banging for phil

There is no mistaking the sound. The celebratory staccato blast of cohetes -- those sky rockets that are intertwined with religious processions in Mexico.

The Bang! Bang! Bang! is as insistent as a midnight visitor hammering on a door for admittance.

And that analogy is not entirely inapt. One of the purposes of the cohetes is to invite the faithful to join in a procession through town to the local church in the neighborhood. Even though it is 6 in the morning. Another invitation will be extended at 6 this evening.

This morning was the first day of a 3-day feast celebrating our barrio's very own patron saint. San Felipe. Or, as we would say in English -- Saint Philip.

But not that Saint Philip. Not the one who was a disciple of Jesus and plays a recurring minor role in John's gospel. Not even the one who worked with Stephen to tend the Greek widows.

Nope. This is San Felipe de Jesús. A local boy. 

There will be all of the usual excuses during the next five days to indulge in mild passions of the flesh that accompany Mexican fiestas -- religious or otherwise. 

It turns out this particular saint had a penchant for pleasures of the flesh himself.  Born of Spanish parents in Mexico City in 1572, he led the type of spoiled childhood we would expect of a son of the conquest.  Because he was born in Mexico (and not in Spain), his vocational opportunities were limited.

The best jobs in Mexico were reserved only for men of Spanish blood born on the soil of Spain. An early manifestation of the blood and soil doctrine of the Falangists.

Our guy Felipe took one of the few professional routes open to him by joining a religious order -- the Franciscans.  But, his heart was not in it.  A couple months later, he left the order and decided to be a merchant (a lowly job for his birth) in the Philippines.

The kid may as well have been Hamlet.  Within just year of experience as a cog in the Spanish globalist experiment, he decided he wanted to be a Franciscan. Again.  To be. Not to be. And to be -- one more time. But he did not quite make his way back into the fold.

Because there was no bishop at the time in Manila to ordain him, he boarded a ship to return to Mexico where a bishop could re-admit him to his order.

Fortune was not Felipe's co-pilot. His ship was wrecked on the coast of Japan.  The Japanese feared the priests (along with all of the soldiers and cannon on board) were part of a European invasion. The Japanese had had enough trouble with the bothersome Portuguese. They did not need Spanish priests mucking around in their business.

Philip's end was not a pretty one (along with the other priests on the ship and several Japanese friars and priests -- 17 in all).  Their ears were sliced off. They were paraded through Japanese streets. And, then, in an act of religious parody that would have warmed the heart of ISIS, they were marched to the top of a hill, tied to crosses, and pierced with spears until they died. 

That was 1597.  Within 38 years, Japan was closed to all foreigners. Not that it mattered to Felipe.

He was dead at 25 with nothing much accomplished during his lifetime -- other than the fact that he died a martyr's death as a lapsed Franciscan. He was not canonized until 1862. But all of that was good enough for Mexico City to adopt him as its patron saint. And for our local barrio to follow suit.

So, for the next three days, we will celebrate this prodigal son of the church. Of course, there will be daily processions with that home-town feel one can find only in small communities -- like Barra de Navidad or Springfield.

I have been informed, because of the virus, the usual lilliputian carnival with its fusbol tables and mini-carousel will not be in town. And I do not know how many people will participate in any religious procession because they have been limited in size. After all, we are technically in an extended semi-lockdown. I need to get out and about today to see how things have changed during the "restrictions." 

My favorite tradition is the dance clubs that accompany every religious procession. At the end of the procession, they fill the aisle of the small, partly-completed parish church of San Felipe de Jesús. The drums continue to beat. And the dancers circle and twirl before the altar -- reminding me of Anatole France's Le Jongleur de Notre-Dame.

France's tale is of a juggler who joined a monastery. When he could think of no other gift to honor Mary, he did what he knew how to do. He juggled in front of her statue. Juggled well.

And that is exactly what these Mexican women, dressed in their red and white "Indian" tunics and carrying their stylized weapons, do. Whirling and bowing, they offer up their talents to their faith.

The juggler's fellow monks were scandalized at his offering, just as some northerners are scandalized by being jolted from their morning reverie by the cohetes. But the cohetes, the procession, the dancers are all of one piece. The village is offering up its heart on this festive day.

I hope we hear Jesus' words in our own hearts: "You go and do as [they] did."