Posadas Navideñas: Filipino Advent

A SSPX school in Quezon City, PH, is resurrecting the old Catholic custom of Las Posadas, "Not as folklore, but as pedagogy. Not as performance, but as formation."

From One Peter Five

By Caterina Lorenzo-Molo, PhD

Recovering the Hispanic Devotion That Formed Souls

Advent can be quite challenging in the fun-loving Philippines, where malls glitter, office parties multiply, and carols blare while the Church is still proclaiming the apocalyptic Gospel of the Last Sunday of the liturgical year. Somewhere along the way, Advent’s sober longing was swallowed by premature celebration. In this former Territorio Español de Ultramar (1521–1898), where the Catholic Faith brought by Spain was almost immediately embraced, “Christmas” now begins in September—a phenomenon traceable to the same historical obedience to authority that led to her Christianization (and rightfully so) yet became a grave liability after the Second Vatican Council.

But we will go deeper. That naturally festive Filipino disposition—which non-Hispanic traditionalists might dismiss as ‘spectacle’ (as the case is with sacred music argued here, here, and here) is also embedded in a nearly forgotten Advent “street novena”: Las Posadas Navideñas/ Panunuluyan. This devotion that once formed Filipino souls to long for the Saviour may well be the key to bringing Advent back to Christmas in the old territory of Castille.

When Obedience Built a Nation—and Later Unravelled Its Worship

A little history lesson: two miraculous events occurred when the very legitimacy of Spanish rule became a theological and political controversy. Thirty years into their rule, Spaniards themselves questioned the old notion of “right of discovery and conquest”—because the Philippines was inhabited.

Spain initially relied on Law 29, Title XXVIII, of Partida III, which stated that “newly discovered land belonged to whoever inhabited it first.” Spain thus appealed to papal authority for legitimacy — namely, the 1493 papal bull Inter caetera, which granted missionary rights. But did this include political control? Debates centered on one question: Did missionary privilege imply political rule—or must political sovereignty arise from the free consent of the natives? An assembly—almost a council—was held in 1582 under Bishop Domingo de Salazar, O.P. Its conclusion: only the right to preach the Gospel constituted legitimate grounds for presence, but political dominion must be preceded by free acceptance or a just war, and since the natives had no structured laws/governments, Spanish presence might be tolerated only if used to introduce the Faith.

Conflicting positions emerged from various religious orders: Dominicans—no political authority unless freely accepted by natives, hence, missions must not imply domination; Jesuits—accepted rule only if used to protect preaching and converts, and to defend the innocent; and Augustinians—saw pontifical grant as sufficient to justify rule, since evangelisation must be protected. From this, a central question emerged—was the missionary mandate inherently political or purely spiritual? The resolution—native consent as the only just title.

Miracle 1. After thirty years of rule, Spain reversed earlier rulings and ordered: tributes collected from pagans be returned and natives be asked freely if they consented to Spanish rule (with coercion explicitly forbidden) through public assemblies held across regions. The missionaries forced the Crown to follow a theological and moral standard—that evangelisation precedes sovereignty, and sovereignty must be freely consented to. We must remember, this was an age when empires conquered first and justified later. The “law of conquest” was widely accepted around the world. Yet Spain and the Church stopped, debated, and asked: “Are we morally entitled to rule these people?” And when their theologians answered “Not without their consent,” the Crown of Castile obeyed.

Miracle 2. That when Filipinos were finally asked, most regions freely consented to Spanish rule, sometimes even setting their own conditions—which Spain accepted. This reveals that political submission was not imposed from above, but was, in large measure, organic from below. Docility and obedience served the inhabitants of the newly Christianized islands well. But it must also be said, Spain was quite the magnanimous and truly benevolent ruler, who defended the natives from warring foreigners, it is no surprise the majority embraced Spanish rule.

Fast forward to the 20th century after the Second Vatican Council, the same docility and obedience, under a papal hierarchy that loosened the guardrails—we have this perspective from a local Benedictine monk who argues and claims here and here, Filipinos accepted the Novus Ordo easily because Protestant missionaries had already acclimated them to vernacular, assembly-style worship, so they adapted quickly to the new rite—though only after being “weaned” from their traditional devotional practices. It is an admission, which unintentionally implies the Novus Ordo was readily embraced not because it grew organically from Catholic tradition, but because its forms aligned so closely with Protestant worship that Filipinos—once “weaned” from their older devotions—could transition into it with minimal resistance. This from a monk scheduled to receive the Pro Ecclesia et Pontifice Award from Pope Benedict XVI for his decades of service to the Church. But he died shortly before the date he was slated to receive it.

But this is a tame illustration of what happens when authority collapses over a docile and obedient nation of the Crown of Castile. King Philip’s Las Islas Filipinas has tragically become well-known in the tradosphere for viral displays of sentimentalism and confusion: dancing priests, liturgical gimmicks, “Catholic” Christmas carols sung in malls, over-the-top “Christmas” parties, and all permutations of merry-making, and long before Advent even begins. In fact, even before Advent, Churches are already decorated with full-blown nativities with a manger that is not empty.

The Season of Judgment before the Manger

But the Church ends her liturgical year with a warning, not a lullaby. On the final Sunday (Matthew 24:15–35), Our Lord speaks of tribulation, false prophets, the abomination of desolation, the sun and moon darkened, and the Son of Man coming on the clouds in majesty. St. Leo the Great called Advent the season that “stirs up in the heart a sober expectation,” urging vigilance and repentance lest the Judge find us unready (see here sermons XII, XIII, XVI, XIX). Pope Pius XII taught that hearts must first be disposed by penance, sobriety, and watchfulness before the mysteries of redemption may be celebrated (see Mediator Dei, paragraph 150).

Historically, in regions shaped by Hispanic Catholicism, Advent was treated as a “little Lent” (see Pope Leo the Great Sermons XV and XVI). In parts of Europe it even included fasting from St. Martin’s Day (November 11) until Christmas Eve (see Perpetuus, Bishop of Tours; Council of Tours II, canon 17; St. Gregory of Tours; St. Isidore of Seville). The ancient pattern was crystal clear (see here and here): end the year remembering the Last Things; prepare in Advent with penance and longing; only then rejoice from Christmas night until Candlemas.

But in the Philippines, this sequence has been inverted. Where Christmas used to begin on the 25th (Midnight Mass, Nochebuena), lasting to Epiphany (Jan. 6) or Candlemas (Feb. 2), without early commercial creep (see here), today as we write this article on the Last Sunday of Pentecost, the festivities have long begun. The annual sentimental and consumerist fever has started to rise. The season has become disconnected from Advent. The problem is not merely that fasting has been replaced with feasting. It is that feasting has been torn from the logic of the liturgical year. The soul has not been drilled with judgment, stripped by repentance, or schooled in longing. Instead, “holiday spirit” proceeds without Gospel formation. Strangely too, perhaps because festivities began so early in September, Filipinos rush to remove all signs of festivity way before Candelmas, and more often than not, right after the first day of the new year.

How can the Catholic soul receive Christ as Saviour if it no longer remembers Christ as Judge? Advent is the season of holy tension—the ache of a world awaiting its Messiah, the cry of prophets, the emptiness of the crib not yet filled. It is not a time of arrival but a time of walking. Hence the Church places Matthew 24:15–35 at the gates of the liturgical year: to reawaken a discipline of sacred longing.

Las Posadas Navideñas

Before Vatican II, the Philippines and the entire Hispanic world possessed a devotion perfectly calibrated for Advent: Las Posadas Navideñas/ Panunuluyan. “Christmas-flavored” devotions did exist before Vatican II — but they were concentrated in the novena from December 16–24, and were understood as Advent practices of preparation, not as Christmas feasting. They reenacted the long journey of Mary and Joseph seeking lodging in Bethlehem. It was a traditionally Catholic Spanish practice in Mexico, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines.

Once, it formed souls for Christmas. Today, it may be the answer to the secular and sentimental merry-making that has overtaken the Advent season — and this year, a small school in Manila, Our Lady of Victories Catholic School, will revive this ancient practice in its full Catholic spirit. Not as folklore, but as pedagogy. Not as performance, but as formation. Their intention is simple: to teach children what Advent truly is — and to show the rest of us (especially nations of Hispanidad) that there is a more apt and we might even call, “festive” way to “celebrate” the season—by preparing ourselves for the birth of Our Lord.

Perhaps this small beginning may serve as a seed — and schools across the Philippines (as well as other nations of Hispanidad) may rediscover the Catholic way of walking toward Bethlehem. And perhaps the sentimental and consumerist festivities (not just in the Philippines but worldwide) can be set aside to restore the real tradition—one anchored on preparation and longing—filled with prayers, rosaries, litanies, chants, the Holy Mass, and a reenactment of that night in the little town of Bethlehem.