If I ever get to heaven someday, I’ll ask God to take me to hell. Because there, in that endless pit of perpetually burning fire, I would find the souls of my pagan Filipino ancestors. There, I’d see the loving pagan mothers who prayed to demons and false idols when their husbands went missing and when their children fell ill, the women who loved their husbands and children so much that they repeatedly worshipped the wrong gods and unknowingly broke God’s first commandment again and again, until their sins doomed their souls. There, standing alongside charred tyrants and rapists would be the innocent young boys who sacrificed living creatures to the spirits who threatened to spoil their farms and kill their livestock. These are the young men who cared for their fathers, mothers and siblings so much that they repeatedly tried to appease the malevolent spirits but succeeded only in irking the one true God again and again, until their souls were doomed to burn. And there, alongside assassins and thieves,would be the ancient priestesses who spent their lives teaching the wrong faith to their flock and suffered twice as much as the rest of hell’s dwellers. Because they are burned not only by the flames of hell also by the guilt in knowing that they sent generations of pagan Filipinos away from heaven and straight to hell.
As I stand there among the prisoners of hell, the one true God standing right beside me, some of my fallen, burning ancestors would hesitantly flash bittersweet smiles. Yes, despite the never-ending pain, they’d find a reason to smile, even if the mere act of smiling brings more pain to their charred faces. And that would probably be the most blissful moment they could have for the rest of eternity. Because they’d just be happy to know that somehow, one of their own found the right path, that somehow, one of their own would relish the joys of a heaven they never knew. Because they’d be happy to know that God did not curse the grandchildren of their grandchildren because of their unforgivable sins. And most of all, they’d be happy because one of their more fortunate descendants even bothered to see where all their doomed souls have gone.
“When will the others come?” a burning Filipino soul would cry from afar, referring to the other Filipino Christians who ascended to heaven.
I wish I could say that the “others” would be waiting for their turn. But no, I could not lie, especially not with God standing right beside me. In all the years that I have been alive here on earth, I have never heard any adult Filipino ask about the fate of our pagan ancestors’ souls. And the only child I knew who asked about them was myself, though I did it quietly. In the few instances that my pagan ancestors are remembered, they are only referred to as barbaric, half – naked men who wore G-strings. My pagan past –our pagan past—has been conveniently concealed by a thick, deceivingly beautiful curtain of religiosity. In our desire to please God and reach heaven, we have gladly turned our backs to the ancient heroes who made it possible for any of us to even live to know the right God. For most Filipino Christians, the pagan Filipinos who lived in our islands before Magellan’s arrival in the 16th century are viewed as ghosts –-the more you think of them, the more they haunt you. We refuse to think about our ancestors’ fate because we never want to even consider the possibility of being wrong about our faith. We never want to think of not going to heaven.
“I hope God would let you see all of them one day,” I’d finally say. Instantly, the burning Filipino faces would be filled with total happiness. Charred and crooked because of the perpetual fire, they’d be the most beautiful faces I would ever see. Because they’d be beautiful in the deepest sense of the word. They’d be the most beautiful because true beauty can never be seen. It can only be experienced. Still, I wouldn’t dare to even glance at God. If he would be looking at me with furious eyes, I’d rather not know.
As the quiet wave of happiness spreads across that small portion of hell, an exotic music would suddenly fill the air. The souls nearest to me would glance over their shoulders to see where the distinctly Filipino music comes from. And then, the crowd of burning Filipino souls would make way for the approach of a band of Filipino “beauties” playing stringed instruments I never knew existed. These are the same beautiful women who played soothing, marvelous music as Ferdinand Magellan (the Portuguese-born voyager who “discovered” the
487 years ago, while Antonio Pigafetta was enjoying these women’s music and marveling at their faces’ beauty, could he have imagined such beautiful beings burning in hell? Did he at any point in his life wonder what fate awaited these beautiful pagans’ souls? I don’t know if Pigafetta ever went to heaven but if he did, he probably would have searched for these Filipino beauties in heaven. And if God told him they weren’t there because they never knew Him, what would Pigafetta do? If I were him, I’d lose my faith.
But is God really that cruel? Could God’s wisdom be no different from that of a tyrannical king who beheads the people who fails to greet him because they never knew he was the king?
Maybe I wouldn’t have to ask God to take me to hell. Maybe he’s kind enough to bring the pagans to a heaven they never knew. Maybe they’re all up there, staying in a heaven they never even dreamed of. And when I die, I would see them all. If I get there.
Maybe, on my first day in heaven, I’d be greeted by the “eastern beauties” who once played wonderful music before Magellan and Pigafetta. And after soothing me with their music, they’d take me to the babaylan, the priestess who thought everyone around her to worship the wrong gods and practice the wrong faith.
“I’m glad you are here,” the babaylan would say as she embraces me. Then, she’d step back and lay her hands on my face, as if examining a precious gem she has just found. And I’d see a tear flowing out of her eye.
“Why do you weep?” I’d ask her.
“Son,” she’d reply, “I’m just happy to know that you’ve made it. Ever since I died, I have been standing here near the gates of heaven, waiting for each man and woman of our tribe to enter. I had taught them the wrong faith and led them away from heaven. And I’d never be at peace until I see them all walk through those gates.”
“But all of them had already died a long time ago. If they’re blessed to enter heaven, they should have come a long time ago. Why do you have to keep waiting?”
The gates of heaven would clank. They are being opened as another fortunate soul enters heaven.
“You know,” the babaylan would continue, staring at the newcomer, “almost everyone who walked through those gates was happy to be here. But I’m not. Look at me, I’m already in heaven but I can’t find peace, let alone happiness. But whenever I see someone like you, a descendant of my follower, walking through those enormous gates, a very little piece of happiness sinks into my heart. And for a moment, I could say I’m happy. Somehow, I’m hoping that these little pieces of happiness would accumulate to give me enough peace. But for now, they’re not enough. That’s why I’ll watch you go while I wait for the others, including the ones who should have come a long time ago.”
I would want to stop her from punishing herself. But I’d soon figure that no argument could keep her from waiting. I’m sure many of those who came before me persuaded her to start relishing the joys of heaven and stop being a prisoner of her mortal past. And if they all failed, so would I. All this time, she’d been enduring the deafening screams of her guilt-tortured heart. And no amount of reason could ever drown out those screams.
As I journey further into heaven, I’d see a group of saints gathered at a rectangular table, which looked exactly like the one seen on Leonardo Da Vinci’s Last Supper. I wouldn’t be speaking with any of them, though. Instead, I’d approach the solitary brown man who quietly watches them from a distance.
“Why are you alone, sir?”, I’d ask the man as I near him.
“I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself that same question all this time.”
His words would leave me dumbfounded.
“Look at them,” he’d point at the gathered saints by pouting his lips towards them, a common practice among Filipinos. “If they’re not talking to each other, they’re listening to the prayers of the people from below. They must have heard a lot of prayers from brown persons like us.”
“You envy them?”
“I don’t need to hear prayers to me”, he’d say, shaking his head. “I just need to hear prayers for me.” Yes, that would be envy.
“One day, before my death,” the man would begin his story, “our chieftain announced that he’d be converting to the faith of the white men. And in our village, I was the only one brave enough to question that decision of his. Not even the priestesses dared disagree with the chief. But my fears were already conquered by my faith. I said that if we started following the faith of the foreigners, we’d be betraying our ancestors. I couldn’t imagine myself worshipping the same God who created these invaders. The next day, I was executed in my sleep. How they actually did it, I never wanted to know. Whether they stabbed me or beheaded me, it didn’t really matter. It will never matter. What should matter is that I was killed because of my faith. I was a martyr. Just like many of the men seated at that table. But unlike me, they died for the right faith. Unlike them, I never heard anyone pray to me or pray for me. Not even my own wife or daughter.
“I figured they converted to the white men’s faith upon the orders of the chieftain. They must have uttered dozens of prayers before they died. None of them for me. I guess the white men taught them not to pray for me, lest God be infuriated and send them all to burn in hell.”
“Did he?” I’d ask.
“What?”
“Send them to burn in hell?”
A long silence.
“I don’t know,” he’d finally say. “I hope not. I never really asked Him about them. Never would. If they’re in hell, I’d rather not know.”
“What if they’re here?”
“If they’re here and they still cared for me, why am I still alone?”
“Maybe because you haven’t searched for them.”
“True. And if I search for them and find out that they’re not here, what good will it do me?” That would be the end of our conversation.
Before her death, the babaylan (priestess) was certain that she was practicing the right faith. And when the solitary brown man spoke up for his faith, he firmly believed that he was fighting for the right God. They were as sure about their faith as I am about mine. They knew they were right about their faith as much as I, a Catholic, know that I am right, and just the same way that Buddhists, Muslims and Protestants know they are right. But no matter how you look at it, it’s simply impossible for all of us to be right.
What if I’ve been practicing the wrong faith all along? What if my God is not the really the one true God? What if the right faith is one that was already practiced by my pagan ancestors?
These questions remind me of my college days in the University of the
In the sculpture atop the cover of the Manunggul Jar, both the passenger and the oarsman are facing forward. But when my turn comes, I’d ride the canoe facing the oarsman.
“Why do you prefer to ride the canoe backwards?” the mystical oarsman, the one tasked to ferry the dead to their final resting place, would ask.
“Why not? There isn’t much for me to look forward to, is there? The heaven I always wanted to reach is nowhere near where we’re headed.”
“Mortal, your heaven is nowhere. It does not exist.”
“Right. But my life did. It was there, far behind you, where we came from. I can’t see it from here. But I can imagine it. I can reminisce. I can’t do that if I’m facing the same direction that this canoe moves in. it’s difficult when the inescapable emptiness that lay ahead is all that you can see.”
“So you prefer to see the emptiness behind me?”
“It is not empty.”
The oarsman would let out a dismissive snort.
“You are very much like him,” he’d say.
“Like whom?”
“The man who died after being nailed to a cross. He was the first passenger who opted to face me throughout the journey. Most of the passengers were quiet and traumatized. They were often too shocked to speak to me or contradict my orders. If I told them to face forward, they’d simply follow. But you’re not like them. You are like him. I think his name was Yeshua. Or Yeshu. I’m not really sure.”
“Yeshua?”
“Have you heard of him?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not surprised. Many of you did.
“Like you, he preferred to ride the canoe backwards because he was concerned about the world he’s leaving behind. He said he could not take the final journey without knowing what happened to his mother and that other woman who stood by her as she watched him die. In his life, he had made many people put their faith in him. He made them all believe that he was their savior. But as he sat helplessly in the canoe, he slowly and painfully realized that he could never save them all. He could never save any of them.”
“Save them from what?” I’d think I already know the answer but still ask anyway.
“I don’t know. The man talked about a lot of fantasies. He said that he was the Son of God, that his death would bring salvation to mankind. He said this journey to the afterlife could not be real because the prophecies never said anything about this. I told the fool he wasn’t the first one to die because of false prophecies. But the man was in a state of total denial. He told me about all the miracles he performed, including the resurrection of a dead man. But if he did see a man rise from his grave, he certainly wasn’t the first person to mistake his dream for reality. And even if that resurrection was real, it happened not because of him but because of the intervention of a divine being far more powerful than him or his imaginary father-God.”
“Did he find out what happened to his mother and the other woman? To his followers?”
“I don’t know.” A cruel smirk would form on the face of the oarsman. “But he kept asking me, kept looking past me to see if someone miraculously followed us to rescue him. And when he got tired of asking and looking…he prayed. Can you imagine that? He prayed to his father-God. And when we reached his resting place, he wept, shed more tears than any passenger of mine ever did. His prayers were never answered. And all his followers’ prayers, whether to him or to his father-God, will never be answered. Yet many mortals like you kept on praying. All of you kept on praying.
“If you prefer to face me while you ride this canoe, you are free to do so. If you strongly desire to reminisce, I will not stop you. But the more you keep yourself attached to your past, the longer you shall weep when this journey ends.”
“Do you think I can find him there? In the resting place?”
“Why do you all keep asking that question? I don’t know. But if you find him, what good will it do you? He’s not the Son of God he promised himself to be. He was never your savior. He couldn’t even save himself.”
“He was the source of my strength.”
“The imaginary source of your strength,” the oarsman would correct me. “You’re not the only person who thought of him as a source of strength, though. I once ferried a girl who lived in a town called Zara. She was glad to know that Yeshua wasn’t really the true Son of God. She was one of the many children raped and massacred by the soldiers who were on their way to conquer Yeshua’s country of birth for the glory of his father-God. If you want to credit him for your strength, shouldn’t you also credit him for the atrocities his followers committed?”
“Oarsman, what’s the point in being rational when you’re already dead? Whether I’m right or wrong, I’d still want to see him. Because that’s how I feel. And no matter how irrational that feeling is, I can’t make it go away.
“Before I died, I had already empathized with Yeshua, Yeshu or Jesus, as we called him, because it was difficult for a son of God to endure what he had to endure. And now that I know that he was a mere mortal like me, that he was just as vulnerable as I have been all this time, shouldn’t I empathize with him more? Doesn’t that make his sufferings far more painful than we Christians thought they were? Again, I don’t care what the answers are. I feel that I need to comfort him, tell him that his sacrifices did not go to naught. At this point in my existence, my feelings are all that I have to follow.”
That would be enough to silence the oarsman. But the smirk on his face would remain, Because he knew, as much as I did, that at the end of the journey, I would weep.
I wonder how many generations of ancient Filipinos believed in that mystical oarsman. And when they thought of riding that canoe, did they ever think that their version of the afterlife would be unknown to most of their descendants and that the few who’d remember it would only view it as an eccentricity of our dark past?
What about us? 1,000 years from now, what will our descendants believe? Will they think of the cross as an eccentricity of their dark past –our bright present? And if their faith shall no longer be the same as ours, will they still pray for us? Or shall we be forgotten the same way we’ve forgotten our pagan forefathers?
Will I ever get to heaven? Will heaven turn out to be the kingdom of the God I know or will I be greeted by gods and goddesses I never heard about when I get there? Is faith the one thing that could bring salvation to my soul? I don’t have all the answers. What I do know, however is that once upon a time, all inhabitants of this earth were pagans. And if getting to heaven is just a matter of practicing the right faith and believing in the right God, then all of us have a pagan ancestor burning somewhere in hell. And if anyone of us ascends to heaven, he/she will certainly have a reason to visit hell, whatever forms heaven and hell may take.
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