THE CRITICAL COLLABORATION of Bueoligan and Oeunongan in Balete (1997–1998)

 In the late 1990s, the municipality of Balete, Aklan, experienced a significant realignment of its ecclesiastical and political institutions. Situated within a semi-feudal social matrix dominated by local landowning structures, Balete’s civic life had long navigated tensions between grassroots community organization and established political elites. This article examines the historical critical collaboration between the parochial mutual-aid program, the Bueoligan sa Parokya, and the emerging local political coalition, the Grupo Oeunongan. Guided by the pastoral stewardship of Fr. Pedro "Pete" Frac (later named Monsignor by the Vatican) and the civic executive leadership of Mayor Bobby Calizo, this period marked a crucial shift from ideological friction to pragmatic, community-centered solidarity.

The roots of this collaboration lay in the pastoral groundwork developed by Fr. Tito and sustained by Fr. Pete upon his assumption of the parish curatorship in August 1997. Under the legacy of the Basic Christian Communities-Community Organizing (BCC-CO) framework established alongside Fr. Jose Parohinog, the parish had instituted the Bueoligan sa Parokya—a micro-level program of mutual aid, collective solidarity, and economic co-responsibility.

The Bueoligan was grounded in a fundamental reform: dismantling the transactional Arancel system of mandatory sacramental fees in favor of a voluntary Pledge System. By decentralizing parish finances and elevating chapel-level (capilya) lay leadership, the pastoral program empowered ordinary Baleten-ons as active participants in church governance rather than passive consumers of religious services.

Parallel to these parochial reforms, the 1997 Barangay elections and the 1998 National and Local Elections brought a major shift in Balete’s political landscape. The political establishment that had clashed with the parish over the secularization of religious festivals was displaced by a fresh wave of grassroots leadership.

This transition culminated in the formation of the Grupo Oeunongan (solidarity group), a political aggrupation, led by newly elected municipal and barangay leaders—with Mayor Bobby as its founding father—and supported by aligned local landowners. The Oeunongan drew its political legitimacy by appropriating the popular, participatory methodologies pioneered by the parish's BCC-CO movement and addressing head on the issues and concerns of those years. For some political actors, these approaches reflected heartfelt support for the parish’s vision of social justice; for others, they became practical means of fostering trust and goodwill among the electorate. Regardless of political motivation, the rise of the Oeunongan created an unprecedented bridge between municipal civil governance and the parish altar.

In anticipation of the October 1998 parish fiesta of St. Raphael the Archangel, Mayor Bobby’s administration sent an emissary to Fr. Pete to forge a covenant of reconciliation. Previous years had seen deep friction, culminating in Fr. Tito's decision in 1995 to shift the liturgical celebration to October 23 to protest the commercialization of the vesperas (fiesta eve) and the promotion of unverified historical narratives.

Recognizing the popular demand of the faithful, the civil administration under Mayor Calizo offered key concessions to restore the religious fiesta to its traditional date of October 24:

1. Sanctity of the Vesperas: The municipal government agreed that no binayle would be held on the eve of the fiesta. This preserved the sacred character of the vespera as a time for the nine-day novena culmination, quiet prayer, and spiritual preparation.
2. De-confliction of the Cockfight Derby: To respect the liturgical gravity of the feast day itself, cockfighting (derby) was barred on October 24 and rescheduled to adjacent dates. This practical compromise allowed Baleten-ons who were simultaneously devout followers of St. Raphael and cockfighting aficionados to fulfill their devotional obligations without sacrificing local cultural traditions.
3. Abandonment of Myth-Making: The civil government formally distanced itself from the unverified "Battle of Agtawagon Hill" narrative, supporting archival research to uncover the authentic historical and devotional roots of the town.

The critical collaboration of the Bueoligan and the Oeunongan under Fr. Pete and Mayor Bobby represents a mature model of Church-State dialogue in the Philippine rural context. Rather than succumbing to total co-optation or perpetual hostility, the religious and civil authorities established a mutually respectful equilibrium.

By aligning civic policies with the genuine devotional and socio-economic desires of the Anawim (the ordinary people), the local government affirmed the moral influence of the parish’s grassroots organizing. In turn, the parish demonstrated that Christian witnessing (martyria) in a semi-feudal society requires both uncompromising pastoral principles and a compassionate willingness to meet the community within its lived realities.

This period remains a testament to how local leadership—when grounded in authentic solidarity (Oeunongan) and mutual support (Bueoligan)—can heal institutional divides, restore historical truth, and preserve the sacred rhythm of communal life.

 

THE DEMISE OF THE CENTENNIAL: History, Liturgy, and Political Reckoning

 

The planned centennial of the Battle of Agtawagon Hill on October 24, 1997, was intended to be the crown jewel of the municipal administration's civic calendar. Yet, when the day arrived, there were no speeches, no drum and bugle corps, and no historic unveiling. The grand commemoration collapsed entirely under the weight of three converging forces—historical truth, liturgical reality, and a decisive political shift.

               1. The Liturgical Fallacy Dismantled

To justify holding a massive secular celebration and public dance on October 24—and to dismiss Fr. Tito’s insistence on a sacrosanct vespera—civic proponents with the help of some ordained ministers argued that the feast of St. Rafael on October 24 was merely a modern, 20th-century introduction. They pointed to the 1921 General Roman Calendar revisions that canonically codified St. Rafael’s feast on that date, claiming the local civic event predated the "religious" assignment.

This argument was completely untenable under archival scrutiny. The Calendario Manual y Guia de Forasteros de las Islas Filipinas of 1839 had already marked October 24 as the feast of San Rafael Arcangel, placing it alongside December 8 for the Inmaculada Concepcion.

Furthermore, 19th-century colonial manuscripts in the Varias Provincias collection at the National Archives of the Philippines provide irrefutable proof: by 1885, the parish of Balete—then comprising 14 historic barrios—was already officially observing its patronal feast every October 24 in honor of St. Rafael the Archangel. The devotion itself ran deep in colonial history, popularized in the archipelago by the Brothers Hospitallers of St. John of God (Hermanos de San Juan de Dios) as early as the 17th century. The attempt by 1990s civic leaders to frame the October 24 parish feast as a recent innovation was fundamentally historically flawed.

2. The Verdict of the Archives and Oral Tradition

In early 1997, seeking to prepare authoritative materials for the upcoming centenary, an archival and oral history investigation was undertaken to uncover primary sources and testimonies detailing the supposed October 24, 1897 battle.

The findings were fatal to the civic narrative. The research uncovered no primary historical basis or archival documentation establishing that any major battle between Katipuneros and Spanish cazadores occurred on Agtawagon Hill on October 24, 1897.

Oral history further unraveled the legend. Local elders like Jose Dandoy noted that no battle ever took place on Agtawagon during the Spanish period; it was merely a station where Rafael Maraingan’s group rested and sought spiritual strength before staging an ambush elsewhere in Mauebong. Crucially, the very label used on civic banners—"El Tiroteo de Agtawagon"—was revealed to have originated in the late 1960s or early 1970s, when a local minibus operator asked his sisters to translate "The Battle of Agtawagon" into Spanish to paint on his vehicle’s headboard. Over the decades, unsuspecting organizers mistook this modern transport label for an authentic historical event.

When researchers revisited the past and weighed the unvalidated souvenir program claims against real archival manuscripts and oral evidence, the grandiose plan to celebrate the centennial was permanently abandoned.

3. Political Collapse at the Grassroots

The final blow was delivered at the ballot box. In May 1997, just months before the planned centennial, the Philippines held its synchronized Barangay and Sangguniang Kabataan elections.

The results were a total political landslide. The incumbent Mayor, who had championed the confrontational civic agenda against the parish and pushed the Agtawagon narrative, suffered complete political ruin. His allied Punong Barangays across all nine barangays of Balete were defeated. With the entire municipal political machinery dismantled at the grassroots, the political will, funding, and leadership required to stage the October 1997 centennial completely evaporated.

The silent passing of October 24, 1997, vindicated Fr. Tito’s earlier pulpit warnings. True heroism and authentic community identity cannot be built on fabricated dates, unexamined souvenir programs, or political posturing. As Fr. Albert Nolan, OP, incisively observed, Jesus and His message have often been honored and worshipped for what He did not mean rather than what He did—a supreme irony where things opposed in spirit are resurrected in His name. The quiet collapse of the centennial served as a stark reminder that while political power can organize a public dance, it cannot rewrite archival history or eclipse the deep, enduring faith of a people.

 

THE EMPTY CHAPEL BY THE BELFRY: Superstition, Solidarity, and the Unfinished Limits of Grace

 "No man is an island, entire of itself... any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

When John Donne penned those iconic lines—later immortalized in Ernest Hemingway’s classic—he captured a profound, timeless truth: death, just like life, is never a solitary event. It is a communal act. When the parish bell tolls above a village, its dark knell echoes not just for the departed, but through the shared body of the whole community. Every loss diminishes the collective, calling the living into a covenant of shared grief and solidarity.

Yet, there is an existing chapel adjacent to the very belfry where those bells hang at St. Rafael Church—built with clear intention to honor that communal bond, yet quiet in its original purpose.

In the late 1980s and 1990s, as Fr. Tito Gelito’s Theology of Life took root in Balete, the parish didn’t stop at pastoral songs, youth theater, or the transition from the Arancel to the Pledge System. Through the Bueoligan sa Parokya ni San Rafael—our parish-based credit union built on the oath "Rong pagpas-an ku krus it pag-iegmanghuran"—the community sought to strip away the economic burdens of daily survival.

Tucked inside the archives of that era—specifically during the final years of Fr. Tito’s term in the mid-1990s—lies the blueprint of an ambitious, deeply compassionate initiative for which that room beside the belfry was designated: The Mortuary Aid.

It was explored and presented to the parish as the socialized, faith-based counterpart to the corporate burial insurance offered by big commercial companies today. Long before private insurers turned end-of-life care into a profitable market, the Core Group recognized how heavily the poor were crushed by the exorbitant costs of dying. When a family lost a loved one, grief was instantly compounded by the crushing expense of commercial funeral parlors, coffins, and wake spaces. To counter this commercialization of grief and reclaim death as a communal act of Christian solidarity, the Core Group proposed a socialized mortuary service:

• The room beside the belfry was set aside and prepared as a free, dignified wake chapel for deceased community members.
• Daily morning Masses would be offered for the repose of the soul throughout the wake.
• A high-quality, dignity-restoring display coffin would be manufactured by the parish and lent for temporary use during the wake, after which the deceased would be transferred to a modest, ordinary wooden box for burial.
• The entire ecosystem would be sustained by a simple 10-peso monthly addition to each member’s parish pledge.

It was an extraordinary piece of structural solidarity—a logical extension of a Church trying to accompany its people from the cradle to the grave, replacing corporate insurance policies with a covenant of mutual aid.

Then came the survey.

When Fr. Tito’s Core Group presented the operational plan to the faithful across the barrios in those mid-1990s consultations, expecting gratitude for an economic lifeline, they were met instead with a resounding, psychological wall of rejection. To the popular mind, the program was felt to be inherently ominous—tueoy—a bad omen, a dark invitation tempting death to cross one's threshold simply by preparing for it.

The Mortuary Aid was never implemented, and the chapel by the belfry was never used for the wake service it was meant to host. The project was quietly set aside right there, not because it lacked financial logic or Christian charity, but because it ran headlong into the stubborn, ancient bedrock of local superstition.

As years passed, the proposal faded into local history. The parish priests who came after Fr. Tito had no idea the blueprint or the survey ever existed, leaving the chapel's original intended purpose lost to time.

Yet, that mid-90s chapter remains a humbling, watershed moment in our parish history. It revealed a stark pastoral reality: a community can undergo years of sophisticated conscientization, embrace progressive social analysis, and actively participate in structural economic reforms, yet still remain deeply bound by primal human fears. The cultural psyche does not move at the speed of pastoral decrees.

Though the Mortuary Aid was shelved—and though the broader Bueoligan credit union itself faced exile during a later interregnum before Fr. Jarvin Aguelo sought to revive its embers years down the road—that chapel by the belfry stands today as a vital witness.

It gives our parish story a raw, unvarnished character. It reminds us that a genuine "Church of the Poor" is not a romanticized ideal where the grassroots are always enlightened and heroic. A true journeying Church is messy. It is a place where high theology meets everyday superstition, where brilliant social programs clash with cultural anxieties, and where shepherds must learn the slow, agonizing patience of meeting people precisely where their fears reside.

That empty chapel beneath the tolling bell remains a silent monument to an enduring truth about the nature of our Christian journey. As St. Augustine famously reminds us, holiness is never a solo race to a finish line, but a shared walk of a community continually bearing one another's burdens and flaws. Synodality is not about celebrating only our swift, unblemished victories; it is about having the grace to slow our pace, linking arms with one another through our unfinished, superstitious, and deeply human limits as we walk together toward God.

 

CON VENIRE: The Open Doors of Pautwas and the Pastoral Hospice of Fr. Tito

 

To sit beside Fr. Tito Gelito at the breakfast table after a morning Mass was to walk the road to Emmaus. In those quiet hours, over simple food, Scripture didn't feel like a dusty, ancient scroll—it felt alive, burning within us as he broke open the Word and shared his vision of the Kingdom.

He was my mentor, and his whole life was a masterclass in a profound, unvarnished theology: a true Theology of Life rooted in "Pagpas-an ku krus it pag-iegmanghuran".

Fr. Tito often reminded us of the root of the word convent: con-venire—a place where everyone is called to come together, a space of gathering. And how literally that truth came to life in Balete!

Under his care, the parish rectory was never a pristine, secluded administrative office. It slowly, organically transformed into a hospice for the broken. The weary, the depressed, the downtrodden, the widow, the paraplegic, the lost, the ostracized, the sick of mind and of body, the dying, the marginalized, and the forgotten little ones of our town didn't just visit—they came to stay.

Among them was Ng Jun, a retired civil servant who, despite being modestly well-to-do, was sick and felt rejected by his family, choosing the sanctuary of the convent over his own home. There was Junior, suffering from tuberculosis, who was sent to the care of the Missionaries of Charity in an adjacent town, but out of longing for home, opted to return to the warmth of the convent. There was a man sick of mind who, out of his own volition, preferred to stay within the safe, welcoming air of the rectory. And there was Budoy, a paraplegic who frequented the company of the convent boys, drawing comforting words and quiet strength from Fr. Tito. Among them, too, were his "convent boys"—brilliant, self-taught mechanics who could fix anything on wheels, even if their heavy drinking habits made them a constant, patient cross for him to bear.

Despite the meager parish funds, Fr. Tito never complained about the extra mouths to feed or the endless demand for medicine. He saw to it that every person who crossed that threshold received a decent meal, proper care, and basic human dignity.

That same spirit of radical hospitality spilled out onto the roads of Balete aboard Pautwas. Constructed by a genius junkshop mechanic from rag-tagged parts, that unpainted, customized paog-paog pickup was far more than a priest's ride. In an era when the municipality suffered a complete dearth of emergency transport, Pautwas served as the community ambulance. Day or night, it rattled down dusty or muddy trails, carrying the sick and the dying to distant clinics—a rolling instrument of the corporal works of mercy.

He lived this ministry with zero pretense. He preferred wearing polo shirts sewn from katsa—the humble flour sack cloth—embodying a simplicity that matched his vehicle.

People saw him through many lenses:

• To his family, he was already a living saint.
• To his Dominican classmate and former rector of UST, Fr. Norberto Castillo, OP, he was fondly remembered for his sharp, argumentative mind.
• To his Augustinian peers at the Ecclesiastical Faculties—Fr. Mamerto Alfeche, Fr. Jing Mejorada, and Roger Objaan—he was a formidable theological equal.
• To younger priests like Fr. Vars and Fr. Jarvin, he was a guiding mentor.
• To pastoral collaborators like Msgr. JoePar and Msgr. Pet Frac, his structural programs were a gold standard worth emulating and refining.
• To the rest of the clergy in the Diocese of Kalibo, his path was widely recognized as a daunting one to replicate—a ministry that demanded an absolute emptying of self, a daily dying to oneself so that the least of God's people might live.
• To the unchurched and the seasonal churchgoers, Fr. Tito was often perceived as strict and unyielding; they attended liturgical celebrations with a quiet deference, half-afraid that the priest might scold them publicly from the pulpit. But to those who truly knew him, that strictness was never malice—it was the fierce, protective instinct of a shepherd guarding his flock. He was kind but firm, deeply considerate yet unhesitating when it came to instilling discipline. He smelled like his sheep, he knew them by name, and they knew him.

In an age where ministry is so easily tempted by professional efficiency and institutional comfort, Fr. Tito’s open convent stands as a quiet, revolutionary witness. He proved that the corporal works of mercy are not formal parish projects to be budgeted and audited; they are a way of being. By opening his table, his car, and his very life to the broken, he showed us that when the Church truly becomes con-venire, Christ himself comes to dwell in our midst to break bread with us.

 

A Prayer for the Table Companions

Lord God, Lord of the Road and Master of the Feast,

We thank You for the grace of the open table at the Balete convent, where no one was a stranger and every broken soul found a home. We remember with deep gratitude the quiet saints, the shepherds, the helpers, the mechanics, the widows, and the weary who once broke bread with us under that humble roof.

Grant eternal rest and peace to Your faithful servants: Fr. Tito Gelito, Msgr. Pedro Frac, Fr. Vio Dandoy, and Fr. Marlon Rasgo; Ng Jun, Ng Donnie, Tay Loven, Nay Tessie, Nay Tesing, Nay Floring, Tay Norbing, Tay Aton, and Ng. Paeng; Bebe, Lagumbay, Antog, Era, Junior, Martin, Tay Delon, Tay Turing, and Nay Inday; Nay Nene, Nay Biday, Nay Lagring, Nay Gloria, and the many unnamed souls whose footsteps once graced the convent corridors.

Welcome them now to Your eternal banquet in heaven, where the bread is never meager, the doors are never closed, and the table is prepared for all. May perpetual light shine upon them. Amen.

 

 

WALKING TOGETHER AT THE GRASSROOTS: A Synodal Reflection on Pastoral Renewal in Balete

 

As the global Catholic Church enters the era of Synodality—a call by Pope Francis and reechoed by Pope Leo XIV for a Church that “walks together” through communion, participation, and mission—the Philippine Church finds itself revisiting its rich history of local grassroots renewal. Long before synodality became the defining paradigm of the global Church, the Second Plenary Council of the Philippines (PCP II) envisioned a "Renewed Church" realized through Basic Christian Communities (BCCs/BECs).

Examining the pastoral legacy of Msgr. Pedro "Pete" C. Frac in St. Raphael the Archangel Parish in Balete, Aklan through the contemporary lens of Synodality reveals how his governance was not an isolated historical chapter, but a living prototype of what it means to be a Synodal Church at the Grassroots.

1. Transparency as an Instrument of Communion

A synodal Church cannot grow where trust is absent. Pope Francis’ call for financial and administrative transparency is rooted in the belief that the Church is a shared home where all the baptized are co-responsible.

In Balete, Msgr. Frac operationalized this synodal value through parochial communications. By publishing Apdo—a monthly journal written in Inakeanon—the parish did not merely share catechesis, marriage banns, and local news; it made parish balance sheets open to every parishioner. Disclosing pledge collections (Bueoligan), capelya shares, convent budgets, and the parish priest's daily food allowance demystified church governance. Rather than viewing the parish as an opaque hierarchy, the community saw a shared household. Investing in a parish Risograph machine to print the weekly vernacular missalette Guinakabuhi ("Lived") further ensured that the Word of God was physically printed by, for, and in the language of the local community.

2. Lay Empowerment and Collaborative Ministry (Participation)

Synodality rejects clericalism, insisting that the Holy Spirit speaks through the entire Sensus Fidelium (sense of the faithful). It demands that the laity, consecrated religious, and clergy walk side by side.

Msgr. Frac embodied this co-responsibility by inviting the Franciscan Sisters of the Immaculate Conception (SFIC) to establish a permanent presence in Balete. Working directly with neighborhood clusters and remote capelyas, the SFIC sisters animated the BCCs and engaged the youth through theater arts. This was not mere recreation; it was a pastoral process of conscientization—empowering young people to critically examine socio-economic realities and give voice to their faith in local public squares.

Furthermore, by issuing a joint appeal with the Diocesan Catechetical Ministry to Catholic public school teachers to serve as catechists, Msgr. Frac sought to tap into the common priesthood of the laity. He recognized that public educators possessed both the pedagogical skill and daily proximity to young students needed to impart meaningful faith formation.

3. Integrated Human Ecology as Mission

A Synodal Church is an "outgoing Church" (Iglesia en salida) that leaves the sanctuary to accompany humanity in its concrete struggles. In Laudato Si’ and Fratelli Tutti, Pope Francis reminds us that true mission connects spiritual life with social justice and ecological care.

Msgr. Frac’s pastoral vision integrated faith directly with local livelihoods:

• Academic & Scientific Collaboration: He invited scholars from Hohenheim University (Stuttgart, Germany) to study and optimize indigenous upland rice varieties (Bisaya).
• Sustainable Inland Aquaculture: He brought in experts from the Southeast Asian Fisheries Development Center (SEAFDEC) to assess sustainable fish-farming for local inland waters.
• Organic Agriculture: Partnering with the MASIPAG network, he promoted vermiculture, organic composting (dapog), and chemical-free farming to liberate local farmers from financial debt and environmental degradation.

By linking the table of the Eucharist to the health of local rice fields and rivers, the parish demonstrated that a synodal mission must listen to both the "cry of the earth and the cry of the poor."

The state of the Basic Christian Community under Msgr. Frac shows that synodality is neither a novel abstraction nor a corporate management style; it is the natural expression of a Church that dares to walk together.

As the Philippine Church navigates its synodal journey today, the experience of Balete under Msgr. Frac offers a enduring lesson: real ecclesial renewal happens not through individual celebrity, but through institutionalized transparency, deep lay collaboration, youth conscientization, and ecological stewardship. Through these concrete pastoral innovations, faith ceases to be a distant Sunday ritual and becomes, in the truest sense, Guinakabuhi—a faith co-created and lived by all.

 

VERMICULTURE as a concrete Christian Witnessing: The story of Donie, Nono and Pido

 

In the landscape of modern Christian witnessing, the abstract often struggles to find a home. Faith can easily devolve into a series of transactional rituals or privatized devotions, detached from the gritty socio-economic realities of the community. Yet, the ecclesial history of the Parish of St. Rafael the Archangel in Balete, Aklan, offers a profound, concrete alternative. Long before papal encyclicals like Pope Francis’ Laudato Si’ (2015) popularized "integral ecology," or national statutes like the Organic Agriculture Act of 2010 legislated sustainable farming, the Katilingban of Balete was already weaving a thick, living theology. By fusing the structural reform of the parish financial system with grassroots ecological community organizing, Balete’s Basic Christian Communities (BCC-CO) incarnated a powerful triad: the subversive grace of St. Augustine, the historical struggle of Gustavo Gutiérrez and Leonardo Boff, and the restless, enduring hope of Jürgen Moltmann, all localized through the biblical, historical insights of Fr. Tito Gelito and the dept community organizing skill of Msgr. Pedro Frac.

In the classical theology of liberation, struggle is not just about political rights; it is about breaking the chains of systemic dependencies that keep people poor. The introduction of synthetic, chemical-based agriculture (often pushed by multi-national corporations and heavily marketed government projects like the destructive Golden Kohol) created a cycle of economic bondage for Filipino farmers. They became dependent on expensive, imported inputs, eroding both their financial independence and the health of their land.

Under Fr. Tito Gelito—and building on the pastoral foundations of Fr. Joe Parohinog in the late 1970s—the introduction of the African Night Crawler and Japanese Red Worm was a quiet act of defiance. It sought to liberate the farmers from this dependency. By reviving the dagyaw (the traditional Aklanon culture of communal, voluntary cooperative labor), the parish showed that the struggle for economic survival and ecological integrity could be won together. Witnessing here was not a sermon; it was a collective hands-on effort to build an alternative, self-reliant way of life. It drew away from the institutional down to the communal way of life.

Our previous reflection on Augustine’s grace noted that it acts as a quiet, transforming energy that subverts dominant, corrupt structures. Unlike the loud, high-profile government programs launched with "media blitzes and hosannas," the true seeds of transformation came discretely. They rode in the soiled pockets of volunteer community workers like late Ng. Donie Cuarton and Nono Romulo, arriving home from a BEC seminar in Bacolod in 1992/1993. Assisted by Pido, a gentle BEC worker from Negros, this was grace operating from the bottom up—unassuming, organic, and deeply relational. This is the very definition of Fr. Carlos Abesamis's "historical grace." It did not wait for a presidential decree or a DILG memorandum. It took root in the everyday, lived reality of poor communities, transforming ordinary worms into instruments of communal salvation.

Fr. Tito Gelito's "Theology of Life" integrated the material and the spiritual. It posits that the goods of the Earth are not commodities to be exploited, but "instruments and channels in a communal and familial journey with Jesus."  In this framework, feeding the worms, preparing the dapog (organic composting/seedbedding), and sharing the organic fertilizer became liturgical acts. It bridged the gap between Sunday worship and Monday survival. The same faith that led parishioners to shift from the Arancel to the Pledge System also led them to care for the soil. Both actions rejected a commercialized, transactional relationship—whether with the sacraments or with Mother Earth.

Today, while those worms have spread to places like Barangay Feliciano and Barangay Calizo, or even as far as Bulwang, Numancia, under the care of enterprising individuals and due to human frailty, and even though the Katilingban finds itself wandering AGAIN in the wilderness of "Massah and Meribah"—searching for the paths it once trod—Moltmann’s theology of hope (Theologia Spes) keeps the community restless and expectant. The memory of Balete’s pioneering witness remains a potent seed. It is a reminder that when a "little flock" organizes itself around the free outpouring of grace, the grit of historical struggle, and the deep, rich soil of community solidarity, the Word of God is guaranteed to bear fruit—thirty, sixty, and a hundredfold. The fact that this community is still "hopeful as ever of finding its way back to the path it once trod" proves that the seed sown in the 1990s was not lost. The history of the St. Rafael vermiculture project serves as a permanent reference point—a reminder to the younger generation that a self-sustaining, ecologically sound, and deeply fraternal Church is not an impossible dream. It is a burning reality they have already lived. It such a reality that’s worthy of setting up on a hill for all to remember as we observe and celebrate today our Golden Jubilee as a Diocese.

As for those once called, may they find the courage to bend their knees in prayer: “Call us anew, O Lord, and in our paths in the world, make us once more, channels of your peace.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

VESPERA and the Battle for the Soul of the Fiesta

 

During the tenure of Fr. Tito Gelito, the relationship between the local government unit and the local Church in Balete was defined by a necessary, critical tension. Nowhere was this collision of values more pronounced than in the annual celebration of the town fiesta.

To Fr. Tito, a parish fiesta was never meant to be a commercialized spectacle. Part of his comprehensive pastoral program was the recovery of the barrio and municipal fiestas as genuine religious events—sacred moments to glorify the wonders of God through the witness of His saints. Over the decades, however, civic authorities had secularized these traditions. Fiestas had drifted into events that exploited young girls through ostentatious beauty pageants and robbed poor farmers of their hard-earned harvest money through day-long cockfighting.

To counter the spiritual dilution of the parish feast, Fr. Tito sought to reclaim the sanctity of the vesperas—the eve of the fiesta. He anchored his theological stand on the very root of the word: vespera, the Church's ancient evening prayer. In Balete, the vespera served as the solemn culmination of the nine-day novena. Rather than opening the evening up to noisy street parties, the parish capped the novena with a dramatic, reflective presentation mounted by the parish youth, followed immediately by the exposition of the Blessed Sacrament for a quiet, communal Holy Hour.

Crucially, Fr. Tito was not against the binayle (public dance) or bueang (cockfighting) per se. He understood them as legitimate expressions of communal joy and cultural manifestations—vibrant celebrations of gratitude and release for a bountiful harvest, answered prayers, and God's abundant graces throughout the year. He believed these frenzies of human happiness belonged on the fiesta itself as a joyful climax, not on the quiet eve or during the breaking of bread meant for spiritual preparation and celebration.

Thus, he proposed a simple, reasonable compromise to the civil government and the cockfighting aficionados: hold the binayle on the night of October 24, leaving the night of the 23rd sacrosanct for vespera, and hold the derby a day earlier.

The organizers of the derby honored his request. Those organizing the binayle, however, remained obstinate.

The municipal leadership stubbornly refused to yield, justifying its competing civic agenda by tying the October 24 festivities to the historical commemoration of the Battle of Agtawagon Hill. Local tradition held that on October 24, 1897, a heroic band of Aklanon Katipuneros fought valiantly against well-armed Spanish cazadores, repelling the colonial forces on that majestic elevation.

When the civil government refused to honor the sacred character of the vesperas or adjust the timing of the public dance, Fr. Tito took a radical, uncompromising stand: in 1995, he officially moved the parish liturgical celebration of St. Rafael from its traditional October 24 date to October 23.

It was a bold declaration that the altar would not be co-opted by secular entertainment or political grandstanding.

Yet, as an act of profound Christian charity—and to prove that his stand was born of pastoral conviction rather than personal spite—Fr. Tito still offered Mass on October 24. It was not a solemn Eucharistic celebration for St. Rafael, but an intentional Mass offered for the so-called heroes of Agtawagon.

In his sermon, he used the pulpit to offer a stirring critique of what true heroism demands:

"A hero is not someone who hides in the shadows merely to survive, but someone who is ready to lay down his life for others."

Then came his piercing, prophetic challenge to the town leaders sitting in the pews. He wondered out loud about the glaring failure of the civil government to even identify the specific heroes of Agtawagon. At the time, Balete completely lacked an authoritative, rigorous historical account. All the municipality possessed were the brief, unverified write-ups printed in the souvenir programs of annual fiesta celebrations—sanitized narratives passed down without archival backing or textual scrutiny. He questioned how the municipality could be breathlessly anticipating a grand centennial celebration by 1997 on such flimsy, unexamined ground.

Meanwhile, the local government pushed forward, grandly preparing for what was supposed to be a monumental civic milestone: the Centenary of the Battle of Agtawagon Hill on October 24, 1997. Elaborate plans were drawn up to celebrate the centenary of the local revolutionaries' alleged triumph over the Spanish crown.

Yet, when October 24, 1997 arrived, the grand centenary celebration never took place.

The music was silent, the speeches were canceled, and the planned civic spectacle evaporated into thin air. Why such a heavily publicized historical commemoration collapsed at the eleventh hour is a story worth telling—or rather, a piece of local history that urgently demands to be revisited.

 

THE YOUTH MINISTRY and the Chords of Conscientization

 

The story of Balete’s Basic Christian Communities was never just theory—it was a soundtrack of faith.

In the Martial Law years through EDSA revolt, consumerism tried to lull us asleep. To wake the youth, we didn’t start with lectures—we handed them guitars. Songs like Patalastas ay Salamangka exposed the “magic” of ads that trapped the poor in false desires. Music became our first spark of awareness.

But critique alone wasn’t enough. The bridge came when these realizations were baptized in the hymns of Fr. Pablito “Pabs” Maghari—Panawagan sa Pag‑alagad, Tamda, Pag‑agda. Sung in our own tongue, they turned restlessness into prayer, rebellion into reliance on God.

From small panimbahon reflections to summer catechesis, recollections, and youth camps—even theater workshops with the SFIC sisters—the youth learned that faith was not passive. On stage, they re‑enacted the struggles of farmers, the dignity of dagyaw, the wounds of chemical agriculture. Drama became liturgy in motion.

By the 1990s, Balete’s youth were no longer isolated. They joined World Youth Day, inter‑diocesan camps, and shared their stories with peers across regions. Their guitars, plays, and reflections were not entertainment—they were crucibles of critical Christian thinking.

Now, we stand in the current reality of 2026. This dual heritage of lay initiative perfectly matches the macro-vision of the universal Church. In his recent encyclical Magnifica Humanitas, Pope Leo XIV calls us to reclaim the majestic dignity of every human person now threatened by the prevalence of AI, but more especially those pushed to the economic margins. As Card. JoeAd reminded us in his sermon during the Golden Jubilee celebration, each of us has a place to take, a voice to make, and a mission to accomplish in this synodal journey of ours. Guided by both Magnifica Humanitas and our local history, we are to walk alongside those who struggle, those who drifted away from the faith, those who live in poverty, and those searching for hope and meaning.

Perhaps, if I may, the answer for the youth ministry of Balete is to recalibrate without losing our anchor. The memoirs of our bygone years prove that when the laity—specifically the restless youth—are trusted with the guitar, the stage, and the theological tools of reflection, they do not run away from the Church; they become the Church.

Whether we look back to Era, to Nay Tesing, to Nong Donie, to Fr. Tito, Msgr. Frac or Padre Marlon, or to those young aficionados of Saint Rafael Parish Music Ministry of bygone years gathering on Saturdays to break open the Sunday readings, the template remains unchanged.

The "what now" is to resist the temptation of returning to a quiet, performative, and choir-centered institutionalism that silences the pews. We must continue to foster a ministry of presence that travels light—just a priest, a guitarist, an acolyte, and a community ready to burst into song.

As we continue this synodal journey toward a New Heaven and a New Earth, let the old songs ring out anew. For if it is true that he who sings well prays twice, then the calloused hands and raised voices of Balete’s youth have long been singing a double prayer: one of honest lament for the struggles of the Anawim, and another of unwavering, revolutionary hope for the Kingdom to come.

RECLAIMING THE SOIL OF MEMORY: From Prophetic Challenge to Archival Truth

 When Fr. Tito Gelito took his prophetic stand in 1995—moving the liturgical feast of St. Rafael to October 23 to protect the vespera—his challenge to the local authorities was not merely about liturgical dates or the timing of a public dance. From the pulpit, he cast a piercing, critical eye on how the municipality attempted to ground its civic identity on the unexamined legend of the Battle of Agtawagon Hill.

Fr. Tito challenged the town leaders sitting in the pews to answer a fundamental question : How could a community celebrate a centennial of heroism when it did not even know the names of its heroes, relying solely on unvalidated, sanitized write-ups in annual fiesta souvenir programs ? He called upon local authorities to cease using manufactured history for political grandstanding and instead do the hard, honest work of helping the Baleten-on community recover its genuine communal memory.               

The Archival Answer to a Prophetic Call

The research findings gathered across the National Archives of the Philippines (NAP) and local oral history directly fulfill Fr. Tito’s call for historical truth and communal recovery:

1. Exposing the Myths of Convenience: The archival investigation in early 1997 and subsequent studies revealed that "El Tiroteo de Agtawagon" was never an authentic 19th-century military designation. It was a modern label coined in the late 1960s by a local entrepreneur who asked his sisters to translate "The Battle of Agtawagon" into Spanish to paint on his vehicle’s headboard. By unearthing this, research freed the community from celebrating a counterfeit past designed for civic entertainment.
2. Uncovering the Real Sacral and Civic Origins: Instead of a fabricated battle, archival research in the Varias Provincias collection at the NAP yielded the true historical bedrock of the town:
• 1840s Establishment: Clarifying that Balete was established as a civil pueblo in the 1840s rather than 1804.
• 1882 Cholera Plague: Documenting the tragedy where 144 Baleten-ons died in a single month under Gobernadorcillo reports and Cura Párroco Don Padre Vicente Guanco, prompting the desperate, miraculous reliance on St. Raphael—Rāfāʾēl ("God Heals").
• 1885 Official Record: Proving that by 1885, Balete’s 14 barrios were already canonically and officially celebrating St. Rafael every October 24, centuries after the devotion was popularized in the archipelago by the Hermanos de San Juan de Dios.
3. Vindication of the Vespera: The discovery that St. Rafael’s feast on October 24 was solidly documented in the 1839 Calendario Manual and 1885 NAP records completely dismantled the civic argument that the religious feast was a modern "1921 Vatican insertion." Fr. Tito’s insistence on keeping the eve (vespera) holy was validated not only by theology, but by two centuries of colonial archival evidence.

A Pastoral Synthesis: Socrates, Sisyphus, and the Benitinanon

As recorded in the local historical reflections (When Legends Become History), going back into the past to recover communal memory is a Herculean task requiring "the patience of Job, the persistence of Sisyphus, and the dexterity of a Benitinanon". Yet, taking heed of Socrates's dictum that "the unreflected life is not worth living," this research bridges the gap between the pulpit and the archives.

By dismantling fabricated legends and restoring the real history of resilience—from the 1882 cholera plague to the 1990 earthquake and the grassroots Basic Christian Communities (BCC-CO)—the local Church and researchers have answered Fr. Tito's original call. The Baleten-on community no longer needs to build its identity on phantom battles or political rhetoric. Its true memory is anchored in the enduring faith of a people who have survived war, plague, and earthquake, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with the Healing Archangel along the Road of Life.

 

MUSIC MINISTRY IN THE SPIRIT OF SYNODALITY

 The pastoral history of the Parish of St. Rafael the Archangel in Balete holds a unique tension between institutional simplicity and grassroots initiative. In its alignment with the Basic Christian Community (BCC-CO) orientation, the parish consciously chose not to foster a traditional, choir-centered music ministry. The guiding principle was simple yet radical: the community itself is the choir.

This approach carried a deeply practical and socio-economically sensitive connotation for the parish. When Fr. Tito Gelito traveled to say Mass in the barrios, he required no sprawling entourage of minions to burden an impoverished host community. He traveled light, needing only the assistance of Nonoy, who served as driver (his alternate driver in the far-flung barrio was Lagumbay) and guitarist, and Kulas, who served as acolyte and lead cantor/guitarist. Because there was no elite performance up front to silence the congregation, the simple chords struck by Nonoy and Kulas served as an open invitation. The moment the liturgy began, the entire barrio community would burst out singing.

While the youth were naturally drawn to this open invitation, the parish leadership warmly welcomed authentic, self-driven initiatives from the community. A prominent example is the Saint Rafael Parish Music Ministry. Formed out of the shared volition of music aficionados from the Catholic Charismatic Renewal Community, these lay ministers banded together specifically to serve the Sunday liturgies. Rather than draining the parish's meager financial resources, they took full ownership of their logistical needs. They organized Christmas caroling to independently raise funds for their own musical instruments, and they dedicated their Saturdays to collective reflection on the Sunday scriptures to ensure their song selection was pastoral and contextually grounded

Meanwhile, organized choirs like the Saint Rafael Parish Music Ministry understood the boundaries of their specific apostolate, limiting their service to the main parish church during Sunday, wedding, and funeral masses. Formed out of the shared volition of music aficionados from the Catholic Charismatic Renewal Community, these lay ministers banded together to accompany the Sunday liturgies. Rather than draining the parish's meager financial resources, they took full ownership of their logistical needs. They organized Christmas caroling to independently raise funds for their own musical instruments, and they dedicated their Saturdays to collective reflection on the Sunday scriptures to ensure their song selection was pastoral and contextually grounded.

As the Diocese of Kalibo celebrates its Golden Jubilee, this specific musical heritage offers a beautiful resonance with the theme of Synodality—a vision of a listening, participatory Church deeply championed by the late Pope Francis. Synodality calls for a Church that walks together (Kita ro Simbahan, Kita Kaibahan), dismantling clericalism and recognizing the active role of the laity.

When we place the Saint Rafael Parish Music Ministry within the light of our ongoing theological reflections, their role emerges as a lived model for the future of the diocese:

• The Liturgical Witness of the Body: By insisting that "the community is the choir," Balete incarnates Fr. Carlos Abesamis’ insight that salvation and liturgy belong to the concrete, historical people of God. Music ceases to be a performance by an elite group on an elevated stage; it becomes the unified breath of the Anawim. In the synodal framework of Pope Francis, this format breaks down spiritual hierarchies, ensuring that every voice—no matter how untrained or poor—is an essential thread in the communal tapestry of worship.
• The Praxis of Self-Reliance and Liberation: The music ministry's choice to independently fundraise through caroling and personal sacrifices rather than relying on the parish fund is an act of structural liberation. It mirrors the spirit of the Pledge System by rejecting institutional dependency. In the tradition of liberation theology, these musicians acted as autonomous protagonists of their own ministry, proving that material poverty does not equate to a poverty of spirit, talent, or resourcefulness.
• Augustinian Grace and Scriptural Anchoring: Though scholars long debate the exact syntax of the phrase attributed to St. Augustine—"He who sings well prays twice" (Qui bene cantat bis orat)—the theological core remains unassailable. For Augustine, singing is an overflow of love (Cantare amantis est). The ministry’s practice of gathering every Saturday to reflect on the Sunday Word before choosing their chords transforms their music into a genuine vehicle of grace. It ensures that their songs are not empty, emotional noise, but an authentic, prayerful response born out of scriptural contemplation.

The legacy of Balete’s musical journey provides a clear melodic response. The "what now" for the next fifty years is to resist the temptation of returning to detached, performance-based institutionalism. The future demands that we protect the radical simplicity that protects the poor from economic burden, while fiercely encouraging the spontaneous charisms of the laity. Whether it is the grand community chorus bursting into song in a remote barrio chapel, or the dedicated aficionados organizing themselves to serve the main church, the faithful are called to tune their instruments to the real-world realities of their neighbors, ensuring that the Church of Kalibo continues to journey forward—singing not as isolated soloists, but as one, synodal choir of the Anawim.

INTERLUDE: Once Upon a Time in Balete—A Community in Need of Healing

 You have often asked: “Why is St. Raphael the Archangel the patron saint of Balete?” and “How is it that in the entire Diocese of Kalibo, only Balete has an archangel for its titular?” These are good, albeit formidable, questions. Yet try to answer them we must. Perhaps along the way, wandering through the labyrinthine corridors of our shared memory, we might stumble across clues that lead us to the truth. As we have seen, journeying into our past is a Herculean task—like riding uphill to the remote heights of Benitinan on the backs of two stubborn bulls. Yet we keep moving forward, no matter how slow the pace. Ours is the moment to seize. Walk with us as we unearth these reasons. Stay with us as we break bread and exchange ideas over these quiet histories. Perhaps as we weigh their intricacies, deeper insights into our identity will begin to dawn upon us.

To understand why Balete holds a unique place in the diocese as the sole parish under the patronage of the Archangel, we must trace both the historical roots of Spanish colonial devotion and our local archival records.

The Legacy of the Brothers Hospitallers

The devotion to St. Raphael in the Philippines was originally popularized as early as the 17th century by the Brothers Hospitallers of St. John of God (Hermanos de San Juan de Dios). This mendicant religious order, renowned for founding the first convalescent hospital in Bagumbayan (Luneta) in 1611—later known as the Hospicio de San Jose—spread devotion to the Archangel as the celestial patron of healing and physical restoration. They saw to it that St. Raphael was adopted as the special patron of their Philippine Province and founded towns like San Rafael, Bulacan under his name. It was this rich, centuries-old tradition of seeking divine healing through the Archangel that eventually found fertile soil in the soil of Balete.

Archival Proof in Varias Provincias

While earlier traditions mistakenly pointed to 1804 as the town's founding, recent historical clarity reveals that Balete was established as a civil pueblo in the 1840s.

By the late 19th century, the parish's devotion was already deeply codified. Archival manuscripts from the Varias Provincias collection at the National Archives of the Philippines record that in 1885, Balete—then comprising 14 historic barrios in the District of Capiz under the Diocese of Jaro—was officially observing its patronal feast every October 24 in honor of St. Raphael the Archangel.

1882: A Prayer in the Time of Plague

This deep-seated devotion proved to be the town's spiritual anchor during a dark, sorrowful chapter in 1882. Almost every household in town was weeping in grief as a devastating cholera outbreak swept through the archipelago. Civil authorities worked frantically to find a remedy, but in a matter of weeks, the death toll in Balete surpassed 140 souls.

According to an official report submitted by the Gobernadorcillo on May 18, 1882—preserved in the manuscript Memoria de la Provincia de Capiz at the National Archives—a total of 144 Baleten-ons died in the span of a single month.

Faced with death at every turn, the faithful, under the guidance of their parish priest, Don Padre Vicente Guanco, turned to heaven. They offered a solemn novena to their patron, St. Raphael, and carried his image in a fervent penitential procession through the town streets, praying desperately that God would bring healing to their land.

Their prayer was rooted in the very Hebrew meaning of their patron's name: Rāfāʾēl—"God Heals." They prayed that God, through the intercession of the Healing Archangel, would restore their people and turn their bitter lamentations into cries of joy.

And God looked upon them with compassion. St. Raphael stood by them in their suffering. Just as the archangel accompanied young Tobias on his long journey in the Scriptures, he walked alongside every Baleten-on along the arduous Road of Life.

Then, as now, St. Raphael the Archangel remained with us—the patron of healers and travelers, of the blind and those seeking a holy spouse, and the enduring protector of the people of Balete.

 

THE KEEPERS OF THE WORD: Edeng and the Rest of the Panimbahon Leaders

 When the Diocese of Kalibo was established in 1976, ordained ministers were scarce and religious congregations were absent in the rural interior. In the far-flung capelyas of Balete, the Anawim faced a silent spiritual famine. The Eucharist was rare, and the Word risked becoming distant from daily life. The response was the rise of the Panimbahon leaders: ordinary men and women from the community trained and conscientized during the time of Fr. JoePar to facilitate the quasi-liturgical Liturgy of the Word, locally known as panimbahon.

The deepest biblical impetus driving this missionary thrust was the prophetic mandate of Luke 4:18: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring glad tidings to the poor.” Just as Jesus began his public ministry by declaring this liberation, the Panimbahon leaders lived out this baptismal anointing, making it the very engine of their presence in the margins.

In their ministry, the "Theology of Life" articulated by Fr. Tito Gelito found flesh. Drawing from Fr. Abesamis’ insistence on historical salvation, Fr. Gutiérrez’s integral liberation, and Jürgen Moltmann’s theology of hope, Fr. Tito taught that grace is embodied in the struggles and resilience of the poor. Traveling on foot across rivers and muddy mountain trails and equipped with a trusty Panimbahon booklet developed and produced by Fr. Niall O’Brien (methinks, with Fr. Gore and Fr. Frankie), these leaders carried the Word into hungry communities. In their voices, the silence of priestly absence was broken; in their presence, the baptized discovered that liturgy belongs to the whole People of God.

The ministry of the Panimbahon leaders extended far beyond presiding over the Word. They served also as Community Organizers in the tradition of Basic Christian Communities, mobilizing neighbors for collective action and responding to issues and concerns directly affecting the community. Their organizing was pastoral and prophetic, rooted in the conviction that the Church must journey with the poor in their struggle for dignity.

More to that, they also find time clarifying the foundations of the Christian faith alongside the volunteer catechists, prepared families for sacraments, and explained Scripture in ways that spoke to daily struggles. Catechesis was lived wisdom contextualized in the realities of rural life. They facilitated small group reflections, guiding communities to read Scripture as a mirror of their own lives. In these circles, the Word empowered the poor to see themselves as protagonists of salvation history.

Among them, Ng. Edeng stood out as a guiding presence. Her dedication and leadership earned her a place in the parish’s Core Group under Fr. Tito, where she helped shape the pastoral vision of St. Rafael the Archangel Parish. Her witness exemplifies how lay leadership, rooted in grassroots formation, can sustain the Church in times of scarcity.

The panimbahon was a school of faith and liberation in miniature—poor communities refusing to be passive recipients of scarcity, instead becoming active custodians of the Word. Here, Augustine’s theology of grace found a local expression: grace mediated through the humble proclamation of neighbors.

Theologically, this ministry embodies three strands:

1. Abesamis’ historical salvation: The Word proclaimed in capelyas is salvation unfolding in the concrete struggles of the Anawim.
2. Gutiérrez’s liberation: The panimbahon is a praxis of freedom, breaking dependence on clerical scarcity and empowering the laity to lead.
3. Moltmann’s hope: Each gathering is a sign of the future Kingdom, where the poor themselves become prophets of God’s presence.

The Panimbahon leaders were keepers of continuity, guardians of memory, and heralds of hope. They reminded us that the Church survives by the Spirit alive in its people.

As the Diocese of Kalibo celebrates its Golden Jubilee, the legacy of the Panimbahon leaders calls us to heed Bishop Villareal’s invitation to continue the journey toward the New Heaven and New Earth together. Anchored on the Jubilee theme—Kita ro Simbahan, Kita Kaibahan—the little ones of Balete are summoned to walk as one body, proclaiming the Word, living the faith, and embodying hope in every humble gathering of the Anawim.

 

PAUTWAS: A Postscript to a Community Praying the Our Father as a Synodal Church

 



The Golden Jubilee of the Diocese of Kalibo was not only a celebration of fifty years of grace; it was also an examination of conscience. In his homily, Jose Cardinal Advincula reminded us that a synodal Church walks with those on the margins. At the close of the Eucharist, Bishop Jojo Villareal asked the question that now lingers in our hearts: "Now that we're here to celebrate our golden jubilee as a Diocese, what now?"

Perhaps the answer is found in the prayer Jesus himself taught us. The Our Father is the grammar of Christian discipleship and the spirituality of a synodal Church. Every petition teaches us how to become the people God desires us to be.

"Our Father..."

The prayer begins not with my Father but our Father. Synodality begins there. Before we become administrators, ministers, or experts, we are brothers and sisters belonging to the same household of God. Balete’s story has long reflected this conviction. Its BCC/BEC, chapel presidents, finance committee, Panimbahon leaders, catechists, apostoles, youth leaders, and priests never built isolated ministries; they built relationships. The Church became recognizable because people knew one another by name and shared burdens.

"Give us this day our daily bread."

This petition challenges a generation convinced that security comes from accumulation. The people of Balete understood dependence differently. The transition from the Arancel system to the voluntary Pledge System was more than financial reform; it was an act of trust that God's people would sustain God's mission together. Capilya Presidents and Finance Committees became stewards of communion itself.

The Apostoles-Farmers discovered the same lesson. African Night Crawlers carried home from Bacolod became symbols of hope, teaching that daily bread grows from patient labor and healthy soil rather than expensive chemical inputs. Through dagyaw, neighbors literally became one another’s daily bread.

Today, in 2026, our hunger has changed. We are tempted by instant solutions, instant information, and instant gratification. Pope Leo XIV’s recent encyclical, Magnifica Humanitas, warns against losing our humanity to economic utility and artificial tools. While convenience quietly becomes a modern temptation, we risk becoming consumers of spirituality rather than disciples who patiently cultivate it. Daily bread is still received, never manufactured.

"Forgive us our trespasses..."

A mature Church is a scarred Church carrying both grace and failure. Every parish has stories of misunderstood intentions, neglected voices, and misplaced priorities. Synodality demands the humility to remember that we need forgiveness before we can proclaim it. The Church of the Poor is evangelical because the poor know what vulnerability feels like. They understand that reconciliation is a daily necessity for survival. Perhaps the greatest poverty we must recover is the courage to admit that we need one another.

"Lead us not into temptation."

The greatest temptations facing the Church today often arrive dressed as success. We are tempted to measure ministry by attendance, budgets, and impressive infrastructure, mistaking visibility for vitality. We can easily become professional rather than pastoral, connected digitally but absent personally. Even our liturgies can become performances where choirs sing instead of the community.

The counter-narrative was found on the dusty roads of Balete. The image of Fr. Tito Gelito riding on his unpainted, customized paog-paog pickup—aptly named Pautwas—with only Nonoy's guitar and Kulas' voice, was not pastoral minimalism born of necessity alone. It revealed confidence that Christ remains the center of worship. The host communities were never burdened with providing ostentatious meals for an entourage. Relying on simple lay companions, Pautwas brought a ministry of presence where the people did not come to watch the liturgy; they became its living voice.

"Deliver us from evil."

Individualism whispers that we owe nothing to anyone, while modern distractions can slowly replace presence with convenience. Against these forces stands the historical witness of Balete: farmers choosing stewardship over exploitation, women of the Accu-Herbal Group healing through shared wisdom, lay leaders walking mountain trails, and musicians praying over Scripture before choosing hymns. These are acts of resistance against a culture that measures everything by profit and speed.

"For yours is the Kingdom..."

What now? Perhaps now is the time not to become a bigger Church, but a deeper one—courageous enough to choose presence over performance and communion over efficiency.

As we continue our pilgrimage under the banner of Kita ro Simbahan, Kita Kaibahan, the legacy of Era, Nay Tesing, Nong Donie, Fr. Tito, Msgr. Frac, Padre Marlon and those who once walked with us along the narrow path of Christian witnessing reminds us that the Kingdom grows from below. The answer to "What now?" is astonishingly simple: we pray the Our Father again. But this time, like the roaring community voices sparked by the arrival of Pautwas, we dare to become the prayer we have been reciting all our lives.

 

THE ACCU-HERBAL GROUP, HEALING TOUCH OF THE ANAWIM: Reclaiming Health as a Communal Grace

 

At the Golden Jubilee Eucharistic Mass of the Diocese of Kalibo, solemnly presided over on July 15, 2026 by the Papal Nuncio with fellow concelebrants, the newly enthroned Bishop Cyril “Jojo” Villareal rose before the faithful. Following communion, he spoke with a heart steeped in gratitude, and in his message entrusted to the clergy, religious, and laity of Aklan a resonant challenge—an open horizon framed in a single question: “After fifty years, what now?”

For the Anawim of St. Rafael the Archangel in Balete, the answer is already inscribed in the soil. Bishop Villareal’s pastoral theology insists that shepherds must not be “detached from the people.” Ministry, for him, is about presence—simply being with the people, journeying alongside them.

This echoes the “Theology of Life” once championed by Fr. Tito, who taught that salvation is not abstract but embodied. The work of the Accu-Herbal Group in Balete is a tangible manifestation of this theology. By harnessing traditional, endemic knowledge to produce remedies like Amiloy (a ginger and coconut oil liniment) and General Pasmo (a therapeutic blend of seven herbs and coconut oil), these women do more than brew medicine—they enact a radical form of Christian witness.

The struggle for a New Heaven and New Earth requires dismantling structures that keep the poor dependent. Too often, healthcare has been commodified, turning basic wellness into a luxury. Rural families in Balete are held hostage by costly, synthetic, multinational drugs.

Rooted in the Community-Based Health Program (CBHP) pioneered by the Rural Missionaries of the Philippines in the 1970s, the Accu-Herbal Group—led by Nay Floring, Nay Tesing, and women from other capelyas—offers pastoral resistance to this dependency. By turning to the earth, using endemic herbs and coconut oil, they proclaim that God has already provided healing within the community’s backyard. This is diakonia in its most liberating form: restoring health and self-reliance to the hands of the Anawim.

If the Pledge System embodies the structural grace of justice, and vermiculture the organic grace of stewardship, then the Accu-Herbal Group reveals the maternal grace of God’s healing touch made visible in the community.

The Witness of Amiloy and General Pasmo

Traditional healing is relational. In the BCC-CO orientation, these liniments are not commodities for profit but channels of care. When the women gather to extract coconut oil and press ginger, they transform ordinary plants into instruments of comfort. For a farmer or weary mother suffering from pasma—a traditional ailment of exhaustion and hunger—a bottle of herbal oil becomes a physical encounter with a Church that cares. It is Augustinian grace applied as a fragrant balm to the weary body.

For centuries, colonial and modern scientific narratives dismissed indigenous healing as primitive. By elevating traditional medicine into a parish-supported ministry, the BCC-CO in Balete performs a prophetic act. Guided by the biblical outlook of Fr. Carlos Abesamis, this is a reclamation of the “goods of the Earth” as sacred channels in a communal journey. It is Moltmann’s hope embodied: ancestral knowledge preserved as memory of self-sufficiency. The Accu-Herbal Group bears witness to a future where poor communities are not passive consumers of expensive systems but active guardians of their own well-being.

The Magnificat of the Grassroots

The Magnificat is the ultimate song of the Anawim, sung by Mary—a woman of the grassroots. Its lyrics proclaim that God “fills the hungry with good things and sends the rich away empty.” The Accu-Herbal Group embodies this song. Through simple vessels of Amiloy and General Pasmo, they fill the physically and economically hungry with God’s healing, bypassing commercial systems to bring low-cost, dignified health to the flock of St. Rafael.

And so, as Bishop Jojo’s question lingers—“After fifty years, what now?”—the women of Balete respond not with words but with hands that heal, herbs that comfort, and a witness that proclaims: health is communal grace, already given, already shared.

 

THE BUEOLIGAN SA PAROKYA: Something Small and Yet Beautiful Expression of Solidarity

 

Someone called my attention the other day. She gently pointed out that in all my recent storytelling about our parish’s history, I had left out a vital piece of the puzzle—a pillar that gave true flesh to Fr. Tito’s Theology of Life. She was right. I had spoken at length about the songs, the youth, the farmer-apostoles and the panimbahon, but I had quietly glossed over how we survived the cold, hard realities of daily economic life.

If you look back at our transition from the old Arancel system to the voluntary Pledge System, it was never meant to be just a spiritual or administrative reform. It was an act of survival. But Fr. Tito knew that a pledge on paper could not feed a family when sickness struck, or buy uniforms when school opened, or purchase seeds come planting season.

So, out of the pews of St. Rafael grew something revolutionary: the Bueoligan sa Parokya ni San Rafael.

The Bueoligan was our very own parish credit union, born directly out of our local oath—"Rong pagpas-an ku krus it pag-iegmanghuran". It wasn't a bank. It was a sanctuary against predatory loan sharks. When Msgr. Pet Frac took the reins, he refined it even further. He brought in the Grameen solidarity model of microcredit, weaving it together with the human-scale economic principles of E.F. Schumacher’s Small is Beautiful. Msgr. Pet showed us that economics didn't have to be cold or distant; at its best, economics is simply love made tangible in small, manageable doses.

Of course, our history has never followed a straight line. In a season of interregnum, when institutional centralization crept back into parish life, the Bueoligan was quietly cast aside. Yet its spirit endured, refusing to vanish. Years later, under the pastoral care of Fr. Jarvin Aguelo (2018–2024), that old spark was discerned anew. He sought to gather the scattered embers, rekindling its presence. The effort, however, leaned more toward fortifying the Pledge than advancing the vision of a revived credit union.

I tell you all this because as I listened to Jose Cardinal Advincula speak on synodality and hearing Bishop Jojo Villareal ask his haunting question—"Now that we're here, what now?"—my mind didn't drift to the grand choir singing majestically or to the sophisticated liturgical vestments of the ministers and the acolytes. 

My mind went back to the dusty roads of Balete of bygone years. I thought of Fr. Tito riding in Pautwas, with a seminarian on vacation and a convent boy riding beside him. There was no grand entourage, no lavish meals expected from poor host families in the barrios. Pautwas carried a ministry that traveled light, bringing a priest who smelled like his sheep, ready to listen to a community that didn't just watch the liturgy, but became its living voice.

That is why I keep coming back to the prayer Jesus taught us. When we pray “Our Father,” we are reminded that synodality isn’t a corporate strategy; it is family life. Before we are administrators or experts, we are brothers and sisters.

When we pray “Give us this day our daily bread,” I think of our Apostoles-Farmers bringing home a bed of Japanese Red Worm to build organic vermiculture plots through dagyaw, and I think of the Bueoligan shielding a mother from debt. Daily bread was never something manufactured by algorithms or instant conveniences—it was received through patient labor and human solidarity.

And when we pray “Lead us not into temptation,” I realize our greatest danger today isn’t open hostility to faith. It is the subtle temptation to measure our vitality by budgets, digital metrics, and grand performances where choirs sing and the pews stay silent.

Of the recent, Pope Leo XIV reminds us in Magnifica Humanitas to protect the majestic dignity of every person from being swallowed by economic utility, our own local past offers us a clear compass. The legacy of Church workers who have gone into the great beyond reminds us that the Kingdom of God has always grown from below—from calloused hands, shared tables, and communities that dare to walk together.

And so, the Bueoligan sa Parokya stands as a reminder that solidarity is not an abstraction but a daily practice. As E.F. Schumacher once wrote in Small is Beautiful: “What is needed… is the courage and wisdom to make decisions on the basis of human needs rather than abstract economic calculations.”

This is the heart of our parish story: something small, yet beautiful—an economy of brotherhood, a liturgy of daily bread, and a solidarity that makes the Kingdom visible in Balete’s dusty roads.

 

THE CHURCH OF BALETE: Ruins, Resurrection, and the Sacred Rubble

 

The tragedy that pulverized the centuries-old churches of Bohol and Cebu on October 15, 2013, echoed an older, deeply intimate memory in our local church history—the sudden collapse of St. Rafael Parish Church during the 6.3 magnitude earthquake that jolted Panay Island on June 14, 1990. While our structure may not have carried the formal title of a National Cultural Treasure, its total destruction reshaped the physical and spiritual facade of the Baleten-on community, affording the faithful a new face for their Catholicity.

Today, children play across the modernized, paved plaza without any inkling of the sacred rubble buried beneath their feet. They are robbed of the innocent pastime known to toddlers of old, who gathered chips of crushed brick to polish their fingernails.

For generations, loose blocks of red brick and sea-corals (goso) lay scattered around the church and convent grounds—remnants of the original colonial church destroyed during the upheavals of the early American period, when Balete was laid to waste during the Filipino-American War. Those historic ruins were eventually cleared by order of the local ordinary to provide supplemental building materials for rebuilding the Cathedral of Kalibo, leaving Balete stripped of its historic sanctuary.

Without a physical church, our parish suffered a painful forty-year interregnum. The broken community, besieged by poverty and local skirmishes, saw its religious and civil administration routed back to Batan. It was only in November 1939, under Rev. Fr. Paterno Valguna, that a concrete church was finally erected and the independent Parish of St. Rafael the Archangel was re-established. It is why our parish archives of baptism, marriage, and death begin abruptly in late 1939; anything prior remains buried in the registers of Batan or Banga.

That 1939 structure was the very building that collapsed in 1990—the exact era when Fr. Tito Gelito’s pastoral program and the Theology of Life were taking deep root in our town. The physical loss of the church building during those years served as an unintended, profound parable: it forced the parish to realize that the Church is not a fortress of stone, but a living body of believers. When the walls fell, the Church retreated into the open convent, aboard Pautwas, into the Bueoligan credit union, and around the table of con-venire where the weary, the sick, and the poor found sanctuary.

Today, the modern church building stands quietly in the heart of town, a silent witness to the multi-faceted, fast-changing life of Balete. At its appointed hours, as in days of old, its belfry tolls its heavy iron bells—inviting the busy, distracted parishioner to cease awhile and turn their minds toward the Divine.

And as John Donne reminded us, when a brother or sister finishes their earthly race, those same bells ring out a dark knell. They convey solemnly across the valley that another faithful traveler has left the trials of this world to join the venerable dead, journeying beyond our congested town cemetery toward the ultimate promise of our faith: a New Heaven and a New Earth.

 

THE PLEDGE SYSTEM: A Christian Witnessing in Struggle for the New Heaven and the New Earth

 

The structural and pastoral history of the Parish of St. Rafael the Archangel in Balete provides a perfect, concrete incarnation of the theological reflections we have been tracing. When Fr. Tito S. Gelito (1987–1997) and Msgr. Pedro C. Frac (1997–2004) affirmed the Offering (Haead) method introduced during the time of Msgr. Jose Parohinog (1976-1982) and initiated the radical shift from the commercialized Arancel system to the voluntary Pledge System, they were not just changing a financial mechanism; they were executing a profound pastoral reform rooted in the theology of the Cross, Grace, Struggle, and the structural realization of a Small Christian Community (SCC) orientation. The Second Plenary Council of the Philippines (PCP II) and the First Diocesan Synod of Kalibo serve as the definitive ecclesial affirmations for this bold pastoral shift. Both landmark documents explicitly confront the pastoral wounds caused by the Arancel system, validating the community's struggle to reclaim the true nature of Christian witnessing.

In the Arancel system, sacraments and spiritual services are tied to fixed, individual fees. In the context of liberation theology of Fr. Gutierrez, this represents a form of structural barrier that commodifies grace and exacerbates the daily "thorns" and anxieties of poor parishioners. It turns the church into a marketplace rather than a sanctuary for the flock. By abolishing these mandatory transactional fees and opting for a system where parishioners gave voluntary assent according to their resources, the parish eliminated discrimination based on economic status. The priests afforded all sacraments without additional obligations. This structural shift was an act of Christian witnessing that declared: God's grace is a free gift, not a commodity. It repositioned the parish to stand in solidarity with the Anawim (the poor of the Lord) of Balete, removing the financial friction that often alienated ordinary families from the life of the Church.

The transition to the Pledge System was explicitly anchored on a pastoral program defined by a "theology of life and love command"—expressed locally as "Rong pagpas-an ku krus it atong pag-ieigmanhuran kay Kristo Hesus". This is Augustine’s reflection on grace translated into pastoral action by Fr. Tito. Instead of coercing compliance through canonical fees, the system relied on the internal conversion of the faithful—believing that "love responds to love" and that the sacrifices of the shepherd would be freely requited by the outpourings of generous hearts.  Bearing this cross (pag-pas-an ku krus) meant accepting the vulnerability and historical struggle of trusting the community's collective conscience. It proved that grace is a powerful, organizing force capable of sustaining the material and spiritual needs of a local church without institutional coercion.

The First Synod of Kalibo provided the pastoral mandate for local parishes to experiment with and transition to participatory financial models like the Pledge System. It recognized that a Church cannot truly be a "Church of the Poor" if its administrative structures mimic commercial entities. By anchoring the Balete reform in the Synod's vision, the parish transformed its financial structure into an ecclesial act of diakonia (service) and koinonia (communion).

The success of the Pledge System in St. Rafael the Archangel relied heavily on a decentralized, participatory parish structure that mirrors the BCC-CO/SCC orientation. The parish was subdivided into chaples (capilyas), each with its own chapel president and finance committee, while a core group and education committee communicated the program. The chapel leadership carried out the personal household-level legwork to clarify concerns. 

This decentralized structure sustained by Msgr. Frac transformed the financial upkeep of the parish into a communal act of worship. By allocating 25% of the collections directly as a local Chapel Fund and distributing stipends to local chapel leaders, the system empowered the grassroots.  When the community gathered in their respective capilyas for Sunday or monthly Masses to drop their specially made Pledge Cards into the offering, it was no longer an anonymous, institutional duty. It was an expression of Moltmann’s active hope and Fr. Abesamis's historical engagement. The poor, ordinary families of Balete became active subjects—the "rich soil"—managing their own local church resources, ensuring that the catechists were funded (10%), and proving that a "little flock," when organized and united under one Shepherd, can fully sustain its own historical journey.

Through the Balete experience, the text of Psalm 95 takes on a vivid local color: "Come, worship the Lord, for we are his people, the flock that he shepherds." Under the pastoral care of Fr. Gelito and Msgr. Frac, the Parish of St. Rafael demonstrated that to be the flock of the Shepherd means to share the weight of the cross together at the chapel level, converting the struggle of daily life into a collective witness of radical, self-giving love.