Split-Level Christianity

Made Flesh

When Nic and Blake from Street Psalms visited Manila six years ago to formalize the partnership between our organization, Penuel, and Street Psalms, Nic commented on something I overlooked as a Filipino. As is often the case, it is the outsiders who see things most clearly; during Nic’s first forays into the humid air and cityscape of Manila, his immediate impression was that Jesus is everywhere.

I know that the Christian faith is an essential part of who we are as a people, given that we are labeled as one of the only two Christian nations in Asia, alongside Timor-Leste. This identity is a product of a complicated history woven between colonialism and Christian mission. For us, being Christian is like breathing air, a natural and almost invisible reality – until Nic pointed out the obvious, forcing me to pay attention to what it truly means to be a Filipino Christian.

This week’s lectionary reading, John 14:1-14, touches on a real tension: the gap between how Jesus understands God, and how his disciples see God. It’s a conflict that still feels very relevant today. As a people, we’re often wrestling with a fractured sense of self, something shaped by our own checkered past. Personally, I’d bet that our religious upbringing is a major part of what’s driving that struggle.

I grew up in a household (a whole community, really) where God was seen as pretty whimsical, even moody, vindictive and violent. The older folks had a way of framing every misfortune, from an earthquake to any other calamity, as God getting even. Even the smallest slip-up, like being late for a church service, came with a threat of discipline. It felt like God was a micromanager who was always watching, so you constantly felt like you had to tiptoe around.

When our former President, who is now facing ICC charges for crimes against humanity, waged a war that left thousands dead, many Filipinos actually applauded. The ‘war on drugs’ wasn’t just a political strategy; it was draped in theological language. When our organization consulted on a study at the epicenter of those killings, we kept hearing the same thing on the ground: the victims were ‘sinners’ beyond redemption. It was a narrative reinforced by the majority of churches, which basically accepted the loss of thousands of lives as a necessary form of societal cleansing.

This wasn’t just a moment of moral blindness. It pointed to something deeper. The ease with which so many people justified the ‘war on drugs’ and made peace with the killings brings me back to the image of God we’ve created in our own likeness. It’s as if we’ve built a picture of God from a collage of our worst traits as a people, ultimately culminating in the image of a god who is just as angry as we are.

That is only one side of us, though – a hidden characteristic lurking in the shadows. To the outside world, we Filipinos are known for being welcoming, hospitable, and always full of smiles. People see us as happy people and, for the most part, that’s true. It isn’t some well-rehearsed facade; it’s something that comes from real experience. Some might think we don’t take life seriously, but I see it as a survival instinct. Crushed by a long history of colonial subservience, our people have learned to persevere through grit and resilience, which is the source of our signature happy disposition.

Beyond the image of an angry God, there is also a sense that God is distant. That’s probably why we gravitate so much towards Jesus – specifically the Jesus who carries his cross. It’s easily the most popular image of him in our culture because it sends a powerful message: he’s not distant, he’s one of us, sharing in our suffering. For Filipinos, Jesus isn’t just a distant figure; he is our kapwa – our fellow human being. Kapwa is such a foundational concept for us, and it really drives how we relate to everyone around us.

Our inability to imagine a God with whom there is no violence creates such a massive chasm that it’s hard to truly connect with a Jesus who is meant to be with us. The Filipino psychologist Fr. Jaime Bulatao SJ coined the term ‘split-level Christianity’ to describe this: the way we hold to two inconsistent sets of beliefs and behaviors at the same time. It’s a tension we live with, but it’s also the very place where we have the potential to grow and flourish as a people.

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Dwelling Among Us

What images of God and Jesus are dominant in your context? Do you find they create a “split-level” faith within you? Have you found images of God which have addressed this “chasm”?