ESPIRITU SANTO CHURCH

Yesterday, as the rains swept Metro Manila, I donned my rain gear and dragged my nephew to come with me to Espiritu Santo Church — right on the corner of Rizal Avenue and Tayuman Street in Santa Cruz, Manila.

I was amazed to find it just as beautiful a church as during the days of my youth.

It recently made the news when its priceless monstrance made of gold was stolen — a symbol of the Holy Spirit; usually left at the altar to symbolize the presence of God in the church. It was supposedly taken by a group of unidentified robbers very early on the Sunday of July 2nd.

I have very fond memories of this church. Being only a few blocks from our house, this was where we went to every Sunday. I had my first communion here, as well as my baptism and confirmation. Actually, I was baptized twice on that very same Sunday — the first was at 10 a.m. and the second was just before noon.

What happened was my godfather’s car broke down while they were en route to Manila from Magdalena, Laguna. He was then the mayor of that town. My parents — suspecting he got tied up in some official business which may have prevented him from attending — went ahead and took me for the 10 o’clock ceremony.

About half an hour after coming home from church, my godfather arrived with his entire family and some friends. It was a convoy of about four vehicles filled with people intent on having a wonderful time. They also brought along a whole roasted pig. My parents were too embarrassed to tell what had happened earlier so, I was rushed back to the church along with all these people to be baptized a second time. I don’t remember ever meeting my godfather while growing up, but he would always send me two bushels of lanzones every year when in season.

Having been baptized twice, I would occasionally tease a devout Catholic aunt, that I was assured a ticket to heaven. But she would quickly argue that had I been truly touched by God while going through those two baptismal rites, I would have been busily pursuing priesthood, or at the very least, had grown up to become an ideal Catholic. You see, something happened when I was about twelve that she did not approve of.

The elementary school I attended had its Catholic pupils taught religion by teachers from Espiritu Santo Parochial School. We were also to go to confessions and receive communion at this church, only a short walking distance from school. Our class was scheduled for Wednesday afternoons for confessions, but one particular afternoon, while sitting on a pew waiting for my turn to walk over to the confessionary box, I was hit with what seemed like a foreboding gloom; making me slowly got up and walked home.

That following Saturday morning, while on our way to his office, I told my father that I didn’t feel comfortable going to confession anymore. And much to my surprise, just like that, my father said, “Okay.” And no further words were ever spoken about it.

Nonetheless, I waited another week, and when assured that it was, indeed, all right with my parents since no other discussions ensued about it, I announced to my brothers and sisters over dinner one night about my decision and our father’s approval of it. No one bothered to make any remark, which I attributed to their lack of desire to question my father’s consent. However, there were giggling from two of my brothers which were quickly halted with just a menacing glare from my eldest sister.

When my eldest brother asked what led to my decision, I said that it just didn’t seem proper that I must confess my sins through a priest — a man. And if I had, in fact, sinned, I should at least have the decency and courage to admit it directly to God and place myself at His mercy. My two brothers were about to giggle again, but beat them to it when I said that masturbation had nothing to do with it — for which I got a slap at the back of my head from my eldest sister for uttering such a vile word as deemed by her.

Incidentally, our dinner table at that time sat eight; just perfect for us eight kids who would eat first while my parents, aunts and household help would eat next. My eldest sister was the anointed disciplinarian whom we called Fraulein behind her back. Such moniker was inspired by her Gestapo-like expertise to instill fear and extract information sans the physical torture; even my eldest brother, only a year her junior, would succumb to her authority.

And so it was, at the age of twelve, I started — which according to my aunt — a life of being a less than ideal Catholic. But, unbeknownst to her and me at that time, it marked the beginning of my long arduous journey towards spiritual search and fulfillment.

All those fond memories came back to mind as I sat there in church yesterday during another rainy Sunday morning.