Walk around many Catholic churches in the Philippines, and you might notice something curious just outside the gates: vendors selling candles, amulets, herbal oils—and yes, even gayuma. These so-called love potions or charms are often tucked beside religious images of saints and rosaries, displayed as part of a marketplace that seems to blur the line between the sacred and the mystical.
It’s a sight that raises eyebrows: How can love spells and spiritual enchantments coexist beside places of worship? At first glance, it may seem contradictory, even ironic—but the deeper you look, the more this strange juxtaposition reveals truths about Filipino spirituality, folk beliefs, and the complex dance between faith and folklore.
A Blend of Faith Traditions
The Philippines has always had a deeply syncretic culture. Long before Spanish colonization and the arrival of Catholicism, ancient Filipinos practiced anito worship, albularyo healing, and a wide array of mystical rituals. When Catholicism was introduced in the 16th century, it didn’t fully replace indigenous belief systems—it layered over them.
Rather than reject pre-colonial practices, many Filipinos simply adapted both systems into a unique form of folk Catholicism. Today, this is why it’s not unusual to find people lighting a candle to a saint while carrying a pampaswerte charm or drinking a herbal decoction for luck in love. In this blended worldview, asking for divine intervention from a saint and buying a gayuma potion from a street vendor aren’t mutually exclusive acts—they’re just different expressions of the same deep desire: to change one’s fate.
Love as Devotion, Love as Desire
It’s important to understand that gayuma isn’t just about lust or seduction—it’s often a symbol of yearning, longing, and hope. Many people who buy gayuma are not driven purely by erotic motives. Some are lonely, heartbroken, or desperate to repair a broken relationship. Others are quietly praying for the attention of someone they love from afar.
For them, the gayuma is a tangible form of devotion—a desperate offering to fate, destiny, or some unnamed force to help them in matters of the heart. In the same way that a candle lit to Saint Jude represents a prayer for the impossible, a gayuma is sometimes seen as an earthly aid to that same spiritual wish.
This is also why vendors know that the foot traffic outside churches is ripe with emotional vulnerability. People leaving mass may have just prayed for love, reconciliation, or hope. Offering a gayuma in that moment becomes both business strategy and emotional timing.
Churches as Cultural Crossroads
In many towns and cities across the country, Catholic churches are not just religious centers—they are social and cultural hubs. Vendors selling flowers, candles, herbal remedies, and charms naturally gravitate to these spaces because of the high volume of people. Selling gayuma beside a church is not necessarily an act of rebellion or contradiction—it’s an acknowledgment of where people gather when they seek both spiritual guidance and personal transformation.
Churches are also sites where people feel most connected to their hopes and fears. And love—being one of the deepest human desires—is part of that spiritual landscape. Vendors respond to these unspoken longings by offering products that promise to fill the gaps that prayers alone may not seem to cover.
Moral Gray Areas and Quiet Tolerances
Of course, the Catholic Church does not officially condone gayuma or any form of sorcery. Many priests have spoken against these practices as superstitions or spiritual distractions. Yet, the quiet presence of gayuma sellers continues, often just a few steps away from church gates.
This silent tolerance reveals a certain pragmatism within Filipino communities. There is a cultural understanding that people need both prayer and remedy, both hope and action. The line between miracle and magic becomes blurry—and for many, it doesn’t matter, as long as it brings comfort or results.
The Persistent Power of Folk Belief
Ultimately, the presence of gayuma beside Catholic churches is not a contradiction—it’s a reflection of the rich, layered spirituality that defines much of Filipino life. It’s a space where love, longing, faith, and folklore converge. It tells us that in the Filipino soul, romantic hope and divine prayer are not worlds apart—they are simply two sides of the same coin.
So the next time you pass by a church and see a stall offering a bottle labeled Pampabalik ng Mahal or Pampalakas ng Karisma, don’t just dismiss it as superstition. See it for what it is: a cultural artifact, a love story, and a quiet echo of the complex ways people try to make sense of their hearts—and their faith.