Should We Be Making “Porma” at Church?

Two years ago, a church in Iloilo made the news because of a laminated poster. Outside Jaro Cathedral, before you even step through its doors, visitors are reminded of the proper attire for churchgoers: collared blouses, long sleeves, polo shirts, jeans, slacks, and skirts and dresses below the knee. Today, it flashes briefly on-screen before the cathedral’s online Masses. There’s no strict enforcement, but Father Angelo Colada, the Archdiocese of Jaro’s communications director, describes it as a gentle reminder, and no one is turned away at the doors. Instead, it’s a nudge back toward the kind of church attire Filipinos were accustomed to for generations.  

I called my father, a regular churchgoer in Bacolod City, to ask how he felt about it. What does he wear to church? He says shorts and a polo shirt. So does everyone else in his parish, and he doesn’t necessarily mind. For him, it’s a practical decision to worship in clothes you’re comfortable in, especially in the tropical heat. “But I wouldn’t say it’s Sunday best anymore,” he admits. 

I still remember a time when my family would ceremoniously dress up for Sunday Mass. I wore a pastel frock and ballet flats, while my brother and father wore polos, slacks, and loafers.

So when did things change, exactly? 

Porma is the FilipinoFilipinoThe national language of the Philippines, widely used for communication, education, media, and culture.Go to Filipino Glossary word for dressing up, usually with intention for an occasion. And dressing for church has constantly changed with the times. In the 19th century, Filipino men would wear hats, canes, and baros to church, which eventually gave way to Western attire as it became the fashionable choice in the early 20th century. 

Decades later, as air-conditioned churches and mall culture took over, dressing for Mass became increasingly casual. In 2007, the Archdiocese of Manila issued guidelines outlining what Filipinos should wear to Mass, saying the move came after some parishioners complained about skimpy attire. 

One of the biggest shifts, however, happened during the pandemic. For a while, it made Mass something you could attend at home, watching from a screen, lying on the couch in pajamas. Dressing wasn’t really the priority; it was more about whether you turned it on and listened.

So, four years after the start of the pandemic, the poster outside of the Jaro Cathedral remains. It’s not an appeal to go back to wearing hats, canes, and barongs. Colada told Rappler in September 2024 that the parish needed to “develop the sacredness” of the space, calling instead for a return to ceremony. 

There’s a version of Sunday Mass that still floods my memories. One of pastel frocks and button-up shirts, ballet flats and loafers. The clothes wouldn’t make the service matter more, but taking the time to get dressed was how we marked the hour as separate from the rest of the week. It meant something was interrupted: the errands, the laundry, the sleeping in, whatever else a Sunday could have been. 

What my father wears these days doesn’t mean he’s giving that up, though. He still shows up every Sunday, rain or shine, wearing the clothes he’s comfortable in. His parish doesn’t think less of him for it. They say the church is supposed to be a home, anyway. 

When he and I make our weekly Sunday calls, they usually end the same way. “I need to get ready for church,” he says, and hangs up to put on his shorts and polo.