." I thought. 

"Ma, dun tayo sa simbahan ng mga mayayaman." I said before going to bed.

We left at past 4 in the afternoon. The matriarch took longer to prepare because of the spiritual talk and recollection she saw on television. "You should watch it," she almost said. Eating little during lunch, plus the warm weather didn't help. Temper was already rising even before we reached our first destination.

At the Most Holy Redeemer Church in Araneta Avenue.

"How do we start?" 

"Say your intentions and your prayers." She said. 

But my head was too cluttered. I was distracted to really listen to what my heart felt.

"Sana pala dinala ko yung Bible ko..." 

"Bakit nga ba hindi?"

"Nawala sa isip ko eh."

"Yung rosary mo, iniwan mo rin ba?" 

"Opo." Despite my lack of preparation, it didn't upset her at all.

Eventually, we settled to do the Station of the Cross after buying a booklet from a vendor. That's on top of the Sorrowful mystery we have to pray for each church we visit. The mass was about to start, but I insisted on leaving. 

"Doon na lang tayo sa Mount Carmel mag-mass," 

Not knowing that the church holds a single Eucharistic service on a Maundy Thursday, my flawed decision would spoil my mother's original plan for our holy trip.

-tobecontinued-