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LETTER FROM THE PHILIPPINES
JUNE 27 MARKS THE FEAST DAY OF OUR MOTHER OF PERPETUAL HELP. DEVOTIONS VARY FROM COUNTRY TO COUNTRY, BUT THE ANNUAL FIESTA IN CEBU DRAWS HUGE CROWDS
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BY COLM MEANEY CSsR
In 1865, the global head of the Redemptorist congregation met with Pope Pius IX and was given the commission to “make her known”. The woman referred to is Mary, under the title of ‘Our Mother of Perpetual Help’, whose original icon is located in our Redemptorist church in Rome. To “make her known” meant to propagate devotion to the said image, and our efforts over the decades, including my own meagre ones, have reaped a plentiful harvest.
The picture is both simple and solemn, but ultimately revelatory of the unbreakable dedication of Jesus to God’s will. It depicts Mary cradling the infant Jesus and is a lovely portrayal of mother and child – surely one of life’s most intimate and peaceful scenes. Psalm 130:2 sums it up nicely: “As a child has rest in its mother’s arms, even so my soul.”
Yet there is a dark side to this lovely image; its solemnity or gravity lies in the presence of two archangels at either side of the couple, holding between them the implements of the adult Jesus’ passion and death: a spear (which pierced his side) and a sponge (the wine offered to the dying Jesus), a cross and nails. The infant is given a foretaste of his future suffering and death, and how does he respond? In his fright, he grasps tighter onto his mother, but cannot prevent one of his sandals from slipping, due to a nervous shaking of his foot. As an infant, understandably fearful, but as an adult, he faced down those fears and uttered some of the most powerful and hallowed words ever spoken: “Father, you can remove this cup of suffering from me. However, not my will, but yours be done” (Mk 14:36).
Mary looks out at us, with an expression of the utmost sadness, for had she not heard the prediction of Simeon, that a sword would pierce her soul, on account of her son’s mission? (Lk 2:35). She is given the title ‘Mother of Perpetual Help’ because, as she was a refuge to her infant son in his moment of anxious fright, so she will provide solace for us when we face life’s cruelties, absurdities and inhumanities.
DEVOTIONS
Devotions vary from country to country; in the Philippines the weekly novena is held on Wednesdays and draws truly massive crowds, especially in Manila and Cebu, with devotions continuing from early morning until the evening. The annual fiesta, then, is held in June – in Manila always on the 27th, in Cebu on the nearest Sunday. That fiesta day is quite special, yet it is preceded by many days of preparation.
Apart from nine days of devotions in the church, much paperwork has to be done: a permit is needed to have a citywide procession; requests for police presence mostly for traffic control; paramedics, in case of any emergencies, especially due to the crowds and the intense heat; reminders are sent to various groups associated with the event (schools, bands, fraternities like the Rotary Club and others). Early on the fiesta day, the vans and the sound systems need to be readied. The various statues need to be cleaned and placed on their wagons. Apart from the regular Sunday Masses, there is a pontifical Mass with the local bishop and other ecclesial bigwigs, followed by a festive lunch in the monastery refectory and along many corridors, so large is the crowd. There is also a packed takeaway lunch for many hundreds of parishioners coming from a somewhat lower rung on the social ladder – which does seem to be somewhat inconsistent with the Lord’s teaching on organising a party: “When you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you. For you will be repaid at the resurrection of the just.” (Lk 14:12-15)
PROCESSION
At 3pm, the crowd begins to gather for the procession, which will become a massive sea of people wending its way along the
streets of uptown Cebu (the country’s second city). The entire event is another truly magical occasion. Wagons, pulled and pushed by eager devotees, carry images of Our Lady as well as some of our congregation’s saints (Alphonsus, Gerard) and saints popular in the country (San Isidro, patron of farmers, and St Anthony of Padua). At the start of the procession, bands from various colleges in the city take up their positions. Festooned in colourful attire, they will play hymns in between the mysteries of the Rosary which are broadcast from vans, placed at various points in the slowmoving sea of humanity. Students from the various nursing schools in the city (some of whom work in Ireland now) gather by school, instantly identifiable by their distinctive, starched uniforms.
At 4pm the head marshal gives the signal: the Rosary begins, the first wagon moves off and the crowd follows. Intrepid vendors mingle among the people selling two items: candles and water. The latter is necessary in the intense humidity of late June; the former will be lit around sunset and the effect will be truly mesmerising. As the human tide moves along the streets, many families watch from their homes and set up little altars for the occasion. We cross a major boulevard, but because the procession is always held on a Sunday, traffic is light. We pass a fire station, an expensive private hospital, a cheaper public, government hospital, then we arrive at a major intersection, a rotunda in fact, the Fuente Osmeña (named after a local political family). It is now dusk (of short duration, because the Philippines is quite near the Equator) and the candles are lit; furthermore, the lights on each wagon are switched on (generatorpowered).
From the Fuente (literally: fountain), the street dips downwards and extends for half a mile, as we move towards the end of our solemn walk. The sight of the procession from the Fuente is truly beautiful in its serenity: amidst the balmy, tropical dusk, the shimmer of the candles and wagon lights, from a distance of a couple of hundred yards, could hardly evoke anything apart from the magnificent, world-changing line of John’s Gospel: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness could not overcome it.” (Jn 1:5)
It reminds me of an incident some years ago in a rather remote village in the hills of Negros, called Uwakan (‘the place of the crows’). In one townland of the sprawling area, I had visited the 18 houses scattered among the hills, and then later that evening a few of the adults gathered for our prayer meeting (singing and sharing about the Gospel and life). There was fog as thick as pea-soup and no electricity in the area. There we were with our Manila-paper hymns hanging on pegs and our rechargeable flashlights straining against the surrounding, enveloping darkness; the atmosphere was somewhat dull. Then, lo and behold! A voice from the outer darkness: “We have arrived!” Well, it was reminiscent of the Gospel cry “The bridegroom has arrived.” It was the moment to re-think our reality: not darknessengulfed, but promise-expecting. The voice came from one of a group of 15, from another part of Uwakan, at least 45 minutes’ walk over hills and dales, in pitch-black darkness, in the dead of night. One of the men had a hurricane lamp, a most welcome addition to our gloomy assembly. It saturated the encroaching darkness with a luminosity that enlightened our hearts and our gathering for the next two hours. And then around 9pm the 15 ‘prayer warriors’ set off again to return to their homes. As I walked to the house where I was staying (ten minutes away), I could see the glow of the hurricane lamp as the group wound its way over the hills: “the darkness could not overcome the light.”
