Faith, family tradition, devotion: Dressing the saints in Candon

ILOCOS SUR, Philippines – In a quiet ancestral house not far from the parish church, the saints are literally taken apart.

Hands are removed first. Faces next. Ivory, dulled slightly by time but still luminous, is wrapped in cloth and hidden in places known only to a few. For the Abaya family, this careful disassembly is not an act of desecration, but of devotion. 

A helper bringing out the bare statue of Santo Paciencia from the baul.

For the Abayas and other families tasked similarly this Holy Week, it is a ritual born of memory, inheritance, and the uneasy knowledge that faith, here, is also made of fragile and valuable things.

Each Holy Week, those same images are made whole again. Albert Abaya, a descendant of Don Isabelo Abaya, founder of the short-lived “Republic of Candon” which preceded Malolos in 1898 — now leads a different kind of procession and this is the palibot, a slow, deliberate tour of saints through the streets of Candon. 

The Abayas all help in dressing up the rebultos.

“We take care of them like family,” Abaya said, referring to the statues that have passed through generations of his clan. Among them are Mater Dolorosa and La Pieta, their ivory faces and hands lending them an almost human vulnerability. The others are Santo Paciencia and San Pedro. 

They gave their San Juan de Sahagun, the patron saint of Candon, to a relative while they donated San Entierro (the Dead Jesus) to the church. 

That vulnerability has long required vigilance. Decades ago, the Lady of the Holy Rosary was stripped of its ivory parts inside the Church of San Juan de Sahagun. The theft changed everything. Since then, the Abayas have hidden the most valuable pieces separately, assembling the statues only when the time comes to present them to the faithful.

Weeks before Holy Week, tenants from lands historically tied to the images arrive at the Abaya home. The gathering resembles a small village council. There are repairs to be made, garments to be cleaned, carriages to be checked. The Abayas cook food for the people while assigning them their roles. 

A new palm for Santo Paciencia.

It’s not cheap to keep these saints from marching. Some install generators for the lights of the carrozas. Abaya said they spend P50,000 just for the flowers they buy in Baguio. 

Each statue has its own story, and, in a sense, its own economy. “These statues have corresponding lands allotted to them,” Abaya explained, referring to a system that dates back generations, when religious images were supported by agricultural income. The harvest sustains not just the caretakers, but the tradition itself.

A garment with golden thread is placed on top of a statue.

The garments, some woven with gold thread or cut from velvet, are treated with the same reverence as the figures they adorn. They are sent to designers for careful restoration. Crowns set with gold and diamonds are polished. 

On the day of the procession, the effect is theatrical but precise. Each saint emerges not simply dressed, but interpreted.

Putting the golden rays on a statue of Santo Pacienca.

Elsewhere in the Philippines, caretakers of sacred images speak of this responsibility in almost scholarly terms. In the town of San Jose de Buenavista in Antique, Niklaus de los Reyes Torres, who oversees 15 such images, described the dressing of saints as a form of visual catechism.

“Caretakers have to be mindful,” he said, noting that every garment, color, and object must correspond to the biblical narrative. St. Peter bears keys and a rooster. Mary of Bethany carries perfume. The saints, in their attire, become texts to be read by the faithful.

This attention to detail reflects a long history. Spanish friars introduced elaborate processions during the colonial period, using drama and imagery to teach doctrine. Over time, Filipinos embraced and transformed these displays into traditions of their own — blending European iconography with local craftsmanship and devotion.

In Candon, that transformation is visible in the way the community participates. Each carriage, some dating back to the 19th century, is borne by eight men and powered by portable generators that illuminate the saints against the night. The procession moves slowly, almost ceremonially, as if aware of the weight it carries.

For Abaya, the responsibility is constant. Maintenance is costly. Security is a concern. Even within families, inheritance can be complicated. He recalled a dispute in which one branch retained a statue’s ivory hands while another kept its face. One time one of them decided to become an OFW and forgot to tell the other.

By the time the saints take to the streets on Good Friday, the weeks of preparation dissolve into a single, luminous moment. They pass through the town as they have for generations, accompanied by prayer, curiosity and the quiet awe of those who line the streets. – Rappler.com