Saints among us

By Herman M. Lagon

You learn a lot about a culture by how it remembers—not just the dead, but the living who lived with purpose. On All Saints’ Day in the Philippines, celebrated every November 1, the focus may seem to be on tombs and candles. But look closer, and you will see that it is really about the kind of life we try to live. It is about sainthood—not the solemn, gold-framed kind, but the one that rides jeepneys, stirs adobo, and stays kind despite exhaustion.

The Church calls it a feast for all in heaven—named or nameless, canonized or quietly good. But Pinoys have shaped it into something more textured. We gather not in chapels but over graves, not in silence but with stories. Some bring lechon. Others bring laughter. All bring memory. This is not just commemoration. This is community.

There are saints who teach barefoot in schools in the bondoocks. Saints who drive tricycles all day to put pancit on the table. Saints who clean, care, and keep showing up. Their stories may never reach stained-glass windows, but they live on in the hearts they shaped. All Saints’ Day is their day, too—not because they were flawless, but because they were faithful.

In rural classrooms, some teachers ask students to write about the saints they know. One child in Iloilo wrote about her mother, who gathers plastic bottles to afford her school uniform. That piece stayed on the classroom wall long after the candles were gone. It was not about sainthood as theory. It was about love, quietly practiced.

Lighting candles on this day is more than a ritual. It is a quiet statement that even in these times—of brownouts, bagyo, and bills—we still believe in light. We still believe that some lives, even if unrecognized by history, are worth remembering. In many homes, children are told stories about their lola or lolo—not how they died, but how they lived. And that, too, is a form of prayer.

What makes All Saints’ Day in the Philippines special is how it blends the sacred and the everyday. A rosary might echo from one mausoleum, and karaoke from another. Some may frown at the noise. But for many Filipinos, joy and reverence are not opposites. They go together. Saints, after all, were not removed from the world. They loved it fiercely.

Across the archipelago, each community marks the day differently, but the heart remains the same. Some dress in white. Others wear tsinelas. But all come with intention. Even families with little to spare bring a candle or a handful of flowers. As cultural historian Xiao Chua said, the celebration borrows from Mexican traditions, but it is now deeply Filipino: messy, heartfelt, and sincere.

That said, there are challenges. Commercial stalls and garbage piles sometimes crowd the sacred spaces. There is tension between honoring the dead and honoring the place. But even this is telling: sainthood is not about flawless behavior. It is about trying, caring, and correcting when we fall short.

In recent years, environmental groups have urged for cleaner, greener observances. “Kalag-kalag without kalat,” as EcoWaste Coalition puts it. For teachers, this is an opening to connect lessons on stewardship and sustainability. Because if sainthood is about care, then caring for the earth counts, too.

All Saints’ Day holds up a mirror. It reflects who we value and what stories we carry forward. It reminds us that saints are not just relics. They are the barangay health worker helping a senior cross a flooded street. The janitor who quietly prays before mopping. The student who lights a candle for a lost friend.

Pope Francis once said holiness is not about mystical visions, but choosing kindness, again and again. In our country, that holiness takes form in rice cookers, jeepneys, and soft prayers whispered between chores. It does not draw attention, but it leaves a mark.

Others might see November 1 as just another holiday—maybe Halloween’s quiet aftermath. But for most of us, it is a reminder: to chase no halos, but to live like them, who made space for others, remained kind despite pressure, and loved even when it was difficult. We cherish them, not with statues, but with small, consistent acts—a helping hand, a kind word, a heart constantly showing up. That is how sainthood happens: slowly, act by act.