AT WORSHIP
When I arose next day and walked to the usual morning seat under the
bamboos, I found only Moro there.
"Where is everybody else?" I asked.
"At the Iglesia (ig lai se'a)," replied Moro.
I knew iglesia was the Philippine word for church; so I said to Moro:
"Let us go there too, and see what they are all doing."
After we had walked along the white shell paths, past the swaying
fisher boats, over an ancient stone bridge, beneath tall palms
and hanging vines and thick bananas, we beheld a wonderfully carved
doorway, with statues in the niches. Over the tree tops, rose a noble
white dome. From the open windows, the sweet singing of sacred music
came to our ears. It was the well-known Mass or communion music of
our own land, consisting of the beautiful strains of the Gloria, the
Sanctus, and the Benedictus. As we came nearer, the breeze wafted
us sweet incense from the altar, sandal and spice and flower and
cinnamon scents.
Though Moro was of a different faith, he took off his hat; so did
I. The short Filipino men were dressed in white. The sweet-looking
Filipino women were dressed in wide-striped skirts, and white waists,
with very large collars starched stiff. Over their heads were large
lace shawls called mantillas. They wore no hats, for they were very
proud to show their fine long hair, filled with gold and jeweled pins.
Every one dipped a finger in the water which was placed in a huge
shell near the door. Then they bowed before the cross on the altar,
which was shining at the end of the long aisle.
In the front seats, under the high dome, we could see Filippa, her
parents, and Favra. The colored light from the stained glass windows
fell down in rays and clouds of beauty upon the altar boys, who wore
robes of purple and white lace.
The music of the blue and gold organ was subdued to a velvet
whisper. Suddenly a boy arose behind the carved benches of the
choir. He sang in a voice as clear as a bird's:
"Come, Holy Spirit, Come."
It was Fil who was singing. The censers were swinging. The organ began
to drown even Fil's clear voice. Then all the singers in the choir
arose and filled the great dome, the long cathedral aisles, and even
the palm grove outside the windows, with a great burst of sacred music:
"Holy, Holy is the Lord."
It was all very solemn and very sweet. Far richer than in the homeland,
seemed the music, because of the greater natural beauty of the tropics.
Then our good friend, the Padre, arose, and spoke to his people,
about charity and missions and peace and the stranger within the
doors. He spoke so kindly that we all regretted war, and even hated
the name of war. He asked us to give gifts for the wounded and the
poor in other sad, colder, harder lands of hate and evil.
Then he extended his hands. A great blessing seemed to flow down from
the pulpit and even from the walls of the holy temple of peace, where
the white altar, the golden cross, and the colored windows shone out
as signs of purity and love.
When the service was dismissed, we all walked home together.
"When are you going to be a Christian, little Moro?" inquired the
kind Padre.
"I am a Mohammedan. My people come from the southern Philippines. We
worship one God, and Mohammed is his prophet. We make converts by
the sword of force, rather than by preaching," replied Moro, his eyes
looking strange and brave.
"Tell me more about your religion. I have heard it is peculiar,"
said Filippa.
"When we pray, we face Mecca, instead of Jerusalem or Rome. At Mecca
in Arabia is the Holy Book, which we call the Koran. There, also,
is the birthplace of Mohammed, our prophet. We believe in troops of
angels above, as well as in 'jinns,' or spirits, on earth, who are
ready to help us. We have no altars in our mosques or churches.
"Our mosques are immense, plain structures, with only large Arabic
letters of texts, painted on the walls and ceiling. Five times a day,
the Muezzin priest mounts the outside of the mosque tower, and calls
the faithful to prayer. Each Mohammedan carries his own praying
mat. After placing it on the tile floor beneath the thin pillars,
he kneels and bows upon his mat, facing Mecca, where our prophet was
born. We do not use music or organs."
All this Moro explained to us. What he told about his religion was
very different, very interesting, very new.
"There are good things in your religion," said the kind Padre, as he
placed his hand gently on Moro's dark head.
"You despise the use of intoxicating liquor. You teach the duty of
giving alms and of being charitable to the poor, the unfortunate, and
the sick. You teach that every one is his brother's keeper, and should
help his brother to succeed in life. You teach that cleanliness and
plain living are almost a part of religion. And we Christians agree
with you, Moro, in all these grand ideas; for I think that, with
all the sorrow now in the world, some of us have been too selfish,
too luxurious, as though we thought we would live forever, and had
no duty except to ourselves."
I, too, felt conscience-stricken for my homeland and for myself,
when I heard, in this odd and different quarter of our large world,
the Filipino Padre's true but kind moralizing over Moro's different
religion.
"The bells! Oh, the silver-sweet bells!" exclaimed Filippa's mother.
"The bells of love and peace," replied the Padre, as he glanced back
at the twin towers of his white Iglesia (church) that shone over the
grove of coconut palms.