‘Batya’t palu-palo’ Christianity
My friend Remmy Rikken calls it “batya’t palu-palo (washbasin and wooden club)” spirituality. She refers, of course, to folk Catholicism—a blend of fervid native animism and formal Catholic piety and devotion—that surfaces on such occasions as yesterday’s Feast of the Black Nazarene. And because this kind of faith is adopted most fervently by the poor and unlettered, it’s been named after washer women, symbolizing the hardy and hard-working poor.
As if it wasn’t enough that Filipino Catholics spent a major part of Advent attending early dawn Masses, then spending a good part of Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve in church, we ushered in the New Year with one of the most rambunctious and unruly observances on the local liturgical calendar. The local calendar, mind, since the Feast of the Black Nazarene is observed only here, where the image of Christ carrying the Cross, carved from blackened wood, was enshrined in the Quiapo church, although the devotion is also observed elsewhere in these islands.
The feverish devotion is ascribed to the supposedly miraculous powers of the image, and the yearly feast draws the faithful from all over the metropolis who believe that helping haul the image through the twisting streets and alleys of Quiapo district, or wiping a towel or handkerchief on its limbs, assures them that their prayers will be answered.
Devotees, many of whom demonstrate the power of their faith by traversing the Quiapo church’s central aisle on their knees (a practice discouraged by prelates, though as far as I know, it persists), can gain access to the “Poon Nazareno (Nazarene Image)” on other days of the year. But lining up behind the altar of Quiapo church to touch the hem of the image’s robe or wipe a hanky on its foot seems much too genteel and effete. For most of the Nazarene’s devotees, the best and most efficacious way to demonstrate one’s faith is to dive into the roiling mob and fight for space among those clinging to the rope, or throw a towel at the Nazarene’s guardians and hope they can swipe it on the image and remember where the piece of cloth came from.
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Maybe I’m from the wrong social class, or my Catholic education in an all-girls’ school run by American nuns steeped in the post-Vatican II ethos ill-prepared me for batya’t palu-palo Christianity.
If so, these factors have also alienated me from the deeply personal, irrational but energetic brand of Catholicism so eagerly displayed by the Nazareno’s devotees.
Or maybe it’s just me. I remember a childhood spent accompanying my mother on her weekday devotions—a visit to Quiapo where I observed the kneeling commuters, an hour spent in meditation before the altar of Sta. Cruz church, and an obligatory visit to the “church” of Divisoria where she bought yards of cloth and treated me to lunch at Aling Sima’s—and vowing to myself that I would never subject a child of mine to such mind-numbing activities.
It was also Mama’s early morning nagging on Sundays to jump out of bed and get dressed for Mass that led to my alienation from the rituals of old. I admit that there are some Sundays when I’m taken by a sudden itch to dress in my Sunday best and haul my family to church. But that is soon overcome by inertia and the delights of the Sunday noontime TV shows and the Sunday crossword.
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So you can understand why I take a rather standoffish attitude toward Monday’s fiesta. And as a citizen I have to wonder if separation of Church and State is not somehow violated by the huge public expense of providing police presence, security, tying up traffic and looking after fanatics who keep fainting, collapsing, breaking limbs, or end up trampled underfoot by other believers.
Indeed, in the days leading up to the Feast of the Black Nazarene, it seemed as if nothing else was happening in the country. It was as if Quiapo, once memorably described as the “armpit” of Manila in a guide book, had become “Ground Zero” in these islands. And no amount of warnings, including a personal appearance by no less than P-Noy who sounded an alarm regarding alleged terrorist presence in the feast, could keep the crowds away.
I’ll never understand what would draw otherwise sane and sensible personalities to Quiapo on this day, chucking their footwear, wrapping damp towels around their heads, and bringing their desires and prayers, their desperation and their hopes, to the foot of a dark wooden image burdened with a huge cross.
Then again, maybe it’s not for me, or other skeptics, to understand. For without faith, as St. Augustine remarked, there is no understanding.
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As I write this, the procession is still winding its way through the districts of Quiapo and radio reporters say the statue may not return to its perch on the church altar until after the sun sets.
City streets and gutters are said to be buried under a blanket of trash, while devotees, who managed to escape the crush of the rope-wielders, were already espied on sidewalks, drinking if not already drunk.
This morning, I would guess that the metro’s army of street sweepers would be busy cleaning up the mess (and the vomit) and returning the grimy district of Quiapo to a semblance of its old self. Chances are, many of the petty thieves and bag snatchers that make life precarious for ordinary folk in the area took part in the devotions, atoning for a whole year’s worth of criminality by a day’s show of faith.
But that’s batya’t palu-palo Christianity for you. No sense of irony or contradiction, only a strong and unwavering belief in Divine Providence and forgiveness.
