Sent to us by Ian Thomson - a home church in Brisbane. This is the experience of a friend of his -
It was a warm September evening a few years ago as I sat soaking in my long deep cast iron bath at 276 Waterworks Road. The house was still and only the white noise of the passing cars moved the ozone. The hot slippery foamy scented water was up to the gunnels and I lay deep in the bowels of pleasure. I hold softly between both hands a long glass of amber mead drenched with a copious mountain of grated ice. Prayer and meditation accompanied me. In the silence the small still voice of God, I will lead you and take you by the hand. Not an audible shout but a whisper within, but not difficult to recognise. What joy to hear after years of drought punctuated largely by my own efforts and energy in doing and maintaining my Christian life in what I thought was the will of God. But the journey and leading was not to be a kind of experience that I imagined.
The journey, the six years’ sojourn, has been one of the most perplexing and mysterious. Places of the dark night of the soul to visit, clouds of unknowing to experience, wilderness spaces, stripping, desert encounters but woven into the tapestry bliss, peace and spiritual blessings, and some, beyond measure. This is a pilgrimage, indeed we are on one of sorts and for myself there is no hint of an arrival point. It is only of recent times that I have begun to see a small shard of light appearing through a long dark tunnel of time. Much of my understanding and journeying is not easy to put into words and I don’t seek to. In addition, there is so much that I just don’t understand. Mysteries – but I am not alone out there. One of the most wonderful blessings of the journey has come through my short time in the Philippines. This letter is focused on that encounter.
I am in the Philippines at the request of the Asian Theological Seminary in Metro Manilla. I am to teach a unit in the MBA program designed to equip professionals, para-church administrators and pastors with sound Christian management practices. The seminary is a key institution supporting the Christians in the Asian Pacific region. It is comprised of servants and more servants, incredibly godly people working at the cutting edge of the urban poor in transformation ministries. I am deeply impressed by their spirituality – an authentic Philippino spirituality that has to be experienced rather than measured or defined. Two of the staff, Athena and Zennet, both deep friends of Charles and Rita Ringma, have been hosting me and introducing me to the Philippino culture and way of life. Two very gracious and wise ladies who live the way of incarnational theology.
The Philippines is not one country but a family of some 7000 islands, even more at low tide. The population is 86 million, growing rapidly with 51% under the age of 25. It has been ravaged by the Spanish, the Dutch, the Brits, the Japanese and the USA. They now control their own destiny but the cost of rape and pillage, plus some awful past government programs combined with corruption, has left them in colossal debt, significant poverty and hardship. There are no government social welfare support mechanisms. But the poverty is not reflected in the faces of the people. They seem to be an unbelievably contented, joyful and peaceful people with a deep, rich spirituality founded in community and through the church which is 86% Catholic.
Today I made a journey into one of the urban poor slums to go to church with Athena. It is a ten kilometre journey from my salubrious hotel replete with hot water, clean bathrooms and luxurious restaurants. We took a train, two jeepnees and one motor-tricycle for four of us followed by a long walk. The travel machinery got lower in class as we journeyed. So did the environment. We moved from the urban rich CBD with the highrise marble facades to the trenches and squalor of the poor. We left behind the business suits and leather shoes for the scantily clad children, in rags and bare feet. We abandoned the serious faces for ones of laughter.
Athena with our Christian guide took us down myriad dark alleyways. Little lanes were covered in litter and grime with the centre marked by a broken line of concrete pavers which barely covered the open running sewers in the street. Either side of the very narrow lanes were the houses of the poor – the very poor. Perhaps houses is too fine a word. They were shacks, sometimes two stories high and sometimes three. They interlocked each other in a haphazard fashion. They were made of old timber, the occasional brick, corrugated iron, tiles and cardboard. They were small, had holes in the walls for ventilation, seldom were doors and windows seen. The alleyways were without direction and formed the kids’ play areas. Here cooking was carried out, washing undertaken, cards played and jokes shared. No running water and very, very little sewage. The smells I will not mention – let the silences speak. However, beyond the filth and squalor people, including the children, all are clean and neat and regardless of the circumstances, laughter, happiness and fun is all around.
These are the squatters. They come from the country regions in search of work, which is in very short supply. They have little or no skills and have to live on the generosity and kindness of the community – which is in good supply. They live on land in the city which is in dispute amongst rival claimant groups. Whilst the lawyers and the vultures fight the squatters set up home. Some throw the houses together and other rent them, and it is not cheap. Crime, drug trafficking and prostitution come with territory, as does infectious disease accompanied by all manner of health problems. There is no resident doctor, or soup kitchens. Welcome to the squats of Manilla.
My first port of call is up a long flight of rickety stairs led by a beautiful octogenarian lady to meet her 47 year old daughter. There is no front door and no security. The daughter’s youthfulness, beauty and peace stand in juxtaposition to her age. I am greeted as a relative. She is dressed simply and is very clean. Her skin is clear, her eyes sparkle and her voice is soft and beautiful. Her home is one room separated by curtains which partially divides the kitchen. She is widowed and lives with her three children and mother in this pocket handkerchief room that comprises her bedroom, living area, study and everything else. It is impeccably clean and neat. A sign is placed on the wall alongside her grandchild’s photograph saying “Jesus is Lord”. I have few words to share, my life feels shallow. The rent is a huge 1000 pesos a month which is about $30, yet this is a country with absolutely no social security support and wages are about a tenth of Oz. The girl has no alternative but to pay rent. There is no toilet and no water. She has to pay for and collect the water in large plastic buckets each day. I stay some 15 or so minutes transfixed as if I am in some psychaedelic dream. It is time to leave I hold back a little and shake her hand to thank her for her hospitality and palm a gift. Very small for me but somewhat large for her. I am embarrassed as I catch her eyes with tears in them. I don’t look back as I descend the same old rickety stairs into the damp morning light.
Next visit is the church on the same squatters’ grounds next to the river of sewage. It is two story and about the size of a double garage. In the corner is a red curtain separating one of the few toilets on the squatters’ compound but it does not flush and has no wash basin. The down stairs of the church sits about a dozen children singing Jesus songs in the Tagalog Philippine language. The children greet me happily and the teacher shakes my hand. I go upstairs to the service. It is a simple room comprising rough hewn bench seats, an alter on which sits two vases of plastic flowers and a wooden cross made of recycled painted timber fastened simply with two rusty nails. There are no windows only holes in the walls with external shutters to keep at bay the monsoon rains that frequent the city. The floor and ceiling are made of thin stained and split plywood. Young people mill around animated at seeing each other. The sound is loud and full of energy. I am greeted by the pastor. The worship is led by a young girl who strums an out of tune guitar. It matters little. There is no overhead projector for the words or fancy hymn or prayer books only dark stained butchers paper hung on a makeshift wooden frame made from salvaged roof battens. The service is long and in the local dialect which goes over my head but connects with my heart. At one stage a rain storm hammers on the roof. The shutters are ceremoniously closed and the rain drips, no pours, through the ceiling. A few of the guys from the congregation rearrange the simple furniture, reorganises some sheets of rusty corrugated iron and the service moves on without discussion.
A time of praise and thanksgiving is shared among the people without any prompting. One girl mentioned that yesterday she celebrated her 17th birthday but there was no food in the house and they all went hungry but that did not matter they still had a great time together and they praised Jesus. I started to feel my own poverty of spirit. An elderly lady stands up with a baby in her arms, perhaps the grandmother, she thanks God for healing prayers for the sick child because she had no money to pay for the doctors or for medicine. Jesus reminds us ‘Blessed are the poor for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven’.
I meet Carlos a priest and one of the Church members. Carlos is a well-educated man, dressed in very casual, tired-looking clothes. His face displays a history of pain, yet he radiates a kind of peace and thankfulness. He is about 60 and worked for many years in the Catholic Church before starting work on the streets of Manila. He fell into drugs, got caught in the cross-fire of a syndicate, fell in love with a street lady and lost his way. He escaped to the squats to disappear and die because of his shame and fear. The pastor of the church found him and renewed his life in Christ Jesus. He now works in the Church as a leader ministering to the local community. His story rips me apart. I want to start to write it down but this is a private sacred moment and I resist and just lend my ears. The details are not for public consumption.
The service at a number of junctures sings the well known song
Give thanks for a grateful heart
Give thanks for the holy one
Give thanks for he has risen
Christ Jesus his Son
And now let the weak say I am strong
Let the poor say I am rich
Because of what the Lords has done for us
Give thanks
I have sung that song many, many times but never in tears as I did on that occasion.
I left the slums that rain-soaked morning but somehow the slums have not left me. I will never forget the joy and love I experienced that day. The risen Christ amongst among the poor.
Oh I almost forgot I started this reflection with the words Mag Pasalamat, this in Tagalog means to Give Thanks.