There are many things they do not tell you in theology school.
No one tells you that sometimes, missionary work means celebrating Mass barefoot because your shoes are still full of sand from crossing a river. No one tells you that your pants, socks, and even your underwear can get soaked before you even begin the Eucharist.
And no one tells you that one day, after crossing a river just to reach a small chapel in a remote barrio, the first thing you will hear from a parishioner is this: “Hala, nagkabulingit ang pari!” (The priest got dirty.)
Welcome to the Prelature of Marawi.
It has been a few years now since I volunteered in the Prelature of Marawi. When I first arrived, I thought I was bringing something to the people. I thought I was bringing my theological training, my youthful energy, my missionary idealism, my carefully prepared homilies, and perhaps even my own sense of generosity.
But the truth is, Marawi has given me far more than I could ever give back.
The Prelature is both an existential and geographical periphery. It is a place where one quickly realizes that ministry is not only about preaching. It is about crossing rivers, sitting with grieving families, laughing with lay leaders, drinking coffee after a difficult morning, listening to the stories of poor people, and learning to be humbled by one’s own limitations.
She was right. So there I was, wet, uncomfortable, barefoot, celebrating Mass in a tiny chapel with only a few Christian families. The Sunday collection would not even amount to a few hundred pesos. Yet the smiles of the people, their faith, their waiting, their desire to celebrate the Eucharist despite their poverty, made me realize something important that “grace is often found in places that are inconvenient, uncomfortable, and unpredictable.”
I remember one Sunday morning when I had to cross a river just to reach a small chapel in a remote barrio in Balabagan. Because of the flood, the river had widened so much that what was usually manageable became intimidating. Halfway through, the water was already above my knees. No matter how much I rolled up my pants, they still got wet. My shoes were filled with sand. By the time I reached the chapel, a woman looked at me and blurted out, “Hala, nagkabulingit ang pari!”
Marawi taught me that the grace of God does not only exist in beautiful churches, air-conditioned halls, or organized and well-funded parish programs. Sometimes, grace is in a muddy river. Sometimes, grace is in a shared meal of dried fish and rice after Mass. Sometimes, grace is in the laughter of people who have every reason to lose hope but continue to smile anyway.
And perhaps the woman in the chapel was right in more ways than one. Because missionary life really makes you dirty.
Not only with sand, mud, sweat, and wet clothes. It also dirties your ego, your pride, your plans, your expectations. It humbles you. It teaches you that you are not as patient, holy, or kind as you thought you were. It reveals your own capriciousness, impatience, and inconsistency.
But perhaps that is also where grace is found. Because it is often in those uncomfortable, messy, and humbling moments that I encounter the Lord most deeply.
Of course, missionary life is not always poetic. There are mornings when one’s patience is tested.
There are still many moments that test one’s patience, humility, and sense of humor. Parish life is not always peaceful. Sometimes it can be noisy, demanding, and emotionally exhausting. There are personalities to deal with, misunderstandings to settle, complaints to absorb, and expectations to manage.
Being alone in a parish-community is not easy. The responsibilities can be overwhelming. Guiding people to see another perspective, teaching new ways, and helping a community grow can sometimes be tiring because of resistance, grumbling, and misunderstandings.
Yet, I have also learned that this is part of community-building. I have to remind myself that I am not a perfect pastor. I also get muddy because of my impatience, my moods, my inconsistencies, and my own stubbornness.
But these are also the moments where Christ invites me to grow. To become less arrogant. Less entitled. Less self-centered. To remember that Christ must always remain at the center—not my titles, not my plans, and not my feelings.
That day, I realized that kindness can cross barriers that culture, politics, and prejudice often build. Kindness can speak a language that everybody understands. Kindness can become a bridge where fear and suspicion once stood.
But perhaps the deepest lessons came not only from the Christian community, but also from our Muslim brothers and sisters.
There was a time when our mission vehicle got stuck in the sand while crossing a river on the way to a barrio. At first, people simply watched us struggle. I became anxious and frustrated. Some even said that the Maranao men nearby would not help because it was Ramadan and they were fasting.
Yet, little by little, something beautiful happened. A young Maranao man whose motorcycle also got stuck in the river was helped by our youth volunteers. In return, he came back to help us. Soon, other Maranao men joined him. Before we knew it, more than twenty men—Muslims and Christians together—were pulling, pushing, and rescuing our vehicle from the river. When we finally got out, everybody smiled. It was one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen.
Because in Marawi, I have learned that peace is not built only in conference halls or government offices. Peace is built in ordinary encounters. In shared coffee. In rivers crossed together. In helping a stranger. In listening. In staying. In choosing kindness when it would be easier to walk away.
And indeed, the mission of the Prelature of Marawi is so much more needed and significant and that is “to become a reconciling presence” in a place wounded by war, violence, discrimination, and fear.
There are difficult days, of course. Days when we bury people killed by violence. Days when we cry for justice that seems too expensive for the poor. Days when we ask God, “How much longer?”
Yet, even in those moments, hope remains stubborn. And so the mission does not stop.
Marawi has taught me many things. It has taught me to be less arrogant, less entitled, less certain of myself. It has taught me to pray with gratitude. It has taught me that theology is not only something written in books, but something lived in muddy roads, broken communities, terrified people, shared meals, and difficult conversations.
And perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all. That God is not only found in elaborate church sanctuary. God is also in the river. God is in the stranger. God is in the people.
(This article was first published in Auxiliadora, the Official Publication of the Prelature of Marawi, May 2026 issue.)
A DOSE OF GOD TODAY 