When a nation prays . . . - BY THE WAY by Max V. Soliven

Yesterday, Filipinos all over our archipelago celebrated Easter Sunday in various ways, but certain themes have remained consistent through the centuries of our Catholic faith. It was a day dedicated to prayer, rejoicing, and nurturing in our thoughts and feelings a spirit of "rebirth." There have been sermons enough delivered on the subject of our Lord’s resurrection, so I need not elaborate.

Our Easter service was held at our accustomed place of pilgrimage, the Hidden Temple Shrine of Mt. Pinatubo in Palan, in the hilly lahar area of San Marcelino town, Zambales, just half an hour by road from Subic. This year, at the Mass and service attended by hundreds of devotees – many of whom came all the way from Manila as well as elsewhere in the province – the Hermano Mayor was Zambales Governor Vic Magsaysay.

Vic, as you’d know if you came from Zambales (the homeland of sweet mangos), is running for reelection but he took time off from his busy campaign schedule to join in commemorating Easter on that wind-kissed hilltop located not far from the now world-famous and sometimes still threatening volcano. What made the Mass and the entire affair unique was that we were joined by many Aetas and their children, who live in the vicinity. In this predominantly Ilocano region of Zambales (the late President Ramon Magsaysay’s and Vic’s hometown of Castillejos is right next door), the Ilocano-speaking Aetas are often referred to as mga kulot or the curly-haired ones.

* * *

The occasion stirred in me memories of how we used to celebrate Easter Sunday in my own hometown of Sto. Domingo, in Ilocos Sur. When we were kids, it was – even more than Christmas – the biggest event of the year. In those days, the town was "divided" between Catholics and Aglipayans, with the Catholics – though very much in the majority – still feeling they faced stiff competition from the adherents of the late Bishop Gregorio Aglipay, and his Philippine Independent Church. (In fact, my cousin, Rep. Salacnib Baterina of Ilocos Sur’s first district, comes from one of the leading Aglipayan families, and his uncle, the late Tata Bianong Figueras was the main stalwart of the Independent Church.)

The centuries-old Spanish-built colonial-type church, of course, was the stronghold of the Catholics. (My mother used to insist that my brothers and I serve Mass there everyday. When we were a bit older, the courtyard of the Church – in which we also sang off-key in the Church choir – became a more interesting place, because we young teenagers would congregate there to watch the pretty girls walk by, their eyes modestly cast down although they knew they were the cynosure of attention and admiration, their pretty hands piously clutching their rosaries and prayer books.)

Diagonally across the Plaza, naturally, was the smaller but very active Aglipayan Church. The Catholics and Aglipayans made the Plaza and the surrounding, dusty streets as well as the main highway which cut through the square the "battlefield" of their rival processions. There were – as you’ll recall from your own hometown memories – the usual, mournful, prayerful Lenten processions. But the Sugar Bowl equivalent of the religious clash of the titans was the glorious Easter Dawn procession. "Nag-ungaren! Nag-ungaren!" (He is risen! He is risen!) the participants would sing at the top of their voices, following the priest and his candle-bearing acolytes, while the silver incenser swung to and fro filling the air with clouds of perfumed smoke.

The Aglipayans would begin their own procession at almost exactly the same time, and at one point the two groups would pass each other. A few glares, it couldn’t be helped, were exchanged between each rank of "true believers" at the apostates and heretics on the "other side." But the rivalry was mostly sham, and in a spirit of fun.

The high point of the Easter "march" was the salubong, when the statue of the Blessed Mother – carried on her carosa – met the statue of the Risen Jesus under a gaily decorated arch. The arch was festooned with flowers, but the crowning act was for an "angel", naturally a cherubic-looking little girl chosen from one of the town’s best families, would pop from concealment above in a contraption fashioned to appear like a huge flower fastened to the arch above, whose large petals were still closed. When the "petals" opened, the cherub would be lowered downwards, bestowing rosebuds on the Blessed Virgin’s head.

One of life’s most embarrassing moments occurred when a young cousin of ours was supposed to be the rosebud-throwing little angel. When Our Lady’s carosa halted immediately underneath her petal-like "prison", to the horror of everybody the "petals" stuck. The "flower" refused to open so as to release our increasingly frantic little cousin to descend as an "angel" to do her appointed task. She began crying, her moans and sobs quite audible to us on the ground. The viewing Aglipayans in the crowd began to snigger. Manong Pepit, my more agile male cousin (he died many years later serving in the US Navy), and I were hastily dispatched to clamber up the scaffold and "free" our trapped girl-angel. Manong Pepit, after frantic minutes, managed the feat of swinging himself over the rope which suspended the "flower", and pried it open with his bare hands. Whereupon, the little girl, regaining her composure, started dropping her roses on the ground – but Our Lady had moved on during the interval and the rosebuds missed their mark. (It’s lucky she didn’t grow up to join the Air Force, for she would have been an abject failure as a bombardier.)

Oh, well. We were acutely embarrassed and chagrined at the time, but we managed a good laugh at the incident very much later. So, all’s well that ends well. That was long ago and far away, but I still remember it vividly as if it were only yesterday. Memory plays tricks on you, I’ve found in life. The most trivial happenings are embedded indelibly in one’s recollection, while momentous events slip the mind.

How can I say it? Nostalgia, it’s remarked, is the kingdom of the old. Easter morning always brings with it memories of our Golden Yesterday, when all the world was young and heartbreak not even a cloud on the horizon.

* * *

In the Inquirer yesterday, I read an interesting article by a contributor, Minyong Ordoñez, in which the writer said that "a recent world survey on people happiness showed that Filipinos scored the highest (92 percent) on happiness." The author also noted that "we also got parallel high scores (98 percent) on the importance of religion in our lives."

What was interesting is that, he pointed out, among the countries in the survey which gave average scores on the importance of religion in life were the United States (83 percent), Spain (55 percent), South Korea (51 percent), Taiwan (47 percent), Japan (23 percent) and China (16 percent). But, of course, Communist China doesn’t believe in religion – look at what happened to the Falun Gong.

The writer didn’t identify what organization took the survey, but I can believe its conclusions without the shadow of a doubt.

When I passed through Rome several years ago, while on a swing through Europe, I rang up an old friend who was then our envoy to the Quirinale, Ambassador Sergio Barrera, Jr. When I suggested to him that I wanted to meet some of the 200,000 Filipinos living and working in Italy (many, of course, were TNT but "very welcome" on the part of Italian bosses who seemed to trust them most of all), Serge immediately took me to Church.

"Why Church?" I asked Serge in surprise.

"Because it’s Sunday, and therefore that’s where we’ll find our kababayans," he retorted. And it was true. We went from one Sunday Mass to another, and encountered hordes of Pinays and Pinoys.

Ambassador Barrera was never so right. In all my European travels – whether in Brussels, Antwerp, Paris, Milan etc. – I’ve found the magnificent cathedrals, churches, various duomo, and chapels, only half-full – and most of those worshipping there were foreigners (mainly American tourists) and Filipinos, both overseas workers or tourists, too. This brings me to the conclusion that – while I could be wrong – the two most prayerful nations on earth are the Americans and the Filipinos. The American motto, aside from E Pluribus Unum (Out of Many, One) remains, "In God We Trust" – although the cynical tack on to that, "Others Pay Cash."

Haven’t you noticed at our graduations and commencement exercises? The student valedictorians and salutatorians always thank God – and their parents. The guest speakers invoke the name of God several times. The audience thanks God, too, everytime the guest speaker delivers a short speech, so everybody can rush out to celebrate. My fellow Ilocanos are the worst of all. When they want to thank somebody, they express the equivalent of "God will reward you!"

In my early childhood, my late father, who was a politician, tried to start me young on my way to a political career – but he changed his mind later, saying that politics wasn’t any good and would only break my heart. This was strange, since he was successfully elected and reelected to Congress and the National Assembly three times before he went to war and died at the age of 43. One of the first "short" speeches he taught me to deliver at the age of four was: "Saluyot and bagoong make the Ilocano nation strong!"

This was partly true, of course, but, in retrospect, what makes the Ilocano nation, and, indeed, our entire Filipino nation "strong" is a strong belief in God’s goodness and love and the power of prayer. For all our faults, weaknesses and shortcomings, and our darkest sins, God’s love and redemption are what sustain us as a people. I would not have it any other way.