Quiboloy’s ‘Divine Mandate’ Faces Legal Obstacle: Earthly Petitioners Disagree

By Louis ‘Barok‘ C. Biraogo — October 17, 2024

IN A political twist that even Moses himself might’ve left off the tablets, Apollo Quiboloy, the self-appointed Son of God, has anointed himself for the 2025 Senate race. Forget parting seas—he’s parting courtrooms, as his candidacy conjures up not just miracles but a mountain of legal headaches. It’s the holy trinity of Philippine politics: salvation, sedition, and subpoenas, proving once again that politics here is as close to a religious experience as you’ll ever get.

The Chosen One: Prophet or Politician?

When you’re not just a candidate but also the alleged spiritual heir to Jesus Christ, earthly obstacles like court cases and detention seem trivial. Quiboloy, currently detained for charges that include human trafficking, child abuse, and presumably impersonating a decent human being, has denied all wrongdoing. His camp insists that the accusations are nothing more than the devil’s handiwork—a cosmic smear campaign against a man on a divine mission to spread God’s word from the floor of the Senate. “He loves God and the Philippines,” insists Mark Tolentino, Quiboloy’s party backer. Of course! If loving two entities at once disqualified anyone, there would be no politicians left.

But it seems Quiboloy’s holy vocation has clashed with an inconvenient earthly duty—filing the right paperwork. Labor leader and fellow senatorial hopeful Sonny Matula has filed a petition to disqualify him, accusing Quiboloy of being a “nuisance candidate.” For those unfamiliar with the term, a nuisance candidate is someone who either can’t campaign, won’t win, or is so absurd that voters confuse them with someone serious. Apparently, claiming to be the Son of God doesn’t exempt you from this scrutiny.

Disqualify, Disqualify!: Thou Shalt Not Commit Fraud

Matula’s argument rests on a sacred text of Philippine democracy: the Omnibus Election Code. The code requires candidates to campaign, but with Quiboloy’s current accommodations in a police detention facility, shaking hands and kissing babies might prove challenging. The petition also alleges material misrepresentation, as Quiboloy submitted his candidacy under the Workers and Peasants Party (WPP)—a political movement that, I assume, doesn’t generally nominate deities.

There’s no specific legal provision banning imprisoned messiahs from running for office, but Matula insists that using an unauthorized party nomination (Cona) is a fraudulent act, which, in secular terms, is a sin. The Supreme Court has previously held that misrepresentation in election documents can be a ground for disqualification. And, though the Bible might be light on electoral precedents, Philippine law makes it clear: even Son-of-God-candidates must follow election protocols.

Matula further points out that Quiboloy’s candidacy could serve as a celestial smokescreen, distracting the public from his criminal charges. “The Philippine Senate is for legislators, not litigants,” Matula argues. And while Quiboloy’s backers may expect him to pull off a jailbreak or a divine acquittal before Election Day, these hopes are, shall we say, optimistic.

***Let Him Run!*: Blessed Are the Persecuted… and Eligible**

On the other side, Quiboloy’s supporters insist that their man is being unfairly judged—just like Jesus, though presumably with fewer miracles and more lawyers. Tolentino argues that Quiboloy’s incarceration is irrelevant because the people will campaign on his behalf. “The masses believe in him,” he said, subtly implying that faith-based campaigning could replace canvassing and that a vote for Quiboloy is a vote for God (and, let’s not forget, bail).

Tolentino’s case hinges on two ideas: First, there is no explicit law preventing candidates from running while detained unless they’ve been convicted with finality. Second, the Supreme Court has previously ruled in cases like Aquino v. COMELEC that misrepresentation in election documents must be material—meaning it must fundamentally affect the candidate’s qualifications. And while nominating yourself as both senator and spiritual savior may raise eyebrows, it might not meet the court’s strict standards for disqualification.

Moreover, disqualifying Quiboloy could be spun as religious persecution. In the Philippines—where faith can win elections, and campaign promises sometimes sound suspiciously like Sunday sermons—accusations of persecution carry serious weight. “Let he who has not been indicted cast the first vote,” his supporters might say.

The Great Political Game of Chicken: Who Will Blink First?

It’s hard to say who holds the upper hand here. On one side, the law, logic, and prison bars suggest that Quiboloy might not be the most viable candidate. On the other side, religious devotion, political spin, and a lot of rosaries might carry him through the campaign season. As absurd as his candidacy may seem, it fits comfortably into the theater of Philippine politics, where yesterday’s scandal is today’s campaign promise, and divine intervention is always just one election away.

If the courts reject Matula’s petition, Quiboloy will remain on the ballot. If they uphold it, Quiboloy’s lawyers will no doubt file an appeal faster than you can say “Messiah complex.” Either way, the spectacle guarantees more drama than a telenovela marathon.

Satiric Tips: Thou Shalt Govern… Wisely

Quiboloy: Focus on legal strategy, not campaign promises. Also, avoid comparing yourself to Jesus unless you want to risk crucifixion by social media.
Matula: Keep up the good fight. You may lose the legal battle, but you’ll have the moral high ground—assuming that still counts for anything.
Political Opponents: Just let Quiboloy run. You can always accuse him of absenteeism later if he wins from prison.
Quiboloy’s Followers: Pray hard, campaign harder. God may help those who help themselves, but election victories usually require voters and bribes… I mean, ballots.
The Filipino People: This election, you have a choice. Do you want senators with pending cases or divine missions? The future is in your hands—good luck and God bless.

Apollo Quiboloy’s leap from celestial throne to senatorial seat reminds us that democracy opens its doors to all: saints, sinners, and occasional deities. Sure, the Senate could use some divine wisdom, but let’s be honest—Philippine politics might chew up and spit out the Son of God himself. Expecting reform? You’re better off praying for a karaoke ban.