Thank God it's Easter

Penitent
Originally uploaded by Fith Fathing Magic.

Well, I am glad that’s over. I’ve always hated Holy Week. For most people it’s the perfect time for a pilgrimage to the nearest beach, a quick jaunt to our Asian neighbors or quiet bonding time with the family. For me Holy Week is not at all relaxing—it means sitting through hours of dramatic, gory films about Christ or Moses, braving the crowds to rub the toes of the bloodied, dead Jesus with my handkerchief, and being vacuumed sealed from the rest of the world (along with evil spirits!) from 3PM on Good Friday till 12 midnight on Easter Sunday.

Oh yeah, I forget. It was like that for me. For a very long time, I might add, but not anymore. I guess that’s why I still think of it as the present. Heh. Years and years of practice so it’s hard for me to shake off ill associations with this time of the year. Now I have the choice not to go through the rituals and stuff anymore, but I still get acid attacks when I see people leave the church waving colorful woven palms in the air. That usually signaled the start of another terrifying week for me, the only time in the year when I felt overwhelmingly scared and guilty for being alive. My mother is a devout Roman Catholic and when I was little she wanted me to use this time to reflect on the significance of Christ’s death and sacrifice. Imagine how it was for me as a seven-year-old to contemplate on this larger-than-life concept.

Palm Sundays were not that bad, really. Gloomy significance aside, I enjoyed looking at the array of palms being sold outside the church. They made the whole event seem festive and joyful. Holy Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays were more or less the same. We were still allowed to play and watch our favorite shows, but we had to tone things down a bit, be less boisterous than usual, and be respectful to our Suffering Lord. Maundy Thursdays were a pain. The TV stayed off (except when religious movies were on), the books were tucked in the shelves, the jump rope was hidden in the cupboard, and the crayons were stored in their boxes. During the day, the time was used to contemplate on Christ and Christ alone, and at night, we would hear mass and watch the reenactment of the Last Supper—from Jesus breaking bread with his disciples to Him washing their feet—and/or the Passion Play.

Good Fridays and Black Saturdays were the bleakest and scariest days of the year for me. They beat Halloween and All Souls’ day by ten million points in my book. I would wake up to the unusual and eerie silence of the house. People were up and about, I could tell, but they moved with caution, guilt, and dread. Everyone knew He was going to die soon. By mid-morning I would perch myself by our second floor bedroom window and watch the fire trucks bathe the streets with gallons of water. I could almost see the drops and waves sizzle and evaporate as soon as they hit the ground. Soon after, people would start lining the streets in anticipation.

And then I would hear it. It would be faint at first, like the sound of a weak man persistently scratching his way out of his tomb. chick-chick-chick-chick. Then it would grow progressively louder. chick-chICK-CHICK-CHICK. It was the rhythmic sound of bamboo sticks hitting against each other and on something solid and organic. The first man that would cross my line of vision would usually be a guy carrying (half-dragging) a wooden cross. His white shirt would be wrapped around his head with two peeping holes cut in it. Equally masked men taking turns hitting his bare arms, shoulders, and back with a black whip would flank him on both sides. People with buckets would break from the crowd and douse the penitent with water. Orderly rows of masked men would follow, flagellating their bare torsos with a makeshift contraption of ropes and bamboo slats. This macabre parade would go on; the rows of bleeding men broken by a solitary figure carrying a cross, for what seemed like an eternity. The metallic and acrid odor of blood would hang in the humid air even after they’re gone. The sight of another fire truck would bring relief to all; they were finally there to erase the remnants of what had happened.

That event would usually be followed by brunch. After witnessing the gore, I would always feel glad that meat was off the menu that day. "Visita Iglesia" was the next thing on the itinerary. Most families would only visit 7 churches to do the Stations of the Cross, but since we were "hard-core" Catholics, mine would go to 14. I dreaded touching or praying in front of the life-size statues of the Savior frozen in various stages of torment. He was scarier than any monster I could imagine and I was constantly reminded that he had to go through all that pain to save us, to save me. We usually had to finish before 3PM, the hour of death of the Lord. From what I remember, they would close the churches after that.

Three PM was a terrifying time. God was dead and we were left to fend for ourselves till Easter morn, my mother informed me, so I should behave and stay away from evil. It was a dangerous thing to say to an imaginative child, I believe. I pictured all sorts of evil lurking behind closed doors and festering in the dark shadows. I was perennially scared of being possessed by the devil himself or one of his minions. I couldn’t even pray for protection because Jesus was gone. I felt utterly alone, helpless, and abandoned. And this feeling would extend until Black Saturday.

My fertile imagination coupled with my stubbornness and resistance to all the mandatory rituals made this yearly event worse for me, I guess. I could have just complied or pretended to be "good" for a couple of days… But NO. I had to question everything and show my repulsion for the lavish and unnecessary display of piety. I couldn’t stand another minute of watching people bleed—may it be in films, a statue, or a real man publicly seeking atonement for his sins. I couldn’t understand how I, a child, could have possibly contributed to this Man’s agony and death. I was never, nor am I now, against the Catholic Church or its beliefs. Then, I was honestly perplexed and couldn’t comprehend the immensity of the situation, now, I just get annoyed when I’m coerced to believe in it. Scare (and guilt) tactics should never be used on a child… or an adult, for that matter. It only leads to suspicion and resentment.

My Holy Weeks are now more secular and less dramatic. I still get the heebie-jeebies, though, on Good Fridays and Black Saturdays no matter where I am. And I must admit, I sometimes miss the comfort of having a ritual to follow. Looking back, it may have been a traumatic time for me to go through all of these things every single year, but the experience made me part of a community actively seeking a connection to a higher being. That ain’t bad, right? I guess not… but that thought doesn’t stop me from still hating Holy Week! :)

PS. By the way, I took this photo several years ago during a Holy Week holiday in Seville. I found their sterilized version of the Penitent quite amusing.