When a church born in defiance of colonial rule calls for a nationwide rally against corruption, the country should perhaps listen to what a century of being an independent and wholly Filipino Church is now saying. Iglesia ni Cristo (INC), long viewed from the sidelines as a disciplined and politically potent religious bloc, is stepping into the heart of national discourse with a peace rally that challenges the moral failures of the BBM administration. As over 15,000 police officers prepare to secure INC’s three-day mobilization, what unfolds is not just a protest. It’s a reckoning. And for those of us who once misunderstood INC from the margins, it’s a moment to reconsider what resistance, reform, and faith truly mean in the Filipino’s collective struggle.
I’m not a member of Iglesia ni Cristo. I don’t speak for its doctrines or its leadership. I speak from the margins—from the perspective of someone who once misunderstood INC, who once reduced it to a voting bloc, and who now sees something deeper: a church born in resistance, now rallying for reform.
INC was founded in 1914 by Felix Y. Manalo, in a Philippines still reeling from Spanish colonialism and adjusting to American rule. Religion had long been used to control Filipinos; first by friars, then by missionaries. INC’s founding and growth was not just theological; it was political. It was a declaration that Filipinos could reclaim their spiritual agency and define their own path to salvation.
From the outside, I once viewed Iglesia ni Cristo with skepticism. Its structure, its discipline, and its distinct practices felt unfamiliar to me—easy to misjudge, especially from a distance. But over time, I’ve come to understand that for many Filipinos, INC offered something rare and powerful: a spiritual home built by Filipinos, for Filipinos, at a time when most religious institutions were shaped by colonial influence. Joining INC wasn’t just about belief—it was about reclaiming agency, finding community, and asserting dignity in a country long denied its own voice.
I remember this vividly from my student days at UP Diliman in the early 1980s. On quiet evenings, I would often pass by the INC Central Temple in Quezon City, its spires glowing under a canopy of lights. The architecture was grand, almost otherworldly—an unmistakable landmark of faith and Filipino craftsmanship. It stood in stark contrast to the humble beginnings of the church, when Felix Manalo and his early followers gathered in makeshift spaces, often facing ridicule and even stones hurled by unbelievers. That contrast stayed with me: from persecution to prominence, from borrowed spaces to monumental sanctuaries. It was a testament not just to growth, but to the persevering Filipino faith.
During the 2022 elections, I was a proud Kakampink. I argued online, sometimes harshly, especially with a former colleague who’s an INC member. I accused the church of political compromise. I didn’t just challenge her views; I was on the verge of dismissing her faith.
Looking back, I realize how shallow that was. I failed to see INC’s deeper story: a legacy of resilience, a community built on conviction. My political passion blinded me to the historical and spiritual significance of a church that has endured for over a century.
Earlier this month, INC announced its Rally for Transparency and a Better Democracy, a three- day nationwide peace rally scheduled for November 16–18, 2025. The Philippine National Police is deploying over 15,000 officers to secure the event across major sites in Metro Manila, including EDSA Shrine, Quirino Grandstand, and the Senate.
The rally comes in response to a corruption scandal that has rocked the BBM administration. Despite high-profile investigations, no officials have been held accountable. INC’s rally is framed not as a political protest, but as a moral stand; A call for truth, fairness, and justice. It reflects a growing public frustration and channels that disillusionment into peaceful civic action.
From the margins, I see this not as political theater, but as a continuation of INC’s legacy: to speak from conviction, to act in the name of moral clarity, and to remind the nation that faith communities can, and must, shape public discourse.
In places like Mindanao, where I live, churches are more than places of worship. They’re centers of relief, education, and solidarity. INC’s presence here, like that of many other religious groups, is felt in quiet acts of service. When INC rallies for reform, it’s not just a gesture—it’s a reaffirmation of its role as a moral compass.
To my former colleague from INC: I’m sorry. My words may have dismissed something sacred to you. Your faith is not mine, but it is no less valid, no less Filipino, no less worthy of respect.
I still have questions. I still have critiques. But I also have a deeper appreciation for what INC represents, for the history it carries, and for the role it continues to play in our national story.
From the margins, I offer this reflection not as an endorsement, but as an invitation to listen more, to judge less, and to recognize the many ways Filipinos seek truth, justice, and reforms in government.
(Jules Benitez works with communities and local government units across Mindanao as a peacebuilding and humanitarian development consultant.)