The Holy Week: Sunny with a chance of Easter Eggs

The Lenten season is upon us, and Christians all over the world are celebrating the life of Christ; how He lived and died to save humanity from the eternal fires of hell. How the Easter Bunny and the Easter eggs got into this picture is beyond me, but I won’t question the wisdom of western traditions.

Rather I’ll take you back to the days of my childhood in rural Philippines, when my parents and others of their generation celebrated the Holy Week just as differently, and perhaps as weirdly, as hunting for coloured eggs on Easter Sunday morning. Not for my village folks, though, was the unbridled physical display of piety seen in other Philippine towns: no self-flagellation, no wearing the crown of thorns, and most of all, no nailing of anybody to a wooden cross.

My village's Holy Week officially started on Palm Sunday, when people carrying intricately woven palm fronds go to church to commemorate Christ’s entry into Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover.

The real action began on Holy Thursday. One of the well-off families in the village would host a reading of The Passion of Christ, and invite all the usual suspects, regular passion readers who did this sort of thing every year. My father was one of them. These readers would sing, not read, every stanza in the Book, using a well-established tune. One reader after another, man after woman, stanza by stanza, until they reached the very last line. Then back again at the beginning. This went on until the morning, or perhaps even up to 3:00 in the afternoon of Good Friday. When a group of singers took a break, another group would pick up the tune. A huge dinner of meat stew and rice, along with an endless amount of brewed ginger tea would be served. A regular infusion of ginger tea kept the singers going. Neighbours and relatives dropped in regularly to listen and partake of the food.

In those days, life at my village came to a standstill at the stroke of 3:00 p.m. on Good Friday. No more singing, no bathing, and no physical work. No going to church. Just praying at home, sometimes with lighted candles. Jesus was dead and we were showing respect.

Activities get re-started early in the morning of Sabado de Gloria --- the Saturday of Ascension. Jesus had gone up to heaven to join the Father, and we were free to do as we wished. Mother would sweep the yard early. Being a tiny kid, I got picked up by my ears by various adults, then hoisted up to the heavens a few times first thing in the morning. I was told this would help me grow taller. I’ve often thought about reminding my big brothers that not only did they fail to make me taller, I could also have lost an ear and it would have been their fault.

After breakfast, my mother would cook sticky rice cakes wrapped in banana leaves, which were then eaten with sweet coconut syrup. Those cakes made the Holy Week worth waiting for.

Easter Sunday was the day of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ: The more pious villagers would hire a jeepney to go to church in the city to celebrate Jesus’ return to life. A lavish, church-organized ceremony took place at 4:00 in the morning every Easter Sunday in our city. The event featured two processions starting out from two different parts of the town. One was headed by the statue of the Virgin Mary on a float, her face covered in a dark veil. The other was headed by the statue of Jesus Christ in another float. The two processions met at a thoroughfare, under a structure where an angel lay in wait to snatch away the Virgin Mary’s veil to signify the joy coming back to her life. The two processions then merged and headed back to church where a mass would be held to celebrate the Resurrection.

My mother never went to church on those occasions, and I loved the extra time I got to snuggle with her. By Monday, the passion books were all put away and everything was back to normal.

After my parents and their contemporaries have all passed away, passion singing went out of fashion in my village. Now all I have are childhood the memories. Back here in Vancouver, the Easter eggs are calling my name.

(previously published at the Mill Woods Mosaic, March 15, 2013 issue)