simbahan

23 August

Dear Father,

Buona sera! Come sta?

I'm just sending a picture of my favorite church in Rome, the Chiesa di San Clemente, where I attended mass tonight. Were you able to celebrate mass there when you were living on one of these Seven Hills? It's much smaller than the other basilicas, and certainly tiny compared to stupendous St. Peter's, but I love the way it defines the many-layered history of the Eternal City. All throughout the mass, I felt transported- as if I were smoking pot in an Amsterdam coffeeshop... I couldn't get over the fact that this simple 12th-century church at street level was built over a 4th-century church that was, in turn, built over a 1st-century Roman house containing a temple dedicated to the god Mithras!

I can only agree when journalist Corrado Augias, who grew up near the Via Appia, writes in The Secrets of Rome (2007),

Where can we begin the story of the universe that is Rome? In a city as contradictory as this, filled with all the glory, ruins, and dust left behind by past centuries, it's possible to see traces of every human event and sentiment in its history- the bravery and cowardice, the generosity and indolence, the resourcefulness and louch limpness of the lazy. There's not a single event in its past that hasn't left a sign, scar, or scratch on its hide. Rome will never be a city of order, symmetry, events that unfold according to plan, or the coherent result of urban planning. If human history is nothing but violence and tumult, then Rome has been its mirror over the centuries, capable of reflecting each and every detail with painful fidelity, including those from which we would willingly look away.

In some ways like Manila, no? But with a longer, even more violent past. Surrounded as you were by classical and baroque art and architecture- and breathing air permeated by a conscious, appreciative enjoyment of fine things, la dolce vita- I couldn't believe you were upset with Cardinal Sin when he personally spirited you here at the height of the authoritarian regime- to save your skin.

On the other hand, I can see why as a priest you would prefer our airy, tropical churches back home: ours may not have the richest decorations, but they are living churches, full of people who fervently hold the faith. In San Clemente's Church, there were less than a dozen of us attending mass with the priest and his sacristan- half of the others in the group were Asians, probably kababayans- and to think that it's a Sunday! 

And when People Power happened in 1986- sunshine would have been heralding the end of winter's chill- how you must have longed to breathe the air of hope and anticipation, to feel the electricity of a multitude that even the wide arms of the Piazza San Pietro would not have been able to contain. Between the ancient chiesas of Rome and the living simbahans of Manila, which is the better choice? Looking at them through your eyes- the eyes of a priest- the answer is as clear and unblemished as the blue tropical sky.

I hope you take solace in the fact that even the late President Cory- most people now call her Tita Cory- wasn't in Manila when People Power happened- the Mother of People Power was praying with the brown caped Carmelite nuns in their convent in Cebu.

You weren't able to visit her wake, were you? I thought of you when I paid my respects- how even as you recognized the shortcomings of Tita Cory as President, how she couldn't stop the self-aggrandizement of some people around her, you respected her as a person. You once recounted how she personally served lunch to you and a fellow priest in her home after your return from exile here in Italy- from the tone of your voice, I would even say you're fond of her. And you were allies in so many causes. And so I wanted to pray for her for you. I didn't know if it was possible, but I remembered how you sometimes made me your spiritual ambassador, how you asked me to send your wishes to people. So I thought I might be able to do it.

I felt like five hundred saints and angels led me through La Salle that night. It was almost midnight and I had heard about the crowds on the radio but I didn't see them. And then I got lost in the darkness- it was my first time in that campus. Each time I reached a gate or a door, however, a guard or usher would smile and open it for me- and when I realized there was a line, and that it stretched forever behind me, I was already near the ramp leading up the gym where Tita Cory's remains lay in repose... I was a bit confused, but the people behind me said nothing and instead pressed me onward...

And then God granted my second wish. We only had a few seconds to view Tita Cory's remains, and there was the distraction of TV cameras and a jumbo screen. But when it was my turn to shuffle past, in the time it took for me to make the sign of the cross, I was able to focus and join my heart to God's, and I felt that your heart was in there praying for her too.

And three Wednesdays ago, for the second time, you and Tita Cory joined the Power of the Multitudes, not physically, but in spirit.

I now have an idea where you are and am mailing this letter to that place- I go there to watch the owls. I hope to visit you after this sojourn to get your advice and blessing. Tomorrow morning, I'll go to Piazza del Popolo and imagine you and Gandhi in conversation while strolling to the top of Pincio Hill. For you, Gandhi, and Tita Cory, I will take in the bella vista of the city where once all roads led.

ArrividerLa and God bless!

Yours truly,

Voltaire