Me of little faith
In the bustling landscape of the largest Catholic community in Asia, my journey through faith has been more of a zigzagging drive through rolling hills and treacherous paths than an idyllic pilgrimage.
It all started with my father’s ambitious quest to expose his offspring to the myriad wonders of the world, including the bizarre realm of faith healing sessions in Parañaque City. There we were, in a cramped room, with a woman on a makeshift bed and a healer conjuring up more theatrics than an off-Broadway showman. My sister and I struggled to contain our laughter as the healer chanted and lurched as if regurgitating the biggest hairball while attempting to exorcise whatever demon had taken up residence in the poor woman. Alas, only our irreverent butts were banished from the premises. Needless to say, it was the last time Papa brought us along to any spiritual event.
Then came high school, where the Dominicans decided it was time for a spiritual retreat for the seniors led by the “singing priest,” the late Fr. Sonny Ramirez. With his soothing midnight-DJ voice wafting in the cool and tranquil Tagaytay air, one could easily expect an epiphany of biblical proportions. But instead of being “in the moment,” all I could contemplate during the silent reflection sessions was the difficulty of convincing the retreat masters that I was affected like the rest of the group. Some of them were even weeping. Safe to say, I left the retreat with my skepticism intact and my soul no more enlightened than before.
It was smooth sailing after high school. No more religion; instead we studied philosophy. No more grumpy priests swatting my hand every time I was spotted giving the finger to one of my classmates; our “tibak” professors knew well enough to mind their own business. No more obligatory church services; like many UP students, I jumped from being a dutiful Catholic lad to a neo-agnostic grownup overnight. Faith took a backseat to edification.
But wait, we had a prof who was an ardent Rizalista. There simply was no escaping his pontification even in the hallowed halls of academia since he was at the time the only one teaching P.I. 100. The high point of his requisite course on the life and works of Jose Rizal was a field trip to Mt. Banahaw, a home visit to one of many who shared his hero worship of, well, a real hero. He could have just shown us a video and spared us from hiking through rain and mud, but he insisted that a little sacrifice goes a long way in turning one into a believer. Sorry, Sir, but it didn’t work. Bringing us to their temple could not make us forsake one idol for another. At best, it made for a good story to share with the kids when it’s their time to study Rizal.
Sometime later in life, when I had children of my own to preach about God and religion, I found myself face to face with the legendary Fr. Fernando Suarez, renowned for his healing prowess. With my bum knee, I approached the altar in hopes of a divine solution. Alas, despite the late healer’s earnest attempts—he poked my forehead twice and I was supposed to fall backward in a game of faith into the arms of waiting attendants—my knee remained as creaky as ever. I couldn’t help but feel like the odd man out in a room full of spiritual success stories, or the only kid at Hogwarts who couldn’t perform a simple levitation spell.
But just when I thought my skepticism had reached its peak, my uncle, a self-proclaimed sinner with a heart of gold, worked his own brand of miracle during a casual Italian dinner in Makati. With a touch and a whispered prayer, Uncle Totoy (not the pa-sosyal Tito Manny) banished my knee pain faster than you can say “Leave the gun, take the cannoli.” It was a moment of disbelief tinged with gratitude, leaving me questioning the mysteries of faith and the power of a well-timed pasta dish.
And then, of course, there’s the infamous “Miracle on the Skyway,” where Uncle Totoy’s reckless driving somehow led to a divine detour to an inexistent “Bicutan” off-ramp that spared him and my Aunt Raquel from becoming yet another statistic on the highway of fate. This unexpected —impossible, my uncle would insist—diversion sparked a spiritual awakening for the erstwhile skeptic, leading him to reconsider his stance on a higher power and even discover newfound healing abilities. Armed with a tale as baffling as it is enlightening, he embarked on a journey of redemption, trading in his former cynicism for a divine sense of purpose. He has begun pro bono healing sessions not only in Bicutan, where his personal miracle occurred, but also in other locations like Tagaytay.
Call it fate, call it luck, or call it a cosmic comedy of errors, but one thing’s for sure: in a world full of skeptics and believers, sometimes the lines between the two blur in the most unexpected ways.
So here I am, a reluctant pilgrim on the winding road of faith, still grappling with the miracles and mishaps that define my spiritual journey. Who knows what lies ahead? Perhaps, my own encounter with a celestial healer, or maybe just another round of pasta and prayers with my uncle. Either way, I’ll be keeping an open mind and a skeptical heart, ready for whatever divine comedy awaits.