It was estimated that there were around 1.7 million people that joined the procession of the Black Nazarene of Quiapo. It took 17 hours for the patron of one of the oldest parishes outside the walls of Intramuros to get back to its shrine from the Quirino Grandstand in Luneta.The procession commerates the Translacion or transfer of the image of Nuestro Padre Jesus Nazareno.
Historically, the image was carved by an Aztec sculptor brought to the Philippines on galleon that caught fire. Surviving from the fiery boat, the lifesize image made from wood survived but burnt its original white color. It is also historical that the first church in Manila which housed the image was built in the first Augustinina Recollect church in the Bagumbayan (Luneta) area in 1606. Two years after it was transferred to a church dedicated to San Nicolas Tolentino. Then it found its home in the Quaipo Church, in 1787, now known as the Minor Basilica of the Black Nazarene.
I have no panata to the Itim na Nazareno. But I would not miss sitting on the Basilica's pews everytime I would go to the area. In faith, I would find myself praying to God in front of that icon which has survived serveral fires, earthquakes, the revolutin against Spain and WWII, with the church being spared from devastation. Many of those devotees testify to the miracles of the Black Nazarene.
This year, I had a chance to have a glimpse of the Translacion, in Luneta, in Quiapo and the nearby area. I went there as an observer, so at least I could get some understanding of what goes on in the feast of the Nazareno, and of what draws the crowd into a mob of the faithfuls. The sober religious who sit in the vigil that night turned into an agitated ocean of people, in the flaming maroon shirts taking the heavy caroza of the Nazarene to its shrine.
The first image that I saw was like the exodus. People from everywhere, were heading to one place. With my companion, I wanted to try to get as near to the enshrined image to kiss its foot or touch even the tip of its cross. But this reminds me of the helpless situation of the woman suffering from profused bleeding, who believed that she would be healed as she would touch even the tip of Jesus' clothes. The line towards the altar was just too long, and we could not find its end even if we were almost near the Manila Hotel.
As that Sunday is also the Church's celebration of the Baptism of Jesus by John, I wonder how many in their times were in line to have their selves baptized in the Jordan River? I wonder too, how those people are thinking of what God spoke about Jesus as his beloved son, that they are there in that feast of the Nazarene? I also wonder how the people understood what God meant when He said that we listen to his begotten Son? Further I ask, how these baptized catholics, devout believers to the Nazarene, live their faith that they embraced from baptism? Compared to the never-endling line and coming of people, how do they keep the flame of their faith burning, as the hype of the celebration comes close to an end?
So we decided just to get near the grandstand. There, during the vigil, I witnessed a reenactment of what probably it was like when Jesus sermoned at the mount. The slope in front of the grandstand were filled with people, of adults and children alike. The elderly and the youth, the men and women and all other gender gathered together. The rich and the poor? That needs some serious investigation. There were those seriously praying and reflecting, and while some are sleeping others are just talking.
On the grandstand, the organizers have prepared a theatrical presentation of passion of Jesus as is reflected in the devotees novena. There were prayers, dancing and singing in between the presentation. What occured to me is like a grand tribal gathering to exercise a religious ritual modernized. A fusion of the pagan and the sytematic religious practice. But if one is just serious to participate in it, the seed of faith grows in spirit that encourages more participation to the rituals.
If the grandstand were the temple, there were also the vendors that sell everything of sort which Jesus would not like for it desecrates what is really holy. Side by the side by the faithfuls were those enterprising individuals that take advantage of the opportunity. Candles, scapular, shirts, hankies that bear the image of Nazarene, are sold everywhere besides the variety of food and other stuffs at the convenience of any person there. The symbols of faith just come with a price.
The atmosphere in the vigil was a mixture of being charismatic, zeal, and at some points melancholic with a tone Filipinism. The songs, the prayers, the theatrical acts were all in Filipino. That probably gives the appeal to draw in a big crowd. The charismatic mood, where people dance in rituatilistic manner, keep of the stage alive and those who are still awake engaged in the vigil. There were candles lit, and small images were abound. Some were praying the rosaries and others their novena, while the event goes on. Whether it is zeal or fanaticism, people remained in the line to get near the image, some others would have their hankies or with their bare hands wipe any other image that has resemblance to the lifesize icon of the Nazarene.
That morning, as I went to Quiapo church, the crowd begins to thicken. More and more people are drawing in towards the grandstand. They were in marroon shirts, pants and shorts without any footwear, walking the stretch of the roads towards were the Nazarene will come from. Some are waving their hankies. It was like the image of Jesus entering Jerusalem. The crowd were jubillant, welcoming to the Messiah. The crowd were with Jesus in his entrance. But the crowd there were the same that denied Jesus and put him to death.
I would really like to feel that ocean of faithful taking the Nazarene to his house. I would like to touch even the rope, or even try to jump off the people and get as close to the image. I would love to do all those things, for the sake of knowing how it feels. But I guess, even if I will be able to do so, I will not be able to tell the experience like how a genuine namamanata would feel.
Even though I was there in Quiapo until past nine, waiting for the procession, I believe it's God's way of telling me that such devotion is not for me to experience. I could see it in the news, I could read it on papers. I could browse the net for its up-to-date real time coverage. That deprivation comes from my personal faith, not in the Black Nazarene, but in Jesus whose temple is the faithful, whose church are the believers, whose image is also ours, and whose Spirit dwells in every heart and mind of those who love him and live for him.
I know and I believe, that I have no need of those hankies, the blessed coconot or jatrhopa oil, a thread of the Nazarene's hair, or a kiss on the image's feet. The Jesus that I know is the same Nazarene, but He is always there with me. From the moment that I would close my eyes and praise His name, He is there as He is always here with us all. I celebrate His presence, everytime in the Eucharistic celebration. I acknowledge his Godhood as He is my Savior, the One from the Father, and One in the Holy Spirit. His miracles come even if we don't ask for them, we just missed to see them when we fail to thank Him.
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