THE OATH OVERLOAD PROBLEM

By Herman M. Lagon

Monday mornings in many schools and government offices now resemble a patriotic marathon. The national anthem plays. The Panunumpa sa Watawat follows. Then comes the Panatang Makabayan. In some places, government workers recite the Panata ng Kawani ng Gobyerno. Recently, another line was added in some institutions: the Bagong Pilipinas pledge and hymn. In a few offices, the ritual does not end there. Staff also read their office quality policy, institutional mission, or even a municipal, city, or province oath crafted by the local government. Some ceremonies even include a lineup of institutional songs before everyone heads to their desks, which is an interesting story that deserves a separate discussion altogether. One could be forgiven for quietly asking, half amused and half puzzled: how many promises can a person realistically swear before 8:15 a.m.?

There is nothing wrong with an oath. In fact, oaths have always carried meaning in human societies. Political philosopher Giorgio Agamben described the oath as one of humanity’s earliest ways of binding words to responsibility, long before modern legal systems existed (Agamben, 2011). We all understand this instinctively. A wedding vow is treated with gravity. A professional oath during licensure ceremonies—whether for teachers, engineers, or nurses—often becomes one of life’s memorable moments. Many still recall standing in crowded halls, raising a right hand, and promising to practice their profession with honor. The seriousness of that moment partly comes from its rarity. It is not repeated every week.

The difficulty begins when meaningful words become routine. Sociologist Randy David once noted that repeated oaths can slowly turn into mechanical utterances rather than thoughtful commitments. Anyone who has attended a typical Monday ceremony has seen this. Students mouth the lines without fully hearing them. Some government employees whisper the words while mentally checking the day’s schedule. Teachers recite them while thinking about unfinished lesson plans. The promises remain noble. The delivery, however, sometimes drifts into autopilot.

There are understandable reasons for this strong ritual culture. The weekly flag ceremony has a legal basis. Republic Act 8491 requires it in schools and government institutions, while earlier laws like Republic Act 1265 helped establish the Panatang Makabayan in school rituals. The idea behind this is understandable. Repetition can shape memory and values. Teachers know this well. But repetition has to be paired with attention. Without that, words may stay in the mouth but leave the mind.

Teachers see this in very ordinary ways. In one Iloilo school, a colleague joked that the Monday ceremony sometimes feels like a long civic medley. Students sing the anthem, move through one pledge, then another, and occasionally lose track. Some students later admitted that the lines blur because the texts carry similar themes and are recited too quickly. One mixed the Panunumpa sa Watawat with the Panatang Makabayan. The mistake was funny, but it pointed to a real problem.

What makes it more complicated is that the pledges are not really fighting each other. They mostly say good things in slightly different ways. Loyalty, service, honesty, discipline, and love of country are all there. But placed one after another, the words begin to overlap. The ceremony starts sounding less like a set of distinct commitments and more like one long echo.

Other countries offer a simpler model. The United States has one Pledge of Allegiance. Singapore uses one national pledge. Japan leans more on the anthem and formal respect to the flag. The Philippines has chosen a more layered path, shaped by history and by each generation’s desire to add its own civic language. That history matters, but so does keeping the message clear. In our case, each generation has added its own symbolic line.

There is also a practical side to the discussion. Teachers already face crowded schedules. Monday mornings often involve announcements, reminders, and last-minute preparations. Government offices face similar pressures. When ceremonies stretch longer than necessary, attention naturally drifts. A single well-crafted pledge, spoken slowly and understood clearly, may accomplish more than several hurried ones stacked together.

This does not mean discarding tradition. The Panatang Makabayan, introduced in the 1930s and later formalized by law, carries historical weight. The Panunumpa sa Watawat anchors civic identity to the national flag. Both deserve respect. Yet respect does not always require multiplication. Sometimes the deeper question is whether combining their central ideas into one unified pledge might strengthen rather than weaken their meaning.

Imagine a simpler ceremony. The anthem plays. Participants stand still, not distracted by the next line to memorize. Then comes a single pledge—clear, concise, and thoughtful—reminding us of our shared commitments: honesty, service, justice, and care for the country. Instead of rushing through several texts, everyone takes a moment to understand the words being spoken.

There is also a psychological dimension worth considering. Research in educational psychology suggests that meaning emerges not from the frequency of repetition alone but from reflection on what is being repeated (Bransford, et al., 2000). When learners connect words with lived experience, the message stays longer. A student who hears the word paglilingkod may remember a volunteer project. A government employee who hears katapatan may think about public accountability. These connections require mental space. Four consecutive oaths rarely provide that space.

Of course, the debate about oaths is not simply procedural. It also touches on how societies express patriotism. Some people value visible rituals. Others show loyalty through daily work—teaching children to read, guarding coastal waters, fixing roads honestly, or simply refusing corruption in small transactions. One form of patriotism does not cancel another. Still, ceremonies should remind people why these values matter, not bury them under too many repeated lines.

There is a quiet lesson here. Words gain weight when they are spoken carefully. A promise loses gravity when it becomes routine noise. Public life depends on the credibility of words and commitments. When language turns into ceremonial filler, civic meaning slowly thins out.

On the next Monday morning somewhere in the country, the familiar ceremony will unfold again. The flag will rise against the humid sky. Students will stand in rows. Teachers will hold attendance lists. Office workers will gather near building entrances. Voices will echo across courtyards and plazas. Whether the promises spoken there are one or four, the real test remains the same: not how many times they are recited, but whether anyone still pauses to think about the promise behind the words.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.