Vengeance and mercy

February 3, 2009

Davao City is abuzz with Mayor Rodrigo Duterte’s revelation that a popular parish priest, the spokesperson of Davao Archbishop Fernando Capalla, was in fact married. It was bannered by the two community newspapers here (for Sunstar’s take on the issue, click here).

Yes, Duterte all but threw the kitchen sink at Fr. Pete Lamata. And for what? Well, apparently the priest was politicking and, according to the mayor, actively blackballing him before the parishioners in his sermons. And horror of all horrors, the priest facetiously referred to Duterte’s daughter, Davao City Vice Mayor Sara Duterte, as Inday Badiday.

Now there’s nothing wrong with name-calling, he said, if used in the spirit of fun but when laced with mockery, that’s a different story altogether. And the mayor’s response? He dropped the bomb on the priest’ marriage during his public service program “Gikan sa Masa, Para sa Masa.”

And so here we are. Some people have been asking why our paper did not carry the story. For two days in a row, newspapers have been having a heyday writing all the angles to the story. The queries beg an explanation: was it a legitimate story?  

I say it is. On any other day, it’s a story that warrants a one-column treatment at the very least. I closed the paper on the day the story broke but I decided we wouldn’t be dragged down in the muck. Sure, a priest being actually married is a legitimate story but there’s something supercilious about the information coming from the mayor with an axe to grind. Duterte’s intentions were clear: to sully the name of the priest not at the public’s interest but to serve as a warning: he’s not beyond kicking you in the balls if you touch any of his children.

True, you wrestle with a pig and you get dirty. And the pig will like it.

I can understand his protectiveness but when you throw your children into politics, you’d expect their immaculate shirts to get dirty, wouldn’t you? Duterte is not even beyond reproach, so how can he expect his children, who are holding high positions in the local government riding on his coattails, to be untouchable? In politics, as in love, everything is fair game.  

What the story would be about instead is the reaction from priests and explanation from the archbishop.
For one, I didn’t know that you can go back to priesthood even if you’re married but apparently, based on Capalla’s statements, you can.

The archbishop admitted that indeed, Lamata as a young man “had gone through a civil marriage with a woman.”

“According to Church law this is a serious violation which brings about an automatic suspension from the priestly ministry. So Father Lamata was suspended.

“According to the same law, to be forgiven and restored to the priestly ministry, there are steps and procedures to be followed aside from humble repentance and separation,” Capalla said.

Now, that’s something I’d expect the public to be interested in rather than the information after the fact, and relayed through very suspicious intentions no less. I wonder though how the Church can accept back a priest separating from his wife in order to serve his parishioners again when it has been savagely denouncing divorce on the argument that marriage is sacred? What about the vow of celibacy then? The priest did dip his peter on somebody’s bush. Doesn’t that count for something?

Of course, my interest is purely scholarly based on the questions above. I could not care less if the parish priest is married or not. Nor am I advocating for him to be banned from practicing priesthood because that’s between him, his parishioners, and their God.

The gatekeepers

July 5, 2007

Okay, I’ve held on long enough on this.

The powers-that-be in the church laid down a dress code for those who want to hear mass. Under the dress code, women should not wear short skirts, skimpy shorts, sleeveless blouses, tank tops or spaghetti-strap tops and plunging necklines. Men, on the other hand, should avoid shorts and basketball jerseys (good! I could still wear my tank top, woohooo!).

Instead, women should wear long gowns (?), dresses or collared blouses while men should stick to “long-sleeved polo shirts, collared shirts, or t-shirts paired with either slacks or jeans.”

The dress code was initiated because, apparently, some parishioners were “scandalized.”

Uh, okay.

What about a sleeveless blouse that makes it scandalous? If these perverts find something arousing about a bare arm, then they shouldn’t be going to church, they should be committed to a mental institution.

The mini-skirt?  Who gets off from underwear peek-a-boo aside from the priest? The layout of the church, where every parishioner faces the pulpit would make it near impossible to look around for panties under the mini-skirt, except for the priest who’s got the VIP view that is, and I don’t hear him complaining.

Tank tops, spag straps? Please! How could you strip the girl naked in your mind (we do that, you know) while a giant image of Christ nailed to the cross is bearing down on you? Sure, there are men who possess the cojonés to actually do this inside the church but if you could do that while guilt is pounding a sledge hammer the size of a truck on your conscience, I say good luck!

These hypocrites need only to go outside the church’s door to see a mass of poverty — beggars in frayed clothes, vendors in shorts, teens peddling sampaguitas in sando (tank top if you’re rich). So now we’re going to exclude them from the collective?

What about that old woman selling candles with no bra on? Should we now flag her for immorality?

I have a better idea. Instead of chastising those who violated the dress code, I say throw out those hypocrites who were “scandalized” by the way others dress up. See, if they think the blouse of a parishioner plunges dangerously close to George W. Bush’s IQ level, then they’re not paying attention to the Eucharist in the first place.

While we’re at it, throw away those bishops, or pope or whoever issued the circular, for listening to these hypocrites. I know why they give these hypocrites their most favored ear and it’s not because they think alike. It’s because these hypocrites, garbed in their best Sunday dresses to impress other parishioners, are the church’s biggest contributors. See, they try to buy their way into heaven and the church is all too eager to advertise — in neon no less.

These people are so busy looking around for somebody to put down so they could feel good about themselves that they fail to notice a little detail about the thorn-crowned man suspended on the wall, bloodied arms outstretched, and head bowed in eternal curtsy.

That’s right fuckers, Jesus Christ is naked.  

 

Holy Crap

April 18, 2007

I remember exactly when I stopped going to church. It was my birthday during my second year high school, the first day of Misa de Gallo. It was still 4:30 a.m., but the air inside the church was stuffy, nearly clotted by the sheer number of people inside. It felt like we were Jews during the Holocaust about to be gassed.

I was sandwiched between two massive bulks, a mother and her daughter I guess. The daughter gave off a scent that could only be described as vinegary sweetness — a blend of sweat and perfume. Meanwhile, the mother, well, forget the mother. I huddle closer to her daughter. Two grown men in front of me blocked my view of the pulpit. The hum of the priest's voice ricocheted around the walls. I felt very drowsy.

I heard the priest bless the cup containing the "blood of Christ," I strained my neck and I couldn't see what he was doing. I heard the priest bless the Holy Eucharist, I tippy-toed and still I couldn't see what he was doing. Fuck this!

I stormed out of the church and went out to buy puto bumbong. Never paid much attention to priests since then. Oh, I've been to church several times. I even attended Misa de Gallo again and attempted to finish the traditional nine mornings. I would have completed it, too, if the girl I was courting that time (and that is why I was escorting her) hadn't said yes on the 7th day. So the day after, she went to mass alone. Hehehe.

So what went wrong? It seemed silly to drop religion on account of a little acidity from some girl's armpit, wasn't it? Yes, it seemed silly but, to borrow a worn-out phrase, that was the last straw.

I grew up with my lola in an old house stuffed with religious images. Aside from the Holy Family, we also had a Sto. Niño, the Sacred Heart, a big rosary, and a poster of Jesus Christ. I grew up venerating these icons, especially the Holy Family — more prehistoric than my lola, I was told.
(Hmmn… antique? Ka-ching!)

Back then, we prayed a lot. I was quite adept at praying the rosary and could recite the mysteries backwards; the Angelus at 6:00 p.m., the way of the cross to Shrine each Holy Week; I even knew how to pray the novena for every occasion, sa patay, sa buhi, sa hapit na mamatay. When I wasn't at home, I was at the catholic school I go to and you guessed it, recited the rosary, prayed Our Father and droned out the Hail Marys. Oh, almost forgot the three o'clock prayer.

No, there's no Eureka moment nor was I hit with a thunderbolt which triggered a sudden realization that all my life I've been had by religion. My reason was much more mundane and bland than that. I just got tired of it all.

Which gets me thinking… why is it that priests speak in monotone? No, scratch that. Why is the whole Eucharist conducted in monotone? The voice of the priest, the songs, the melody — all make for a banausic impression. I have a theory. I think, it's a grand conspiracy. The lifeless, bromidic ritual taps into our alpha waves or something, lulling us into relaxation and therefore more open to suggestion. You remember those tapes back in the 80s that supposedly dribble satanic verses when played backwards? I think when you slow down the ceremony just about right, you could hear subliminal messages whispering "we are the way or you're going to hell" or "give more to the collection plate or you're going to hell." They have nearly two millennia to perfect the system, right?

I mean, all that ceremony and what do we get!?! The Holy Eucharist which is no bigger than a five peso coin. The priest doesn't even allow us to sip the wine! At least, other religions feed you with a sandwich and juice. If you have to be fucked in the behind, might as well be fed for it. I draw the line with Quiboloy and his Kingdom of Christ, however, they not only not feed you, they make you sell pulvoron in the guise of scholarship as well. The only thing which sucks more than that is my blog.

I've been called a lost child, an agnostic, atheist, or even a satanist. Sometimes I welcome the labels, just so I know I belong to something. Don't get me wrong, I envy those who don't question and just let their faiths steer their destiny. They seem so cute and placid, like sheep. Awwww…

It's easy to think that being amoral sans responsibilities is fun but it's difficult to suspect what has dominated and continues to dominate all aspects of my life; it's especially difficult to doubt when it's all I have left of my lola. If nothing else, religion was our connection. She was proudest when her apo led the novena for the first time and our neighbors praised my skill. She never said a word but I'm sure she looked at the empty space beside her when she recited the Angelus in front of the Sto. Niño.

My lola is now dead. I cried hardest when at the time she needed it most, I couldn't even allow myself to recite a short prayer for her. I wanted to but that seemed hypocritical. I guess at that moment, there's no turning back for me.

Yet, this whole crap is so embedded in me that even as I conclude this entry, I mentally make the sign of the cross.