First of two parts

LAST week, Filipinos missed the legislative hearings and saw nothing from the opaque ICI; instead, they were regaled with hypocritical displays from Senators Joel Villanueva and Bong Go. The latter’s corruption narrative follows CLTG Builders’ rise during Mayor Duterte’s tenure. He started his career as the lowly special assistant — “gofer and alleged procurer” — rising to the exalted position of the Deegong’s surrogate son and self-proclaimed protector of his legacy

(The first part of this series examines Sen. Joel Villanueva’s defense. Bong Go’s defense will feature in the second part.)

Joel Villanueva – pulpit politics

Having studied at a seminary myself, I am familiar with glib-tongued clergy, pastors and pretend prophets bewitching the audience with “fire and brimstone” oratory. Villanueva’s command of Filipino and Bible quotations was impeccable. Quirino Grandstand was the dramatic backdrop, like Moses descending from the mountain. He carried a Bible, visual proof of his holiness. When he opens it with a flourish to quote a passage, you’d think ChatGPT was embedded in the scriptures.

The faithful of the Jesus Is Lord (JIL) Church filled the park in waves of devotion, banners fluttering like modern palms. The 47th anniversary of a church is no small matter in a country where religious piety cum showbiz share the same stage lighting. But that evening, one performance stood out — not for its sanctity, but for its choreography: Senator Joel, son of the founder, heir to the ministry, an occasional legislator — and an accused. 

It was as the emcee said, “a night of thanksgiving.” Yet to this columnist- satirist/political heckler, it was also the Villanuevas’ night of positioning and denial of serious accusations regarding the son allegedly receiving 30 percent of P600 million in flood control corruption in his home province of Bulacan.

The sermon as misdirection strategy

Joel commenced his oratory with humility — an epitome of public service. “Public office is a divine calling,” he proclaimed with fervor. His cadence echoed the classic revival-tent rhythm: half sermon — “paiyak-iyak pa” — appealing to the captive audience’s empathy as the aggrieved, while subtly directing veiled barbs at faceless phantoms in a conspiracy purportedly singling him out. The terms “divine design” and “calling” reverberated through the grandstand like campaign anthems reimagined by the Holy Spirit. “I legislate not for wealth, but for worship!” he asserted, eliciting rapture from the congregation. Somewhere, St. Paul may have been turning in his grave. It was part testimony and part political defense brief.

For while the faithful raised their hands in hallelujahs, others raised skeptical eyebrows — those who recalled murmurs regarding infrastructure funds, flood control irregularities, and Discaya’s ilk, who seemed to possess an uncanny faith in the miracles of multiplication and kickbacks. But undeterred, the senator cloaked himself in scripture. “The only flood I’m involved in is the flood of blessings!” A line so artfully crafted that it might soon appear on bumper stickers. (Now we have learned of a 2016 dismissal order by then Ombudsman Conchita Carpio-Morales regarding Joel’s alleged misappropriation of his PDAF funds. This clandestine maneuvering by the discredited Ombudsman Samuel Martires will be addressed in forthcoming columns.)

Faith as firewall

Every politician requires a formidable shield and an impregnable platform that simultaneously serves as their pulpit. Joel possesses his father’s devoted congregation, and to his detractors, his closed-neck barong might as well be a clerical cassock granting him a distinctive status — the dual citizenship of the divine and the Senate. He understands that in the Philippines, piety serves as the most effective insurance policy against adverse headlines. Invoke Jesus with sufficient fervor, and even the most secular scandals begin to resemble parables.

The Quirino Grandstand was a remarkable form of political baptism: sin washed clean by the sound system. Yet, one must commend the artistry involved. To seamlessly intertwine contrition with charisma demands considerable finesse. It is the same spiritual choreography that transmutes every accusation into an altar call and every voter into a fervent believer.

Luneta grandstand, temple of optics

That night, the Luneta was less a venue than a visual metaphor. Here was the senator framed by floodlights, a choir behind him, nation before him. The air pulsed with devotion — and chicanery. For all its hymns, the event played like a dress rehearsal for an earthly rapture: politics sanctified, ambition baptized, applause disguised as “amens.”

When Villanueva said, “Before you amend a bill, amend your heart,” the crowd roared. It was a good line — moral, marketable, meme-ready — and profoundly pukable. But I doubt that any of the church members vomited. This guy possesses the language of a politico-religious charlatan. Just like our Davao version, the “Appointed Son of God.” Only that Joel is outranked — a mere son of the earthly founder of “Jesus Is Lord Church,” Bro. Eddie Villanueva. But Quiboloy and Joel may soon share a prison cell — if Remulla has his way.

The evening climaxed with a declaration shouted into the Manila night: “The Philippines may sink in floods, but our faith will rise!” A poetic flourish, though perhaps too soon for residents of Bulacan still knee-deep in actual floodwater. But in politics, irony is the national dialect.

The inherited halo

There is, of course, a semblance of dynastic destiny in all this. Joel is not merely a participant in the ministry; he is a product of it. His father established the JIL movement in the 1970s, an era when salvation and worship could simultaneously serve as forms of social protest. Decades later, the son perpetuates this legacy, albeit with the pulpit now occupying the Senate hall. Inheriting a political dynasty, much like in the realm of religion, often entails bearing a halo. Yet halos, akin to headlines, are resplendent but delicate. The senator’s formidable challenge, therefore, is to convince the nation that he is not simply a steward of legacy, but a legislator guided by principles (kuno); that his devotion is not a mere campaign tactic or misdirection, warding off the arms of the law.

Faith, politics and the Filipino

In the end, perhaps the satire transcends the mere portrayal of the senator, extending instead to us — the audience who fervently applauds both confession and charisma. We are a nation that craves the divine in our politics and the political in our devotion. We want Moses to part red tape and Jesus to audit the budget. So, when a senator preaches, we applaud; when he prays, we vote. Somewhere between scripture and strategy, between the Quirino Grandstand and the Senate floor, our democracy has become a kind of megachurch — complete with fog machines, faith declarations and Wi-Fi.

Final benediction

When the lights dimmed and the confetti settled, the faithful went home inspired, the senator went home trending, and the satirist/political heckler fashioned this column. In that sense, everyone left fulfilled. But one must leave a moral, however tongue-in-cheek: Faith may indeed move mountains — but it shouldn’t move public funds. And if someday we wake up to find our senators walking on water, let’s check first if the tide of accountability has simply gone out.