I visited my mother’s home in the Philippines, a province called Aklan, during the famous Ati Atihan Festival. In a sense, it is a celebration of darkness. The Indigenous peoples in the Philippines have tighter curls and are quite darker than the rest of the Filipino population. Instead of scrubbing whitening soap on brown skin, Filipinos darken their skin and attach to it bright feathers and colours. This mimics the culture of the Indigenous peoples, especially the Ati people. It is an ancient tradition tracing back to the first encounter between the Malay settlers and Ati people in modern day Aklan. Eventually after Spanish colonization, an icon of baby Jesus, Santo Niño, became the center of the celebration. Not just any Jesus but a dark Jesus. 

The most famous dark Jesus in the Philippines is in Manila and it is called Nuestro Padre Jesús Nazareno. While originally imbued with light skin, it had a hard journey from Mexico to Manila. A fire caught on the ship and the flames refined the wood of the icon to black.  

The Santo Niño in my mom’s home of Aklan is from a Flemish artist. Over time, however, Jesus became darker and darker. Other areas have their own Santo Niños and their own stories of darkness. In Cebu, presumably the location of the first Santo Niño, that icon was actually miraculously formed from a piece of burnt firewood. 

As many African American theologians have argued in different ways, references to Jesus’ blackness or darkness do not refer to Jesus’ skin colour. Rather it encapsulates the subversive, emancipatory embodiment of the gospel found in the very life and essence of Jesus; the Lord who proclaims good news to the poor and liberation to the oppressed. Even more, his complexion seems to suggest that he struggles and suffers with those often looked down upon.

In a similar way, depictions of white Jesus say more about the artist and how Jesus relates to their people, values, hopes and dreams than a historical celebration of ancient near eastern culture. A white Jesus may encapsulate a cultural desire for purity, civilization and righteousness far surpassing the Pharisees. It represents something that could be called a theology of stability. The image of Jesus is pure and lofty, an image which spurs the Protestant work ethic in devotees who strive towards what they have already attained in Christ. 

In contrast, Filipino theology, like other peoples of colour, has been called a theology of struggle. Between the dialectic of oppression and liberation is struggle. A common image to describe this is the wilderness. 

In the wilderness God is not primarily a liberator but a kind and hospitable provider who journeys alongside our struggle. 

His scarred hands come with water and food, manna and quail, when we are parched and weak. He gives us just enough until the next pit stop. He encourages us to rest often and reveals to us his face and his glory. On this journey a hardy looking darker-skin Jesus - one attuned to the wisdom of the land - is a more comforting sight than a lighter skin saviour hiding from the sun in his carriage. 

Most of the Filipinos who revere the darker Jesus experience poverty or other forms of oppression. Commenting on Nuestro Padre Jesús Nazareno, one writer states, “Many devotees of the Black Nazarene relate their poverty and daily struggles to the wounds and tribulations experienced by Jesus, as represented by the image.”

My mother is an ex-Catholic and I am not Catholic, so the incorporation of a little baby Jesus icon at Ati Atihan felt very strange to me. At the same time, I felt hopeful. In a country and world where darker skin peoples are still being oppressed, there was celebration of darkness - a celebration centered around the King of Kings who embraces struggle for the sake of all his creation. 

Oh Jesus, our Lord, thank you for putting on our skin and walking with us in our pain and in our struggle. 

Photo provided by the author.