Rebirth

REBIRTH

          My butt began to ache as I sat on one of the monobloc benches along a walkway leading to numerous buildings in the Ateneo. These benches were surely not meant to be sat on for hours on end, but there I was, alone, amid a flood of people in a sea of gray. It was four-fifteen in the afternoon, around two hours before my driver would arrive. I left my pocket book in the car, and I was bored.

          Back in high school, I never had this problem. I was a member of two organizations: the Youth Christian Life Community (YCLC) and the Xavier School Glee Club (GC). I had two communities of friends with whom I shared common interests. From weekly general assemblies and Saturday apostolate sessions in the YCLC, to numerous choir practices throughout the week, I did not have a wink of idle time.

* * *

          When I first joined the YCLC back in my freshman year in high school, I was delighted by the prospect of teaching children about God in weekly apostolate sessions. My co-members and I would fetch them from their homes in Barasoain every Saturday morning and lead them to our school campus around ten minutes away. There, we would introduce them to the Catholic religion through various lectures and activities, besides helping them with their schoolwork.

          It was enjoyable for the first few months, but I began to feel like the time and effort spent with these children was not worthwhile— I was not making a lasting positive difference in their lives. The children were happy when we played with them, when we gave them school supplies and junk food as prizes for winning games.

          Otherwise, they hardly paid attention. Moreover, very few children attended during the regular Saturday sessions. In fact, the number of children attending would lessen as each week passed. Each YCLC member should have been tutoring a group of around four children for the entire year, but attendance was sporadic. We had to teach a different set of students every week.

          But during the month of December it was an entirely different story. Around a hundred kids would flock to school during our annual Christmas party, when we showered them with gifts. It seemed that after half a year of catechism, they still idolized Santa Claus more than God.

          Aside from the apostolate sessions, there were also weekly prayer sessions which were supposed to help us in our community and spiritual formation. We were divided into small ‘prayer cells’ of less than ten members, each having their own ‘cell guide,’ who would help us bond together as a group and improve our relationships with God.

          The cell guide for my group was a Jesuit brother. While only in his early thirties, he already looked over sixty because of his white robe and matching white hair. It did not help that he spoke like a priest as well. Although it did make the sessions more prayerful, it became serious to the point that some members of the group were afraid to speak their minds for fear of receiving a sermon about holiness and morality. Attendance in these sessions was spotty; many were canceled for lack of quorum.

          Nevertheless, attending these prayer sessions was what I enjoyed most in the organization. I attended every meeting I could, and openly shared my own experiences to the group. Participating in these gave me a temporary sense of exhilaration— a sort of religious high, so to speak.

* * *

          I auditioned for the GC during my sophomore year in high school in another attempt to find a fulfilling religious organization. The choir audition was nerve-racking for me because although I loved to sing, I usually did it in monotone. Mr. Sebastian, the choirmaster, asked me to sing our school song while he accompanied me on the piano. I sang the first few lines so soft that he began tilting his head and left ear towards me in an attempt to hear better.

          I imagined him slamming his fingers onto the keyboard and yelling at me to get out of his sight— telling me I was a disgrace to the word ‘music.’ And to my horror he did slam his fingers onto a few keys, although much lighter than I expected.

          “Good. You’re accepted,” he said nonchalantly, followed by the word “Next!” a second later.

          “I’m accepted.” The words rolled out of my mouth as I stood there, dumbfounded.

          “Yes, Verne,” he replied. “I think I can work with your voice. Now if you could step aside so I can listen to the others…”

          I left the room that lunchtime with my head in the clouds. I was a member of the GC, the choir I always stared at during school masses. They had their special seats to the right of the stage, with their personal microphones, with Mr. Sebastian leading them in singing mass songs.

          My religion teachers always told me that participation in the mass must always be complete, that I must always recite the mass responses and sing the mass songs. Thus, I always sang during mass although it was a bit embarrassing when everyone else around me kept silent. Worse, some students even stared at me, like I was in the wrong. Why is it that people are always ridiculed for doing the right thing? Being with the choir changed all that. I could sing to my heart’s content.

          Unfortunately I joined the organization during its transition period. The choir was expanding its repertoire from just mass songs to performance music. That year the GC would stage its first ever concert. Lunch breaks during Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays were spent practicing over and over again songs such as I Can Go the Distance, The Circle of Life, This is the Moment, and numerous others.

          We also had to practice singing in three voices: melody, tenor, and baritone. As expected, Mr. Sebastian put me in the melody group, which just sang the way songs were usually sung. It would always be a struggle for me to listen to notes and keep in-tune while two other voices with varying tone and timing (and sometimes even singing a different set of lyrics) were singing at the same time.

          The GC had never sung in numerous voices during mass before. I knew that this was supposed to be a step up for the choir, but it took a lot of joy out of the singing. I always believed that it was the heart and soul of the singing religious music and not its flashiness that made it great. I felt the choir was becoming all professionalism and no substance. I would go through the motions without believing in what I sang.

* * *

          During applications week for organizations, a few weeks into the start of my freshman year in college, I opted to join only one organization so as not to risk my academic standing. I thought about joining the Ateneo Christian Life Community, the university’s counterpart of the YCLC, but I had a feeling it would just be a repeat of what happened to me in high school. I could have auditioned for the Ateneo College Glee Club or the Ateneo Catholic Ministry Group, but I decided against it for the same reason.

          The school bell signaled four-twenty, ten minutes before the start of activity hour. The sound had a similar effect to that of a church bell, making students rise from their seats to flock towards their respective organization meetings. I realized then that without an organization, I had no fixed group of friends who I could spend time with every week. Feeling like a sheep without a flock, I sat and waited.

          I brooded over the stupidity of forgetting my novel in the car that morning, and my lack of will power to borrow one from the library. Preoccupied by my thoughts, I was oblivious to the fact that someone was calling my name. It was only when she stood right in front of me that I looked up to see Isel, my coursemate.

          She asked me if I was busy. When I answered in the negative, she invited me to join her in attending a GENREV meeting in one of the classrooms nearby. Generation Revival, she explained, was an unaccredited religious organization in the Ateneo. Most of the members were her friends since childhood, and she would introduce me to them if I came with her.

          I was tempted by the introduction she gave me about the organization, and figured it was worth trying out at least once. And I was happy to have company that afternoon.

* * *

          I stood by the doorway as she entered the room. From there, I saw a handful of people. One was writing on the blackboard, while others were fixing a portable sound system. The rest were seated, chatting with each other.

          Isel introduced me to this sprightly girl who was writing what I then recognized as song lyrics on the blackboard. “This is Nica.” Dressed in her simple t-shirt and jeans ensemble she was petite, like a life-sized, black-haired Tinkerbelle. Her saccharine smile and voice matched her looks seamlessly as she enthusiastically welcomed me to their group by giving me a high-five and reiterating some of what Isel had mentioned about the group earlier on.

          Furthermore, she explained how they were trying to build a larger community in the Ateneo, and that every new face was a cause for celebration. Isel then introduced me to a few other people, most important of which was Kiddo.

          I mistook him for some kind of sports buff because he was tall and muscular. I was not a hundred percent sure of my judgment of other men, but he also looked to me like someone who lots of girls would find good looking. He was also quite young, probably in his mid-twenties. I was struck with a sense of awe when Isel introduced him as the leader of the group.

          He was the complete opposite of what I thought a religious leader would look like: an old man with graying hair. Kiddo wore a plain white kamisa-de-tsino, a pair of ordinary blue jeans and brown sandals. Around his neck, a large wooden cross was strung. On the table before him laid his Bible, and in hand was his instrument. Instead of a walking staff, this holy shepherd held onto a guitar.

          After the initial meet and greet, Isel and I took our seats among the others. She joined in their conversation while I listened intently, especially to their names which I was trying in vain to memorize. At around five in the afternoon, the lyric writing and sound check were complete, and Kiddo gave the signal to rise in prayer. He strummed on his guitar as he and Nica led the group in song. “O Lord of heaven, I long for the moment my heart beats with yours.”

          The lyrics written on the board were simple and the pop beat of the song was easy to sing along to. “I just want to be with you, O Jesus. I just want to praise your name forever. I just want to bask in your glorious presence. I just want to be, I just want to be, with you, O Jesus…”

          Everyone in the group was singing, albeit not all of them in-tune, but very passionately nevertheless. It was like a compulsion impossible to resist, an itch I had to scratch, so I sang along with them as best I could without ever hearing the song before. I felt a lightness and joy that always eluded me when singing with the GC. Now, this was what singing to God should feel like.

          Most of them sang with their eyes closed, oblivious to the stares of passers-by along the corridor. I tried closing my eyes as well, if only to help me ignore the people outside, but I could still feel their presence. Not knowing the lyrics, I kept my eyes glued to the blackboard instead.

          After the second verse and the following chorus, I thought that the song would come to an end, but they kept repeating the chorus once, twice, thrice. They sang it slower and slower each time, until they finally sang it a capella, with their hands raised in praise. Then they gave words of thanksgiving to the Lord.

          The atmosphere here was much better than during my choir practices in the GC. Everyone would be tense and nervous as they listened carefully to the piano notes for fear of singing out of tune. Even when singing during mass time, my thoughts would focus on hitting the right notes and keeping in-time with the beats rather than on praising God through music. In GENREV I was free to sing to God without fear of reprimand.

          Unlike in the YCLC where the officers would have to force members to speak in group sharing like teachers do in graded recitations, the praise giving in GENREV was voluntary and spontaneous.

          …Thank you, Lord, for helping me in my midterms a while ago. Please bless all those who are taking their midterm exams this week. Thanks for keeping my family healthy despite the bad weather, Lord. Please take care of those who are sick and in need of your healing grace. Lord God, you are truly worthy of praise. Please continue to bless this community O’ Lord— that we may continue to grow in love and devotion towards you...

          Although I wanted to join in, I was stuck in the process of trying to come up with something to say. Being naturally shy, it was difficult. Realizing that I could not express my love for God in public through words, I felt ashamed. Theirs came out effortlessly. Words flowed straight from heart to lips without any scrutiny or censorship involved. They continued for a minute or so, a cacophony of joy and gratitude.

          When the praise-giving ended, Kiddo signaled everyone to sit in a circle. He then opened his bible to a specific verse and the others brought out their bibles and followed suit. Isel shared hers with me as Kiddo used the text to jumpstart his discussion on what he called ‘worthship.’

          “One of the basic things we do as Christians is we worship God or not worship him every day of our lives. But to worship God properly we must act in a way that pleases him. In other words, we should make ourselves worthy of God through what we think and what we do. We must worship God in a way that befits his glory and his greatness— we must give him worthship. Through worthship we not only glorify God, but we show his glory to the people around us. It all begins with ourselves, our thoughts, and our actions…”

          This is what I have always been looking for, a community of people who loved God and were rooted in friendship with Him and with each other. They were not afraid to speak and sing about their faith and love for Him, and I wanted to be a part of that. Since then, I became an active member of Generation Revival.