Sanctuary in the Big City
SAN JUAN DEL MONTE, Philippines - For weary urban dwellers any sanctuary from the cacophony of noises of the big city is a welcome respite. As the mid-day sun baked the asphalt roads of Manila the car came to a stop as traffic slowed down along Bonifacio Drive. Simon de Anda’s obelisk glared with its stark white paintjob as we made a right at Andres Soriano Avenue, where the ancient ramparts of Intramuros greeted me.
Passed the rows of aged buildings, to the left a sizeable church of grayish brown stone came into view and there, before its steps, the car halted. I was a tad surprised as I stepped out. I had expected a bigger, grander-looking structure after all it bore the name of the noble and ever loyal city.
The edifice appeared dark and grey against the cobalt sky. Several cars and unoccupied calesas, horses looking tired and foaming at the mouth, were parked alongside the cathedral and the shady park before it, the Plaza de Roma.
The Cathedral’s façade is dominated by three, great, bronze doors with various carvings. Engraved on the two smaller doors on the left and right have Mary depicted as the Lily of the Valley, Morning Star, Mystical Rose and Fruitful Vine. A Latin inscription above the largest, central portal reads: Tibi Cordi Tuo Immaculato Concredimus Nos Ac Conscecramus.
Above the main door is engraved a timeline of historical moments of the Manila Cathedral such as the blessing of the original church in 1579 and its various reconstructions. White stone statues of St. Andrew the Apostle, St. Francis Xavier, St. Polycarp, and St. Anthony Abbot loom atop pillars flanking the doorways. Beside the rose-glass window stand St. Rose of Lima while St. Jacob the Great rests above. Viewed from the statue of King Carlos the IV of Spain at the Plaza de Roma, are two seraphims adorning a cross. The towering belfry juts from the left side of the building with a clock, its hands unmoving and eternally set to 11:45, its blue dome peeking from behind, glistening, and standing guard over Manila, the proud bastion of faith in the Orient.
Only one of the three front doors was open with a man seated behind a rickety wooden table, a sign showing the church dress code and a white-painted “love offering” box at the entryway. Several tourists trickled out, looking bothered by the heat as two men holding rosaries appeared out of nowhere, rushed up the stone steps and tempted the Westerners to buy as a donation for an unknown cause.
Seeking respite from the scorching sun, I cautiously walked in and came face to face with gloomy darkness. The silence was deafening but strangely calming. There was barely any light, the only sources being the slow trickle of sunshine from the windows, the soft yellow blush of vigil candles, and two overhead chandeliers, which cast an eerie glow.
There were less than ten people inside, most were sitting at the pews or kneeling down and praying. The floor was laden with cream-colored that was cool to the touch. As I walked along the aisle, lined with neat rows of long, pews in light wood, I imagined women of long ago on their knees, in laced veils, holding rosaries and mumbling Latin.
There was solemn peace everywhere. I felt as if all the saints and angels in the heavens above were staring down at me as I strode beneath the soaring arches and towering marble pillars. The chapels at the sides were hidden in shadows, their openings blocked with wrought iron grills. The confessionals seem to stand out in the olden décor, their polished wood gleaming in the soft, yellow light from the great dome.

Overhead, the massive stained-glass windows are stunning. They sparkle like jewels, a mosaic of the blue, red, pink, and green revealing a striking depiction of Christianity’s history with scholarly, religious men looking down on the faithful.
The communion rail, a marbled mix of orange, cream and white looks like a barrier, as if it separates one from a much more scared ground. Two small iron gates, each cast with bronze sculptures of a lamb and a swan at the center, guard the altar. The lofty pulpit is at the left edge with the Episcopal Throne at the right. Finally, there is the gilded bronze figure of the Blessed Mother standing behind the marble altar, protected by a canopy of angels venerating the Cross. The windows above encircling the image cast a gentle halo over the whole scene.
As I sat on one of the pews, I felt fearful of the eeriness of the atmosphere, yet salved by the holy images surrounding me. After a few minutes of basking in the still quiet, I rose to leave, slightly taken aback with what I saw when I turned around. In the choir loft above, a grand pipe organ stood silhouetted against the light from the rose window. It was drowned in darkness and silence, yet I could hear faint traces of a choir singing and the organ’s music resonating throughout the Cathedral.
The tapping of my shoes on the hard floor echoed as I walked out. A new batch of tourists entered, frowning at their surroundings and whispering Spanish. One of the men peddling rosaries came up to me, grinning. I ignored him.
Still glaring, but less harsh, the sun was now behind the Cathedral. I took shelter beneath the main doorway, gazing intently at the exquisite carvings. The Cathedral, just like the city it towers over, had gone through so much, constantly being rebuilt owing to bombings and earthquakes. I wondered if this present edifice would withstand future disasters.
This church with its grim outer walls and brilliant interiors enclosed me in solemn silence and gave me, a weary urban dweller, sanctuary from the noisy mess of the big city.