‘We remember him not just as a climber or servant, but as a rare kind of soul: one who bridged mountains and churches, whose hands carried both backpacks and crosses, and whose life now points upward, like Everest itself.’
NOT all saints walk on marble floors or wear halos. Some lace up hiking boots and show up wherever they’re needed. PJ Santiago was one of them.
His full name was Phillip Santiago II, a namesake of his father. His surname, Santiago, Spanish for “St. James,” echoes the spirit of an apostle and a pilgrim. St. James the Greater brought faith to distant lands and inspired the Camino de Santiago, the pilgrimage to Compostela that PJ himself completed years ago. His life mirrored that journey: faithful, purposeful, and quietly extraordinary. PJ didn’t wear fancy clothes. He wore a simple shirt and was always on the move, whether for a church task, a community need, or a personal mission. He didn’t wait to be told what to do. He already knew. He acted. He helped.
At the Pasig Cathedral, PJ became a familiar face, especially during the Feast of the Black Nazarene and Holy Week. He was part of the Samahang Nazareno, but his service went beyond any one group. He handled logistics, cleaned, and carried burdens both physical and spiritual. He stayed in the background, but he was never absent. PJ was also a mountaineer, a dreamer of summits drawn to the highest places not for vanity, but for mission. His final expedition was Mount Everest, which rises to 8,848.86 meters, the highest point on Earth. Everest is not just a mountain; it’s a brutal, unforgiving realm. In the “death zone” above 8,000 meters, oxygen is so thin that the body begins to shut down. Temperatures can drop to -60°C. A single misstep or a change in weather can be fatal. Since records began, over 340 people have died on Everest, and at least 200 of them remain there, frozen, unrecovered, part of the mountain itself. It’s a place where even families are told not to expect a body to come home.
But PJ came home. He will not be part of that statistic.
That quiet fact speaks volumes. His life, defined by service and love, found its way back to those who loved him. PJ didn’t climb for glory. He climbed for children battling cancer and to raise awareness for clean water access. Before his final expedition, he visited Nepal and installed water purification systems for youth, acts that reflected real, hands-on compassion. He carried prayers, a rosary, the Philippine flag, and plans to play the national anthem at the summit. These weren’t gestures of pride, but of deep love for his God, his country, and his people. His journey was a personal pilgrimage and a national offering.
PJ died a bachelor and lived as a true gentleman, a man of quiet dignity, steady faith, and unwavering kindness. He touched lives in ways large and small, never drawing attention to himself, always giving his best to others.
Two weeks ago, PJ was laid to rest. Many people came to honor him. They came from different walks of life, not because of fame, but because PJ had touched them. He was only 45, yet he lived with the clarity and purpose of someone much older. His passing wasn’t just a loss; it was a lesson. About selflessness. About courage. About quiet, consistent faith in action.
PJ Santiago died on a mountain that takes many and keeps most. But he was brought back. And more than that, he was lifted by the memories of those who loved him, those who prayed with him, and those who will carry his mission forward. The great Mount Everest, majestic and merciless, had to let him go because he belonged not to the silence of snow, but to the songs of home.
He is now closer to God in the most literal and spiritual sense. He climbed higher than any of us, not just in altitude, but in the way he lived: selflessly, courageously, and faithfully. We remember him not just as a climber or servant, but as a rare kind of soul: one who bridged mountains and churches, whose hands carried both backpacks and crosses, and whose life now points upward, like Everest itself.
