On My Self-Inflicted Spiritual Exile
In front of me, I see rows of people sitting down. Some face the speaker intently, while others look at the floor, not to give themselves up for repentance, but to give up the battle for consciousness and drift themselves to sleep. To my right, a family of five are talking amongst themselves about where to eat after the celebration has ended. Behind me, a man in his late forties is thinking about the money he has just earned from approving an infrastructural project with a huge kickback. Beside him, his wife is thinking about the night she spent with a twenty year-old yuppie in a motel. On my left, a man whose face looks like it has worked under the sun for many years looks at the ceiling, hoping for a better future for him and his seven children. At the front row, a manang uninterruptedly recites the names of an endless list of saints. Hanging on the wall, a statue of a dying man nailed on a wooden cross stares at the crowd with such meekness. Outside, children dressed in rags run around carrying garlands of Jasmine and Ylang-Ylang, hoping to earn money for the day’s meal.
This, to me, is the image of a typical Sunday in a Philippine church. Religion, Catholicism to be more specific, has been one of the greatest legacies we’ve received from Spain – a unique blend of papal doctrine and indigenous superstition. Over the past few years, I’ve grown a distaste for stepping inside the great halls decorated with marble statues of angels and saints. I ask myself: “Why should I follow what these people are telling me? Who gave them the authority to tell me what is right and what is wrong? Divine authority? Does a god even exist?” Somehow I find myself drifting between the lines of faith and agnosticism.
frances
