Pit Senyor!

Whenever I see photos or footage of the Black Nazarene procession, I recoil from them, perhaps to distance myself from a facet of my faith that I am uncomfortable with. Unfairly but inevitably, I cannot help but contrast the spectacle with the Sto. Niño processions I witnessed and participated in throughout my life. How different it seems to my biased eye. How gentle the crowds can be at the Basilica and when they walk the streets of Cebu, when they wave their hands to the plaintive tune of the gozos for the Child Jesus. I can never stop my tears from falling when I sing it with the crowd.

When I think of the Black Nazarene devotees, I cannot imagine how they can endure hours walking barefoot or brave the possibility of death in order to profess their devotion. Whenever one or two of them are interviewed, they always point to more or less the same thing: profound gratitude for graces already given or deep desire for prayers still unanswered. However differently people may choose to manifest their faith and devotion, their motivations for doing such are strikingly similar.

Perhaps it is this recognition of the same desire in so many others that makes me tear up whenever we sing the chorus of the gozos, “Kanamo maluoy ka unta, nga kanimo nangilaba.” And to underscore our desperation, we say it twice and return to it after every stanza. Then, we add to it by waving our hands in unison, in a movement that is part dance, part prayer and ultimately pure longing. As if our need for help is so strong, it is not enough to say it with our lips, we must say it with our bodies.

At that moment, when I look at the strangers’ faces around me, even if I have no idea who or what they are praying for, I see my own desperation mirrored back at me. I know what it is to pray for something with my whole being so that it overshadows all other prayers. I know what it is to realize how completely matters can be out of my control and how completely dependent I am on God. I know what it is to fall asleep, weary from saying the same prayer over and over again only to wake up to start praying all over again. Surely, I tell the Sto. Niño in my head, “Surely, You cannot be unmoved by us.”

But desperation is only the other half of the story; there is also gratitude. The feeling of immense joy for the many ways in which petitions have already been answered in the past and continues to be answered is also a universal experience. There is, too, the underlying sense of being completely awed at the surprising way God has chosen to answer us. So at the end of the Mass, we do not think it strange or unusual that the emcee asks us to clap for the Sto. Niño, to cheer for him by saying, “Viva Pit Señor!”

These grand religious events allow us to unmask ourselves before our fellow pilgrims, for it is in communal prayer that we allow ourselves to become vulnerable together. And where we discover that our connection to the Divine keeps us more connected to each other and more grounded on our humanity.