Why We Sing at Mass

Is worship participation influenced by economic status? In my years of experience, the poor sing and participate more than the affluent. There is no statistics that would prove this, but having said masses in congregations raging from the rural and urban destitute to the high-brow, a priest cannot help but wonder. It is easier to encourage the poor to sing than to coax the rich to open their glossy lips to praise the high heavens.

We don’t do something unless we know why. This is the bane of the educated: we must know the rationale behind everything that we do. And probably this is also the reason why we don’t sing particularly at mass. Many people spontaneously hum a melody when they are inspired. They sing anywhere, from the privacy of their personal potholes to the public park. Except at church.

The church is a place of the divine. It is sacred. And when a specific area is marked as holy, our behavior changes. We clip our wings when we enter the sacred door, but when we are out of it, we become exuberant. Our psychological tapes of our parents’ voices plays in our mind, telling us to ‘behave’ in church. To behave means to be quiet at mass, endure the boredom, and offer the suffering to the Lord. In other words, to be inactive, as if we are to imitate the sacred statues of saints on the sanctuary.

In addition, we were brought up attending masses that were priest-centered than congregation-focused. In the past, the priest faced the altar, unmindful of the pews and those who sat there. Participation was not in the liturgical vocabulary of our parents who were influenced by the old school before 1965, the advent of Vatican II.

But the Church now is the same, but different in many ways. The mass is not the “show” of the priest, but the event of the whole congregation gathered, including the presider. The priest is not anymore called the ‘celebrant’ because the mass is everyone’s celebration. The priest is now called the presider, because he prays on behalf of the congregation from whom he has been chosen. Today, the priest faces the congregation to acknowledge their importance in the celebration. When a priest is ordained, the bishop asks the congregation if he is worthy of the Sacrament of Holy Orders. The congregation gives their assent by applauding; the same way when a couple is accepted to the community of believers in marriage. Thus, the mass is very much a community affair.

Unfortunately, the new emphasis on the presence of God in the congregation has not rubbed off to many massgoers. Today, one of the utmost concerns of the Church is to enable “full, conscious and active participation” (Sacrosanctum concilium, Vatican II). In terms of music in the liturgy, it means: sing, sing, sing!

Why do we sing? The document, Sing To the Lord: Music in Divine Worship names four elements. I added the fifth. First, music is a universal capability and means of communication. Everyone loves music. Even the plants. They bloom when the flower grower sings to them. And therefore, music helps us bear fruit. It makes us happy; it articulates our sadness. It makes us pine for our loved one; or let go of them when necessary. It is a natural and universal gift. It is God’s gift to His people. It takes its source from every person. And since God dwells in each of us, then every time we sing, we manifest God’s presence in the world. We can imagine God singing with us; giving voice and melody to our aspirations.

Second, music moves us to a higher realm. Songs of the heart deepen our love. Songs about a brighter future intensify our hope. Spiritual songs inspire us to pray. St. Augustine once said that “singing is for the one who loves.” He explains that the continuance of our longing is the continuance of our prayer. We long for peace and prosperity. And so soldiers sing about their motherland during battle; it gives them courage to fight for the people they love and the peace they desire. We want people to remember the People’s EDSA Revolution, so we sing “Magkaisa” and “Bayan Ko.” Our Philippine National Anthem arouses patriotism; it solidifies our identity as Filipinos. When in foreign lands, how many of us are moved when we hear our anthem? Or we cry when Manny Pacquiao wins a fight. We cry not because of Pacman, we cry because we feel the passion and pride we have for our country.

Third, music connects us with our ancestors who reveled in this gift. In the Bible, when the Israelites crossed the Red Sea, they sang praises to the Lord. Deborah and Barak sang to the Lord in victory. David and the Israelites “made merry before the Lord with all their strength, with singing and with citharas, harps, tambourines, sistrums and cymbals.” (1 Sam 6: 5) Jesus sang with his disciples when they went to the Mount of Olives. Paul sang with Silas when they were imprisoned. James encouraged his community to sing when happy.

Fourth, music strengthens our faith and moves us to pray. Inversely, uninspiring music weakens it and distracts us from praying. The liturgical prayers at mass becomes more alive and fervent when we sing, and our prayer therefore makes us worship more intensely, powerfully and effectively.

In the early years of formation, seminarians are trained to sing. At least they are able to pick up a tune. In the Jesuit formation program, it is called, the chant class. The singing class is supposed to help the seminarian sing the parts of the mass when they become priests. Sung parts make the liturgy more solemn. However, it is also said that those priests who cannot sing in tune, should rather recite the prayers. Or else, they become the source of ridicule and distraction: the tone-deaf priest will make people sin than sing.

Finally, congregational singing is a symbol in itself. When we sing together, we also show unity. A song becomes a manifestation of a diverse people but one in heart, mind and soul. When we sing the “Our Father” together, our being children united in God becomes felt and real.

Moreover, the dynamics of a song harmonizes with the dynamics of faith and life. The rise and fall of the melody is like the ebbs and tides of life. To create a melody, a note dies to give way to another note. Inversely, if every note is sustained throughout, it produces not a melody but noise and dissonance. It is like the seed that dies in order for it to bear fruit. When our lives are given away for someone who matter to us, and many others follow suit, eventually humanity’s history becomes a song.

We use words, gestures, signs, symbols and music to proclaim Christ’s presence in our lives! We tell them. We raise our hands. We do the sign of the cross. We use tables, images and liturgical decoration. We sing to complete the package. We do everything possible so that everybody can palpably feel the real presence of Christ. We use any thing that would help people pray and participate fully, actively and consciously. This is the reason why St. Augustine said “to sing is to pray twice.” When we sing we exponentially intensify our prayer.

When we strip our worship of many of these elements, our faith weakens. And when it weakens, it dies. All it takes is a repetitive action: don’t sing and you’ll find your heart not in church, but somewhere else.

How We Share the Passion of Christ on Good Friday

Good Friday is never a day of pleasure. On this day, Filipinos are open to sacrifice. They will choose the more difficult penance than any other day of the year. This day seems to be the hottest, even if it is not confirmed by PAGASA. They would forego cravings for a cold refreshment or a desire for rest and relaxation. In Culion, Palawan, all videokes are mute. Because on this day, every individual leaves their usual chores to share and imitate the suffering and death of Christ.

The rituals of Good Friday is communal. The day begins early morning for participants of Alay Lakad, the long walk for God to the Shrine of the Nuestra Senora de Bienviaje (Our Lady of Good Voyage) at the Cathedral of Antipolo, Rizal. Some begin walking the night before. Popular to the young, the long trek combines physical rigor and human company. It is at once a time for God as a time with friends; a time for atonement as a time for enjoyment.

In fact, Good Friday is a multi-layered experience. On this day, the smell is earthy: the smoldering road is combined with human sweat. The sight of devotees whose hands are clasps in earnest prayer reminds us that this day is holy. When the hour of Christ’s death strikes, the atmosphere then turns to be dry and dreary. Good Friday is a long day, but we don’t mind.

And when every thing is brown and bare, we know that it is the perfect time to show, even for once, that the God who died for us, deserves our attention. And so we focus on the Via Dolorosa, the road of sorrow. Families and friends visit holy places to do the Stations of the Cross. Those who visit churches will move from one station to the other, reciting every episode of the Passion and kneeling every time they utter, “For through the holy cross, you have redeemed the world.”

But some take it to heart. They prefer the longer penance: the longer the trek to the last station, the better. So people trek mountains or climb hills to get to the top where the last station is. Now, our penchant for the hardest is satisfied with an additional station ecclesiastically approved by the Church. Like the additional Mystery of Light in the rosary, we now have an additional station: the Resurrection. The Church teaches that we cannot separate the cross from the resurrection; there are sufferings at the back of every triumph. Thus, climbing Mt. Hibok-hibok in Camiguin Island off the coast of Misamis Oriental is a challenge but also a test of one’s fervor. The person who reaches the top experiences Easter.

At around eight in the morning, the sinakulo, a play about the passion and death of Christ is acted in some towns until three in the afternoon of Good Friday. The roles of each character is gladly taken by townsfolk that those who are part of the cast begin to prepare themselves with some sacrifices before they assume their roles.

However, in most towns and now in cities, the passion and death of Christ is not acted, but read or sung. In Manila, you hear the Pasyon being chanted. It’s music ranges from the archaic to the tune of “One Way Ticket” of Boney M. In fact, one of the melodies of the Pasyon is the tagulaylay. The tagulaylay is the chant that nears the crucifixion scene. Its “melody” is difficult to put into a musical score because it does not have a time signature or a tempo, but it is sung like the a warbler’s call: like someone in intense pain.

As you walk the streets of towns, you’ll be lucky to meet local Kristos, male and female, in penitensiya, clad in the purple garb of the Black Nazarene with a hood and a crown of thorns on their head. In Pampanga, Bulacan and Rizal, these people wear a crown of branches and leaves; but in Kalayaan, Rizal, they decorate the crown with flowers, called the haplit. Perhaps this is indeed the meaning of Good Friday. For a person who suffers in the carrying of one’s cross, one can already see the triumph of Easter. Just as we know that a student who burns the midnight oil is guaranteed to graduate; so too we know that when we carry our own crosses in following Christ, salvation is granted. Christ said that those who take up their crosses and follow Him will gain eternal life. It is what the haplit teaches us: the crown of thorns will soon come to full bloom.

At the peak of the day, people begin to flock to the church for the Seven Last Words which commences around one in the afternoon. After the prayer remembering the words of Jesus on the cross, a 20-minute reflection follows. All these end at three.

In whatever form of sacrifice we take, or whatever event we participate in, everything stops at the holiest of hours. At three-o’clock in the afternoon, Christ dies.

At this hour, the official liturgy of the Church begins: the Good Friday Service. It is not a mass because God is “dead.” All crosses and images of saints are covered. There are no altar cloths, candles, flowers, bells and even the final blessing until Easter Sunday. And just Jesus have been stripped of His garments, so too all altars of churches are stripped bare. Priests prostrate themselves on the floor while people join the long line to kiss the cross of Christ.

After the service, people pour out of the church and begin choosing which among the images they like to follow for the procession. Led by the image of St. Peter, the people including the machos who don’t attend Sunday masses carry candles. To these people, Good Friday is the only exception to show their soft spot. But the center of the procession is not St. Peter, but the Santo Entierro, the image of the dead Christ. The procession pauses when the Santo Entierro passes a station designated around town by the parish priest. At dusk, the procession ends in the church where many would fight for the flowers of the images. They believe that these flowers are like amulets; they could ward off evil.

In Bicol and in the island of Culion, Palawan, the event does not end here. The Mater Dolorosa, the image of Our Lady of Sorrows, again embarks on a journey of her own, taking the processional route but beginning from where it ended. That is why it is called, Soledad. The belief is that in her sorrow, she retraced the steps of her Son alone, thus sharing the suffering He underwent. The Mater Dolorosa then ends her journey in the church. Those who followed her in Soledad, also followed her in silence. No words or music can console the Mother of the dead Christ. Theology teaches us that the one and only person who shared most intimately the suffering of Christ is His mother.

As the church end its para-liturgies, there are individuals who take Good Friday as a day of magic. They would spend time at the cemetery to find amulets and “live stones” (buhay na bato). It is said that on Good Friday, one finds visible a ball of fire that leaves stones that could ward off evil. In Culion, Palawan, the Church of the Immaculate Conception is situated on a cliff facing Coron island. Fr. Florge Sy, SJ, the parish priest, attests that from the church, one sees tiny lights appear around the numerous islands off the coast of Coron, traveling to the tip of its mountains. People believe these lights are from another dimension.

Good Friday then is indeed multi-dimensional. We find the magical mixed with mortification. We find animistic elements embedded in the practices of Christianity. We find in the depth of friendship, the fire of faith. On this day, the Church celebrates community. Just as funerals bring together families and friends, Good Friday builds Christ’s Church. Community is forged by a common sorrow.

That is why the pleasures people let go of on Good Friday can be easily refrained from. By mortification, the faithful follow the Church in atoning for their sins. Disciplining the body makes us more sensitive to the Spirit—until next year.

At the end of the hottest day of the year, the common person may be too tired from all the rituals, that they are more than happy to hit the bed — but without taking a bath. Why? Bathing is a cultural pleasure. Foregoing one’s pleasure on the day of the Lord’s death is an abnegation of the will.

So, even if we find it uncomfortable to sleep without the usual cleansing, we are content to think that we too are doing our own version of the penitensiya to the last drop.

However, this is good if we sleep in our own room.

But many Filipinos sleep together. While we indeed share Christ’s death, we are reminded that Christ who died said that charity is over and above everything. So, the people whom we are with do not have to suffer too from our smell.

So as a priest, I will tell you with all my conviction: take a bath. It’s good on Good Friday.

The flagellants and ‘Kristos’ of Lent: simple folks keep the faith

If there is any liturgical season in the Philippines that has character and culture, it is Lent. We hear the pabasa, with chants that date back centuries ago. Spectacular processions and rituals are performed during the season. But on Good Friday, everyone leaves his various concerns and participate in the very death of Christ: the Seven Last Words, the Good Friday service, the procession around town, and in some provinces like Bicol, the Soledad when the Mater Dolorosa retraces the processional path back to the church.

It is the Catholic way of going through slices of what Christ went through for love of us. True, we are called upon to feel as the Lord felt, to love as the Lord loved. But we are not required to literally undergo the physical pains. Not the flogging, nor the carrying of the cross, least of all the crucifixion.

Christ literally imitated

But even as most of us are devoted to our imitation of Christ, others are driven to push its interpretation literally. Thus, we get to see the penitensiya, where the flagellants honor the death of Christ by flogging themselves or having others whip them. We see them moving around town with torsos bare and their backs bloodied. And often, a companion would incise their swollen back muscles with a broken glass as in Bulacan, or with a razor as in Laguna.

While being whipped, lashed and gashed, the penitents would visit holy places like chapels or homes where the pabasa or the pasyon is chanted. And when it is over, usually at noontime, they would rush to the nearest body of water to bathe themselves. In Mindoro, they rush to the sea. They say salt water heals their wounds. And many of them quickly return to their daily chores including playing basketball with their friends in the afternoon.

In some parts of Laguna, boys would wrap themselves in banana leaves and roll on the ground to feel the smoldering summer heat roasting the road, then prostrate themselves in the form of the cross. And then their companion (taga-sunod) would whip their buttocks. Compared to the penitensiya, this type called tinggulong, is less bloody, but no less painful.

However, those who go through flogging and the tinggulong stop short at being nailed to the cross.

There are penitents who do, if only for a few minutes. These are called the ‘Kristos.” Those who take their panata to the extreme.

Taking imitation to the extreme

Blood seems to be critical in crucifixion (as well as in flagellation).

The more blood coming out from their sacrifice, the more likely they are to reach a trance-like state. They find themselves floating or flying and many would faint or seem to faint. Fr. Jaime Bulatao SJ, who teaches para-psychology at the Ateneo de Manila University, confirms that in an altered state of consciousness, a person in a trance may appear to faint or to lose consciousness (nawawalan ng malay).

These extreme penitents, nevertheless, would make sure that the nails are drenched in alcohol or they would take antibiotics to prevent tetanus. And yes, as soon as the nails are driven to their hands and feet, they are taken away right away, for fear they may die in the process.

The participants of these rituals are not male-dominated. Females are known to do the penitensiya or the tinggulong especially in Bulacan or the world-renowned mystical place at Mount Banahaw. They wear the robes of the Black Nazarene and sometimes with curly wigs over their hair. In some parts, hoods cover their heads or flowers decorate their crown of thorns.

One female Kristo is Lucia Reyes. She says she prefers to have more blood expelled in the ritual because it is cleansing.

What brings the Kristos into these bloody rituals?

Jesuit origin of flagellatio

According to Fr. Rene Javellana SJ. when the Jesuits came to the Philippines, they taught the new converts the Jesuit way of life, which included the practice of Jesuit discipline. Jesuit discipline traced its inspiration to the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius. In the 3rd Week of the Exercises when we contemplated on the Passion of Christ, Ignatius left a note to consider: if inspired to feel as the Lord felt in His Passion, we were given the choice to feel it literally. Thus, the use of the flagellatio and/or the catena. You whip yourself with the flagellatio while praying, or you put the chains with protruding thorns (catena) around your thighs so that when you walk you feel its discomfort. By doing so, you share the sufferings of Christ.

Fr. Javellana went on to say that the locals took to the practice readily, but eventually added their own to the practice. The attitude was still part of Jesuit discipline. Ignatius said, if you are to do something for Christ, choose the stricter way. So, not just the flagellatio but the crucifixion.

Very Pinoy and panata-based

Behind every penitensiya today is a vow called a panata. Fernando N. Zialcita said in his article in the book, Cuaresma, that “faced with a serious problem, the devotee promises the Almighty a painful sacrifice in exchange for help.” (Cuaresma, p. 155) At the very least, we find this panata close to the consciousness of the Filipino. In exchange for passing the bar exams, many law students who used to claim to disdain religion or even doubt the existence of God, would return to church, attend mass daily, light candles in churches who honor St. Jude or Sta. Rita, the patrons of impossible cases. They would promise never to disrespect God in exchange for passing the bar exams. In other words, they are willing to throw away their old lifestyles for something they value more. Magnify this, and you get a picture of the consciousness of those who are willing to literally sacrifice for something or someone they love.

And so the penitent becomes a devotee. They know whom they are devoted to that they are willing to give their lives and to suffer in order that the people they love gain back their health or restore their lives into normalcy. The penitent therefore flog themselves to show the sincerity and authenticity of their deepest desires for their loved ones or to fulfill their promise to the Lord after receiving what they have longed for. It is, in many ways, a show of their debt of gratitude (utang na loob) to a very generous and loving God. Our culture has it that a big favor granted should be reciprocated with an equal or a greater amount of sacrifice.

Priestly ambivalence

The attitude of the church to these Lenten practices is ambivalent. As a priest, I feel the same. On one hand, I frown at the literal interpretation of it and cringe at the sight of blood literally dripping from their backs to the road that willingly sips whatever liquid it could find on the hottest day of the year. To me, atoning for one’s sins does not have to reach that far: a mild deprivation such as abstinence and fasting, a few minutes in the confessional, and some meaningful work of charity are enough remedy to free ourselves from the enslavement of sin.

Personally I would give my whole life at the service of people, but not to be crucified literally as Jesus did. Judge me as having a little faith, but that’s it.

On the other hand, I find the extent and intensity of these penitents’ fervor laudable and personally humbling. Compared to them, I may indeed be a lesser Christian. If I can’t do what they do on Good Friday or on any Fridays in the season of Lent, then there is more to it than what I see. Many of these penitents do not belong to the higher echelons of society. Neither are they educated in the halls of Theology or Liturgy.

People’s sense of faith

But Church history and Ecclesiology tell us that when the hierarchy was plagued by scandals and the men and women of the church wavered in their effort to explain the faith, the laity in which these penitents and participants belong to, preserved and carried the faith when the leaders of the church could not. In the past, when priests were not able to go the farthest barrios, the simple folk devised their pabasa, so that they were able to read and sing Christ’s Passion Narratives. With the phrasing and simple melodies of the Pasyon’s chants, they embedded in their memory the Scriptures, like the people of the Old Testament did with their oral traditions. So that even within the limits of their knowledge, they were able to build their lives according to Christ. They were able to do what St. Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits, urged us to pray for: to inwardly feel what the Lord felt in His life in order to follow Him more closely.

In the Philippine Lenten observance, Ignatius’ words were not just done in imagination.

Today, these rituals and the people who perform the penitensiya or the tinggulong witness to Divine Providence. When Church leaders fail, the Lord sees to it that His Word does not go down the drain with them. The people keep the faith, and in our experience, adds to it even if it diverges from the teachings and practice of the church. In Latin, we call this phenomenon, sensus fidei: the people’s sense of the faith.

In the greater scheme of things, it is God whose plan He carries out and no one, not even Church leaders, can curtail its fulfillment.

Related article:

Reinerio A. Alba, Lent, the Filipino Way