Devotion to two very popular religious icons in the Philippines -- the Santo Niño of Cebu and the Black Nazarene of Quiapo -- may be rooted similarly in the same faith, but it diverges drastically in intensity.
If we were to measure devotion to the two icons by the size of crowds that attend their respective fiesta processions, we may have a dead heat in that both attract the kind of massive attendance unseen and unassociated with any other comparable religious festival in the country.
But the similarity ends as soon as the behavior of the crowds becomes apparent to the observer. The crowds attending the Santo Niño processions are more subdued and submissive, those of the Black Nazarene's more inflamed and passionate to the point of abandon.
I am not absolutely certain about this, but I think no one has died as a direct result of attendance in a Santo Niño procession, although many have been slightly injured and have collapsed from heat and exhaustion over the years.
The processions of the Black Nazarene, on the other hand, have already taken a heavy toll in human life, the latest being two casualties with nearly 50 injuries thrown in. Last year the toll was one dead and a slightly lower number hurt.
Why is this? Why the difference when both are supposed to be the same God, one being just the childhood representation, the other the adult personification. Why, when both are held to be just as miraculous as the other, and should court the same sense of expectations?
The temptation is of course great, especially for professionally opinionated individuals such as me, to suggest an explanation. But I am steeped in neither theology nor in sociology, so I will not dare propound an authoritative explanation.
Maybe it is one of the reasons why this faith is so beautiful. Because it is so mysterious. There are things that just seize you and you just go along with it, all explanation escaping without need or urge for pursuit or retrieval.
The mystifyingly opposite characters of the devotees and attending crowds in both the Santo Niño and the Black Nazarene festivals are a marvel to behold. They render us quiet. They make us pause.
In the case of the Santo Niño, there is none of the mad rush to touch or draw near that characterizes the Black Nazarene. But tears just come unbidden to the eyes, and you just feel the goosebumps emerging from your skin, making you shiver as the Santo Niño passes by.
In all my years of association with the Santo Niño, from a young student at the Colegio del Santo Niño performing a number of mandatory services during feast days to a grown supplicant begging for both mercy and grace, this reaction never varied in form and intensity.
There is a physically melting quality in the presence of the Santo Niño that one simply surrenders and cries. Even right now, as I write this, a few tears are starting to well up and I do not know why.
It is not my intention to draw comparisons between the Santo Niño and the Black Nazarene, especially since as far as the latter is concerned, I have never experienced the Quiapo phenomenon beyond what the television scenes offer.
But let me tell you this. A few years ago, giving in to our insistent requests, a small group of Colegio del Santo Niño alumni belonging to our High School batch Class 1970 was given the chance to see the original Santo Niño image that is no longer available for public viewing.
Standing there, with no word spoken, a common understanding swept through our beings, telling us that moment was the greatest gift we could give our spouses and children. It was a moment of oneness, of family, of faith, forged in the presence of Him who made us.