For most of my life, the Catholic Church was a steady presence. It was where I was baptized, where I received my first communion, and where I first learned how to pray. I spent the summers of my childhood in catechism classes, gathered with friends as we read Bible stories and memorized prayers. Every Sunday, I attended Mass. I even joined the church choir and, on some days, stood at the lectern as a reader, delivering the responsorial psalm.
Faith wasn’t just a part of my life, it shaped my values, my sense of right and wrong, and my understanding of purpose. But somewhere along the way, I began to ask questions that didn’t have easy answers.
It started quietly, not because of rebellion or bitterness, but with curiosity. I didn’t question whether God existed; I questioned the structures built around God. Over time, I started to feel disconnected from both its teachings and the way it operates in the world.
One thing that pushed me away was seeing how involved the Church has become in politics, especially when it supports—or stays quiet about—politicians whose actions go against values like compassion, honesty, and justice. It also felt like the institution was more focused on maintaining influence than on living out the values it preaches.
That hypocrisy has made it difficult for me to see the institution as a credible moral authority. My decision to step away isn’t about rejecting faith or spirituality, but about refusing to stay silent in the face of a system that, in many ways, seems to have lost its moral compass.
Encountering Grace, the final and arguably most personal work of the late director-playwright Floy Quintos, compelled me to step back and reconsider what faith might look like beyond the boundaries of institutional religion.
The play centers on the controversial 1948 Marian apparitions in Lipa, Batangas, where young novice nun Teresita Castillo claimed that the Virgin Mary, who identified herself as Mary, Mediatrix of All Grace, appeared to her in the garden of the Carmelite Monastery in Lipa.
For 15 days, the young postulant communicated with the Blessed Mary, who stressed humility and obedience and urged devotees to pray for the clergy and the Pope. Along with the appearances, there were showers of rose petals. It was said that the petals were emblazoned with images of Jesus and Mary.
For the next three years, from 1948 to 1951, the Lipa apparitions sparked a wave of devotion, with thousands of people making a pilgrimage to the monastery.
These facts were brought to life through video projections of news clippings, official documents, and archival photographs, seamlessly interwoven with monologues from fictional characters inspired by real individuals connected to the events.
Grace doesn’t preach. It presents the events of the Lipa apparition with quiet intensity, laying out facts and testimonies that invite the audience to wrestle with truth, doubt, and the complexities of faith.
Watching it felt like hearing my questions out loud: What happens when faith defies the Church’s bounds? What does obedience mean when it silences sincerity?
The play captures the tension between personal revelation and institutional authority. Whether the visions were divine or imagined, what struck me was the emotional truth they carried—for her and for those who believed.
Through strong performances, Grace revealed that holiness can be lived through pain, silence, and conviction. The women were devout, yet quietly defiant. Grace, it seemed, could live in unanswered questions.
It helped me see doubt differently—not as a loss of faith, but as a form of it. I’m learning that faith isn’t certainty; it’s staying in the conversation, even when answers don’t come. It’s making room for questions, for compassion, and for the quiet, ongoing work of grace.
