Where is faith? Is it etched into centuries-old stone, carried through hymns and whispered prayers? Is it in the gazes of statues at the altar, or in the quiet devotion of those kneeling in the pews?

Where is faith, and why–despite my lack of religiosity, despite my minimal intent to worship–am I compelled to always find it?

It’s always been a thought itching at the back of my head since I started regularly participating in visita iglesia every year, post-pandemic. I had already joined Renacimiento Manila’s Bisikleta Iglesia last March, but our visits were related to the Pasig River.

I felt the need to go on another ride on Good Friday with a few bike commuters.

Did I find a definitive answer? No. But I did bike away with something else—an observation, a presence…

… Something deeper.

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All photos were shot on a Fujifilm X100V. Thanks Leandro Mangubat for lending me your camera for the day.

The Tension and Balance of Quiet Devotion and Public Spectacle

Exterior and interior shots of the Sacred Heart Parish Shrine in Diliman, Quezon City

There’s something theatrical about visita iglesia during Holy Week. People in uniformed shirts scattered across the church grounds, preparing for a procession. Grand floral arches made out of styrofoam, with signages directing people where to fall in line. Vendors just beyond the gates selling bottled water, soft drinks, salty snacks, and rosary bracelets of all designs.

Exterior and interior shots of Sto. Domingo Church in Cubao, Quezon City

And yet, inside the church walls, it’s quiet. Solemn. The kind of silence that hums in your chest. The soft hushed conversations among families, seated together while waiting for the next eucharistic celebration. People switching through pews, hoping to get some space closer to either the altar or electric fan. Just by the first few pews, a line of parishoners formed for the confessional box.

The noise outside and the quietness inside made sense, weirdly enough. All of it happening at once. None of it canceling the other out.

Faith, I realized, isn’t always still. It lives in tension—in the spectacle and the sacred. It survives not despite the chaos, but alongside it.

Motion Interrupted by Grace

We biked through the heat, counting kilometers between churches, slowing only for stoplights or to regroup. Some parts of the route were smooth and shaded. Others were sticky with the Manila City heat. Pedaling between places of worship felt like threading motion through moments meant for stillness.

We never stayed long, but something in each space asked us to slow down.

Even in the busiest churches, there was a subdued hush. A kind of quiet that asked for attention, even from people like us who didn’t come to worship.

We weren’t rooted like the caretakers, the vendors who knew where shade would land in the afternoon, or the parishoners who had their favorite seats. We arrived and left within minutes, always in motion.

Not quite belonging, but still held by the space for a while.

It reminded me that stillness doesn’t always mean staying. Sometimes, it’s simply in the act of noticing. Of slowing just enough to feel the weight of the place before moving on.

A Shared Presence, Observant and Inclusive

In the first two churches we visited, I simply stood outside or by the doors, watching people come and go, prepare for the procession, or talk amongst themselves. I was taking photos of the scene around me, merely a fly in the wall, excluded from the preparations and chaos.

However, at the Santísimo Rosario Parish in the University of Santo Tomas, I found myself slipping into line, moving slowly with small, young families and senior citizens, toward the crucifix to touch the feet of Jesus, to say a prayer, to ask for something I wasn’t even sure I was worthy of having.

It’s a ritual I do when I’m able. Not out of obligation, but because it feels right. Familiar.

Perhaps it was time for me to pause. Put down the camera. To be part of the moment. Be there. This inclusion felt like a breath that I had been holding in for so long, and to pray was the exhalation.

Would God hear my prayer? I am a sinful person after all, and my request is mundane, common. But even sinners must hope… for forgiveness, for healing, for love.

Nevertheless, I was there–among the faithful, doing what they were doing, while my companions waited by our bikes outside, sipping water, eating vegan nachos or taking photos.

Not quite a pilgrim, but not a tourist either.

I wasn’t just observing anymore. For a few minutes, I was included. Still separate, yes, but part of it just the same.

Faith is Among the Faithful

My search for this elusive, all-consuming… thing… has given me more questions than answers, but one thing is certain: Faith is found among the faithful.

And I don’t mean just those who are Catholic or Christian, nor is it contained by doctrine or ritual. Faith exists where people gather, where intention lives.

This ride made me think back to the line in the Gospel of Luke:

The kingdom of God is in your midst.
– Luke 17:21

Faith doesn’t reside in buildings, icons, or singular acts. It’s in the people, in the humdrum of life, in the pauses we take together. It’s in religious communities as much as it is in small groups of cyclists venturing across the city on a car-light Good Friday.

It’s in presence: shared, observed, and felt.

Cycling didn’t make me more religious. But it did teach me how to be present. It taught me to pay attention—to the road ahead, to the people around, and to the stillness in between. And I’ve found myself slowing down enough to notice faith—not as a virtue, but as an essential part of our humanity.

And maybe, by passing through as cyclists—neither tourists nor pilgrims—we became part of that presence in those places, too.

Threads, woven quietly into a larger fabric.

Maybe I don’t need to find faith. I should live it out. With you. With me.