Chapels and Churches in a Small Town

“I love those connections that make this big old world feel like a little village.”

Gina Bellman, actress

I reluctantly follow Elsa, stumbling down the rocky road toward the purok kapilya (chapel). It is already dark outside – the sun sets at around 6 p.m. year round – and there are no street lights. I'm afraid I might step in a pile of Carabao dung or trip on the rocks or fall in the drainage ditch where I might contract snail fever (schistosomiasis) and destroy my liver. Fortunately, we arrive safely, pass through the front gate and make our way inside the kapilya up the aisle to the front pew.

We sit next to Victor, the chapel guitarist. Together, Elsa and he serve as the choir. Across the aisle sits Rudy Baclaan, the Kaabag or lay leader; the official priest only serves mass once a month, so Rudy serves in his stead. For the liturgy, he wears a simple white Kamasita with a green stole. His wife, Judy, the lector (lay reader), sits next to him, preparing to read the scripture from a wooden lectern set in front of them. 

San Isidro Labrador Chapel in Purok 1B, Montevista

In front of us, sits the altar a simple white draped table. On one side of the cement wall behind the altar hangs a painting of angels pulling a plow in the fields while San Isidro kneels beside them and prays. It's a fitting tribute to the patron saint of farmers and laborers for whom the chapel is named. 

On the other side of the altar hangs a painting of the Christ child looking up at Joseph while he plies his craft carving furniture – also fitting since the main Catholic Church in Montevista is St. Joseph the Worker. (San Jose, Spanish for St. Joseph, was once the name of the town and is still the name of the central city barangay). A crucifix is the only other adornment on the otherwise bare wall along which several lizards scamper. The pews fill slowly – only about 20 people attend the liturgy this evening.

We wait for the liturgy to begin – another Kaabag was supposed to bring the guidelines, but he has not shown up. Some 15 minutes pass, then 30 minutes, then 45 minutes, then an hour. I'm growing impatient and start to grumble. Finally Elsa asks me to go back to our house to get a bible. It will substitute for the liturgy guidelines. I return a few minutes later, bible in hand, and finally the liturgy can start.

The Kaabag heads back to the chapel entrance with his wife and the processional begins. Elsa's strong voice leads the singing of the Ang Tawag (the Call) while Victor strums his guitar, and the Kaabag and a small group march up the aisle. The Kaabag takes his place at the altar and intones, “Sa ngalan sa Amahan ug sa Anak ug sa Espiritu Santo” – “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

It's a traditional service, following the standard order of the liturgy highlighted by the narrative of the last supper and the serving of the holy Eucharist. The Kaabag raises the host and says, “Kini mao ang Kordero sa Dios” – “this is the lamb of God.” Everyone kneels on the cement floor – there are no padded kneelers, not even wooden kneelers, attached to the pews. Communion is served. 

The Kaabag's wife reads a passage from the bible and Elsa makes a few announcements. Finally, two hours after the mass was supposed to have begun, the Kaabag intones, “Tapos na ang liturhiya – “The liturgy is ended.” The parishioners respond, “Salamat sa Dios.” – “thanks be to God.” Yes, indeed. Thanks be to God that the liturgy is over; it's been a long night.

As we turn to leave, a buxom woman in her 40s rushes up to us.

“This is Winnie,” Elsa tells me.

“Pwede ko nimo ipailaila sa amerikano,” says Winnie – “Can you introduce me to an American?” She giggles. I tell her as I've told others I don't know any single men who are looking for brides in the Philippines.

“She is a joker,” says Elsa. “And my best friend.” Winnie does Elsa's pedicures and manicures for the princely sum of 50 pesos (about $1) and often stays overnight at Elsa's home.

Thelma, a gaunt woman in her 60s with sunken cheeks, no chin and a long nose comes up to me. (Filipinos generally have smaller noses and often refer to Americans as “taas ilong” – long nose). Thelma only has a couple of teeth, a deficit common to people in this area as few go to the dentist other than to have extractions. Filings and crowns are too expensive as are dentures although some wear a partial called a pustiso. Most go toothless. 

Thelma is a catechist – a lay religious instructor and a frequent reader during the mass. We've just met, so I'm taken aback when she hands me a card, asking for a donation to pay for her granddaughter's high school graduation souvenir book. Elsa suggests I give her a 20 peso note.

On Sunday, Elsa asks me to attend mass with her at St. Joseph the Worker Church. Two days in a row attending church seems too much to me, but again, I agree begrudgingly.

You can see the church from the highway perched on a hill high above the town, it's long bright blue galvanized roof set in the midst of the surrounding coconut forest; the setting reminds me a little of the medieval cathedral in Chartres, France with it's massive hill top structure dominating the cityscape. St. Joseph's is nowhere near as grand or as old as Chartres. In fact, St. Joseph's is still in construction and has no windows – only a four foot high cement wall with cement block lintels set on cement columns abutting the steel girders that hold up the roof. Still the church does dominate the town of Montevista.

We ride a tricycle past the municipal hall and up the hill, passing a neighborhood of small bamboo homes clinging to the steep sides and peering down deep into the forest at a narrow river stream below. We make our way up the hill and drive through two large steel gates into the church compound. The church stands to one side and to the right are the church offices, a seminar room, and the rectory.

Mare Vising is at the door collecting money for the completion of the church. She is the chair of the Church Construction Committee. We approach and she shakes a box at me filed with coins and bills.

“Palihug hatag,” she cries out. “Please give.”

She hits me up for a 16,000 peso donation to build iron gates on the walls around the church. I feel awkward and don't really want to make the donation – I'd rather give my money directly to the poor of which there are many in the region – but feel pressured to do so, and so nod my head in agreement.

We pass through the entrance, not yet gated, into a large cement structure. The church is cavernous with its galvanized iron roof rising on steel girders some eighty feet above the floor and stretching another 100 yards or so over a bare cement floor. The nave consists of four rows of pews separated by wide columns and running 25 columns deep. A small tiled area covers the floor near the altar. 

For now, the church remains open to an awe-inspiring view of the surrounding mountains and the valley below; I tell myself it's a shame they want to build iron gates on the walls because that will surely obstruct the view. 

Inside the church, nature offers us both the sacred and profane – birds flitter above us singing their psalms in the rafters while a couple of dogs wander through the open entrances defecating in the aisles.

Again, the ornamentation is sparse. There is a small statue of Mary on right side of the altar and another of Joseph on the left side. A vase of flowers sits on the stairs leading up to the altar. Most strikingly, instead of the traditional semicircular apse, the wall behind the altar consists of five triangular shaped recessed niches, the largest about 20 feet tall, with each succeeding bay a little smaller than the last and each lighted with a different color as they lead from the altar to the crucifix.

Elsa is a leading member of the church choir and so we climb up cement stairs to the choir loft in the back of the church and take our seats in plastic chairs, waiting for the mass to begin. The window wall balcony has not yet been completed and a couple of spaces remain open to the level below.

Elsa introduces me to several of the choir members – Rodrigo and Susan Maestra, retired college teachers recently returned from a trip to Australia and soon to become our godparents; their son Rolito, an administrator with PhilHealth; two middle-aged women, Jeaneth Labrador and Rossane Care; and Carlos and Jun Jun, officers in the Montevista Gay Association.

While the Catholic Church still formally denounces homosexuality as a “moral disorder” and “contrary to natural law,” the unofficial attitude seems more tolerant – at least in the Philippines. In fact, the Philippines has recently been ranked as one of the most gay-friendly nations in the world, and the most gay-friendly in Asia. 

And so gays can be open and active in the church although they must marry someone of the opposite sex to take on an official lay position. Elsa is well respected by the gay community since she was woman organizer for the provincial government and headed the gender equality program. Because of their affection for her, Carlos and Jun Jun both urge me to move to Montevista.

“Elsa is a woman of Montevista,” proclaims Carlos. “For her sake, you must move to Montevista.” 

After the mass, we return to Tagum City, but I can see the writing is on the wall. Elsa is a woman of Montevista and Montevista will become our home.