A papal Mass at the gates of Hell

MANILA, Philippines - Three hours before the Pope said Mass at the Quirino Grandstand, my sister and I found ourselves waiting for our turn in the long, snaking line leading to the ticketing booths of Roosevelt Avenue-LRT station. We were not ones to camp out in Luneta and wait for the gates to open; we were fine with the LCD screen and loudspeakers set up along Roxas Boulevard. We had already gone to church in the morning, and our purpose was not really to see Pope Francis in the flesh — we felt it was a lost cause after seeing the crowds on TV — but to participate in a Mass celebrated by the highest figure of the Catholic Church, the direct descendant of St. Peter himself, the Vicar of Christ, in communion with the largest delegation of churchgoers altogether present in a single occasion — that was the privilege we rallied for!

When our father served in Malacañang during President Ramos’ term, my sister had a unique opportunity to come close to the now-sainted Pope John Paul II. Papa, being tasked by the government to handle coordination with the CBCP, decided to bring my sister along to see the Pope up close after the World Youth Day’s concluding Mass, also at the Quirino Grandstand. But being at that awkward age when she was still technically an innocent child and, at the same time, a self-conscious pubescent, she shied away from him. This time, however, without the aid of all-access passes or media IDs, our mission was simple: Be there for Mass.

But it was not easy to get to the open-air festivities. The rains made the trip from Pedro Gil station to Roxas Boulevard an Araby-esque journey over cracked, crooked, and unleveled curbs; an extended game of patintero with other pedestrians who were also avoiding potholes, pools of sewage water mixed with rainbow colored engine oil, and the institutionalized Manila sidewalk vendors who were selling the flavors of the day: foldable umbrellas, disposable plastic raincoats, and Pope Francis prayer cards, T-shirts and fans.

GREATER DISORDER

Once we got out of the narrow street and entered the closed-off boulevard, even greater disorder greeted us. Street children pranced around, splashing puddles on the street; off-duty cops, finished with their tasks in UST, roved around, binalots on hand (unable even to answer where the monitors were placed, as they had been extracted from their original assignments well outside Metro Manila); on-duty cops standing their grounds to form a human barricade surrounding what would be the Pope’s route; vendors everywhere with pushcarts overflowing with freshly steamed peanuts, the more enterprising ones selling plus-sized plastic bags cut around the sleeves and the neckline to double as recycled jackets; patrons scurried about, carrying their images and statuettes of the Santo Niño, looking for a vantage point where they could get a good peek at the viewing screens. Yes, indeed, this was Manila — familiar to us both, having studied at the university along Padre Faura at separate points in our lives — but the oddity of jammed cellphone signals tipped the scale. The scene was enough to make us feel we were on a pilgrimage in an altogether foreign land.

We snuck in and politely excused ourselves to enter deep inside the thickening crowd right under the Filipino-American Friendship Footbridge. People stood on top of Roxas Boulevard’s center island, to the frustration of some audience members situated at the back, deprived of a view. But each time a convoy passed by, each time sirens whirred and zoomed past the lane designated for the Pope, the crowd cheered with loud applause and squealing, regardless of whether or not they saw Pope Francis in his popemobile or not. Accordingly, cameras, tablets and smartphones were raised high, acting as extensions of themselves for that social media moment. It was a strange rock concert, the biggest of its kind, where nobody shoved you in the mosh pit and a request to pass through and get closer to the stage was not frowned upon. An odd rock concert where the performers were even stranger rock stars.

As Mass began, silence veiled the boulevard crowd. Under gray skies and intermittent winds, bodies shook as chills crept over us, who were soaked and stationary. I noticed the old woman beside me carrying a small ceramic statue of the Santo Niño, shattered and split along the neck, but glued together by hot-melt adhesive. I felt a plastic bag of peanut shells get squished and spew water under the soles of my shoes as our clump in the crowd parted to make way for an ambulance passing through. No casualties were reported from the six million who attended; meaning there was, for those crucial hours, not one in six million chances that anyone could die attending the papal Mass.

POPE’S MESSAGES

But the Pope’s messages were clear and cutthroat. Beyond his homily that afternoon, his message was social justice; his message was environmental protection mindful of social equality; his message was responsible parenthood, the protection of human life and of the family as an institution; his message was the greater need for God than the guise of sophistication; his message was to be one with the poor — to suffer and beg with them — and not just to be one for the poor; his call to action was to fight, under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, against corruption and the ills of society. Had he worn no sacred vestments and trappings, had he borne no papal insignias, had he been Filipino, then agents of the status quo could have easily trumped up charges for his brave words and locked him up. But through it all, he would not say he was a progressive. Instead, he would concede only to being Catholic and that he did only what he was called to do — to love.

The Mass carried on and finished uneventfully (except for some Monday morning quarterbacks, I would later find out online, who were only too eager to sweat the small stuff and condemn the emcee to the depths of hell). It was a momentous finish to the Pope’s five-day visit. And while we had no pictures or selfies with him, we felt as close as we ought to be with him. But as we walked to Vito Cruz station, the nearest station that wasn’t closed or cramped with the migrating crowds, a haunting and uncomfortable feeling weighed on me. I wondered on the wet march through darkening Manila roads and alleyways: Will Pope Francis’ hopes for revolutionary changes get lost in his charm? Will his amiable personality ease the acceptance of his otherwise polarizing beliefs? Finally, will it all just fall on deaf ears as the media focuses instead on what he had for breakfast?

Faced with these questions, I could only rely on God — the Christ — for answers.

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