Sunday sermon

Last Sunday my friend Leah and I were on a speeding jeepney that sounded like a machine gun on our way to the National Museum. And then we hit traffic. The air stopped rushing in so it sat with us in the mid-afternoon heat, waiting to be carried off again. We inched our way toward Quiapo, a place where just a few days before millions of devotees had converged around a black statue of Jesus Christ. They call it the Black Nazarene. I wondered why millions flocked to see him every year. I entertain the idea that they find comfort in a Jesus who looks like them.

Like most jeepneys on a Sunday, you have nicely-uniformed employees going to different supermarkets or pharmacies or bakeshops to work. But most of all you’ll see more families in a jeepney on a Sunday than you’d typically see on a workday. Mom’s, dad’s, children toting their Sunday’s best with babies sitting on their laps. Every time I see a tiny baby in a smoking, speeding, shaking cage of metal from World War II I’m reminded anything is possible. I joked with Leah about one of these babies, holding on to one of the metal bars in the jeepney window as the jeep zoomed and dodged through Manila streets before we encountered traffic. “Look how she’s holding on to the bar,” I said. “We learn early!”

In comes another passenger but I don’t notice him at first. After a few minutes Leah turns to me amused by something. She whispers that the man who had just entered the jeepney was staring at her. Which didn’t surprise me since Leah is pretty, and looks “foreign.” We giggled a bit. We weren’t very discreet about it but we tried. It’s a bit difficult when the person you’re talking about is 10 inches in front of you.

All of a sudden he sparks a conversation. As if the jeepney metal and the awkwardness caused enough friction in the mid-day heat to make an actual spark. The new passenger breaks the ice for us which I’m thankful for, and like any other person wanting to small talk while stuck in traffic, he talks about the traffic.

“Tagal ang trapik! Baka may aksidente.” (The traffic is taking a while! There might be an accident.)

“Oo nga. Usually po mabilis ang trapik dito sa Sunday e.” (I agree. Usually the traffic is faster here on Sunday’s.)

Somewhere between our bad taglish and Recto Ave, he finally asks me the question he’d had all along.

“Parang ibang lugar ang barkaka mo, taga saan siya?” (It’s as if your friend is from another country, where is she from?)

“Tanong lang kayo po,” I then gesture to him that he should ask her himself. Leah agrees, “oo po, tanong lang!” We’re all smiling now, ice broken and melted and lifted as we all engage in light-hearted conversation about traffic, Leah’s Pinay-ness, and him sharing about a woman he knew who lived in Japan but knew tagalog nonetheless. We all agreed that location didn’t dictate one’s Filipinoness, which then inspired him to talk about something that transcended not only location, or Filipinoness, but the material.

He talked about how our “katawan” is temporary as he gestured toward his body. The only english words he used were “material things”, as if there were no tagalog words for such a foreign and meaningless phrase. I am hooked, not noticing that the jeepney is speeding once again. Or were we still stuck in traffic?

Our limited tagalog comprehension coupled with the noise on the street made it a bit hard for us to understand him but luckily there are a few tagalog words we pick up. He talked about the importance of “pasensya” (patience). He also mentioned the importance of having a “guro” (teacher). I have a tough time determining if he meant the tagalog word “guro” or the Indian word “guru” but it doesn’t matter because I realize they’re the same word. I was reminded of my days in college where I was focused more on Philippine history books than Accounting 100. I remember falling upon possible connections between the tagalog word for “mahal” (expensive) and the Urdu word “mahal” (palace). And the ancient pre-Spanish writing system in the Philippines called “Baybayin” that may have roots in Kawi, which in turn has roots in Pallava from Southern India around the 6th century.

Eventually we arrive at Manila City Hall, the landmark I was most familiar with, and we hopped off. “Salamat po!” we say to him as we rush out of the jeepney, pressured to hop off as soon as possible before it stutters forward to pick up more passengers up ahead, and to give way to the honking jeeps behind it.

On our way to the National Museum Leah reflects upon what our guro had shared with us. Leah enlightens me that the traffic, the heat, and their “staredown” as she jokingly called it, were necessary. As if it was meant to be. We discuss a bit about our own beliefs. We talk about Catholicism, Jesuits, social justice, the Pope.

Eventually we get to the museum and she and I are quiet, appreciating the art depicting everything from Spanish priests, Ilokano revolutionaries, and Roman colosseums. The main hall was like a church, its doorway high and wide like that of a cathedral. A statue of an angel stood at the door welcoming us in. The funny thing was that the real spiritual moment, the moment of learning, the moment where I felt the most peace and quiet, took place outside in a roaring jeepney in a language I could not understand in the midst of loud horns, smokey air, and machine gun engines.

(Leah had also written about this same exact jeepney ride. Read her side of the story here!)