Pilgrims Digress

Holy Thursday

We start our journey from the Naga Metropolitan Cathedral. It is six in the evening. Others have gone out ahead of us, but it is alright: time does not matter; getting there is what matters. We hope you are wearing your best walking shoes, for we will be spending the entire evening walking. Walking barefoot, though, will make you pious in the eyes of many. It will be helpful if you bring along water, snacks and even your dinner, unless you want to start fasting six hours in advance.

The saying that how ever long a procession is, it returns to its starting point does not apply here. First of all, this is not a procession where people bear a deified ikon around the town; although an air of solemnity still surround throngs of people walking in prayerful cadence. Indeed, we shall end up in another church in another municipality in another district.

We begin with a proud burst of energy: we noisily converse, sing, and laugh until the next municipality.

We then somber down and acquire the prevailing mood of our fellow pilgrims. It is rightly so, we think, for this is the Holy Week and Dios Jesucristo is about to die. The merriment of the Last Supper we had earlier gives way to the agonizing prayer at Gethsemane. Our garden is the National Highway and the surrounding farmlands, and our agony is the early onset of weariness. Like the three disciples, some would stop to rest, but most would start to pray. The latter we do an automated thumbing of rosary beads as we mumble away each Hail Mary in a mechanized yet eerily recognizable manner.

We must have walked more than five kilometers now. Our feet might be feeling sore but we trudge on; we feel our sins getting left behind with every step we took. More so if we do not have shoes and socks to impede their transmission from our body to the earth where they originated and where they shall end--burnt to a crisp in a never-ending infierno. It does not matter that we have not asked forgiveness from our neighbor, returned the things we have stolen, or repaired the things we have damaged. God has forgiven us and that is important.

We may buy water, food, and other things we suddenly feel needed from stores that have mysteriously sprouted along the highway. The Pinoy entrepreneur is there where the business is good, as what is done in fiestas and other religious events: inserting Money and Materialism among the other gods being worshipped, even creating other gods like Wine, Gambling and Vanity among others. We might manage, though, to be spared from offering to the Money God when some altruistic mayor or congressman hoping to be re-elected comes up with action centers or task forces providing free cold drinks, restrooms and first aid.

While we are in the middle of our journey, we may as well go sight-seeing. All too often, we shall see drinkers raising their glasses in praise of the Wine God as they indulge in an extended Last Supper--a last supper indeed for some, whose souls will be displaced from their bodies by the spirits of the alcohol. Some pay homage to the God of Gambling, where it is not only Christ’s cloth that is at stake. Others sing the pilgrims on, while others simply do not care as they sit mesmerized by the God of Entertainment residing in the TV.

We finally enter Calabanga, the destination municipality, and our hearts are gladdened. The atmosphere is festive, similar to the finish line in a marathon race. Others do treat this as a race, speeding up and overtaking lots of exhausted pilgrims. Tough walkers that they are, it is because they know what lies ahead: a kilometer long line of pilgrims desiring to have an audience with the King of kings. To stop as we fall in line is a welcome rest for our weary legs. Then we wait for more than an hour until we can enter an antiquated kapilya.

Finally, we see Him. There He lays--a lifeless wooden body dressed up in fine burial clothes, yet capable of giving blessings and grace. We view Him like that of our departed loved ones. We may pray, weep, then we kiss Him goodbye.

Our bodies are weakened but we are cleansed from sin. We are happy to see Him.

Good Friday

We now go to a friend’s residence nearby. He is expecting us as well as other visitors. He has prepared food and refreshments for all. Some of us may rest our tired bodies on his sofa and fall asleep. Others may keep vigil and tell stories to keep each other awake.

It is past midnight now, but Calabanga is still wide awake, still expecting more pilgrims. A midnight procession is taking place with rowdy boys in center stage. Jeepneys are taking some pilgrims back home. Earlier, they also took into the municipality some pilgrims who consider the sin-cleansing walk unnecessary.

Those who slept wake up to a fine sunny morning while those who kept vigil struggle with their last remaining strength to keep awake. We initially hesitate in accepting our host’s invitation for breakfast before we eagerly partake everything he offered.

To push the boundaries of holiness, some of us will choose to walk their way back home while most would ride the jeepney, discovering that, upon the influence of the Money God who seems to be powerful as Christ dies, the fares are higher than usual.

Along the way home, we see Him again. This time he is alive and in flesh and blood. We see him carrying His cross trudging to an unknown Calvary. He wears a crown of thorns that draw blood from his head. His hair is disheveled, partly hiding a bloodied face filled with sorrow and torment, although he tries futilely not to show these emotions. His white blood-stained robe is torn, exposing a whipped back. Skin has been peeled off His elbows and knees indicating that the sturdy cross has imposed its weight upon Him more than three times now.

Behind Him are ten men and two women dressed in similar fashion brandishing spiked whips. But they are not the Roman soldiers forcing Him to move on (it is the horrible sins committed that is whipping Him forward). They too are trying to hide their agony as they whip themselves at their backs in a synchronized ritual.

The scene of self-inflicted, self-righteous suffering is a sight to behold. But there is neither Roman-Jewish crowd jeering nor women wailing for Him. Some do stare dumbfounded, some wince in sympathy, while most go on with their business. Could this apathy be more painful than the jeers, their suffering in reparation not acknowledged?

One Caucasian excitedly operates his camcorder. When he returns home, he will sell his video footage to some reality program for the whole world to gawk at it all and come and see for themselves. Thus, next year, to the delight of Dick Gordon, we shall accommodate in our group excited Westerners eager to have their innocent minds full of the ideals of human rights blemished by the sight of holy gore, WOW Philippines!

(Note: This was first written in November 2003, based on the pilgrimage to Amang Inulid, the image of the dead Christ, in Calabanga, Camarines Sur. This tradition, although long-running, is not officially sanctioned by the Archdiocese of Caceres.)

Picture Credits:
Naga Metropolitan Cathedral from www.stvictor.org
Cristo and flaggelants from Sidney