Photo courtesy of Ivan Anthony Henares |
Photo: Maleldo king Pampanga FB Group |
It’s a scene straight out of a Cecil B. DeMille movie:
hundreds, maybe thousands, of half-naked flagellants and cross-bearers in
flowing red robes, brought together by sin and tradition, converge in the
church patio for an orgy of suffering, self-mutilation and penance. The number
of penitents makes you wonder if flagellation, like circumcision, is a rite of
passage among boys in Pampanga. (It also makes you wonder why Kapampangans,
usually vain, would want to lacerate their skin and flesh and disfigure their
pampered bodies.)
The passion play is performed by actors who I suspect are
thugs, stevedores and butchers from the nearby Pampang market, because they
chase the actor playing Jesus and beat him up with such realism and violence
the poor guy often ends up in the local clinic. It even has a live crucifixion
which tourists from Clark and Koreatown must pay an entrance fee of P200 to
see.
They’re all over Pampanga, but it takes luck to catch
them—the cross-bearers who carry electric posts and huge banana trunks (seen in
Brgy. San Agustin in Magalang), the women cross-bearers, the transvestite
cross-bearers, the cross-bearers who tie a samurai around their waist with the
tip pressed against their chin to keep their heads up, and the cross-bearers
who are tied together to the same cross so that they can take turns carrying it
(seen in Dau). In Brgy. Pampang, Angeles City I saw a cancer-stricken mother
carrying a cross while her entire family prayed the rosary and followed her
around. And then there are the dreadful magsalibatbat, who crawl on the road
for miles, rubbing their skin continuously against the concrete until they’re
all bruised and covered with dirt. Those who look for actual crucifixions can
also try Brgy. Telapayung in Arayat, where they are more private and more
heartfelt.
This is the ritual where a life-size statue of Jesus with
moveable neck and joints is taken down from the cross and laid down and dressed
up to become the Santo Entierro (The Interred Christ). The town’s
Velez-Zaragoza clan performs the elaborate ritual with the same care and
solemnity as I imagine a family would prepare a departed member for burial. In the
past, parish workers closed all church doors and windows and banged metal to
simulate the eclipse and the thunderclaps that supposedly accompanied the
Crucifixion, and to arouse the same fear and awe experienced by the Jews.
Today, we just rely on the rhetoric and theatrics of the Sieta Palabras
speakers.
The entire province quiets down as night falls on Good
Friday, when parishes hold hushed processions of their heirloom santos, led by
the Santo Entierro and the Mater Dolorosa. They’re all happening
simultaneously: the candlelit carrozas of Arayat which transport you back in
time, the sweet sound of violins playing Stabat Mater in San Fernando (added
attraction: rose petals thrown from the balcony of the Rodriguez Mansion), the
pomp, pageantry and piety of Sta. Rita reminiscent of Lino Brocka’s Tinimbang
ka Ngunit Kulang, the breathtaking beauty of the Mater Dolorosa of Guagua, and
the grandeur of the Santo Entierro of Sasmuan. But if you have to attend only
one, make it Bacolor, the colonial capital of the province, whose old families,
driven away by the lahars of the 1990s, make a sentimental journey back home to
accompany their respective paso (float). Tradition dictates that they wear
black, cover their heads with pointed hoods, hold icons of the crucifixion and
walk barefoot (probably a legacy from ancestors in Seville, Spain). The
antiquity and craftsmanship alone of the santos and their silver-plated
carrozas will make your jaw drop.
Picture courtesy of Dr. Raymund Feliciano |
Unusual because the grim procession of the dead Jesus and
His grieving Mother is followed by a grimmer procession of magdarame
(flagellants and cross-bearers). Sasmuan is the only place I know where this
strange mix of the folk and the orthodox is allowed. Parish priests often make
an effort to eliminate cultural practices to purify the theology of church
rituals. For example, the pasyon mustn’t replace the Bible, the puni mustn’t
compete with the visita iglesia, and the penitensya musn’t keep people away
from the sacrament of confession. But Kapampangans have stubbornly stuck to
their folk traditions, and the archdiocese is now finding ways to compromise.
This is Pampanga, where church piety collides with folk
defiance, where the holiest days of the year are celebrated in the unholiest
manner, where the charming and solemn rites of the Church coexist with the raw,
bloody, but ultimately more exuberant rituals of the common folk.
First posted by Robby Tantingco on his facebook page, 21 March 2016.
First posted by Robby Tantingco on his facebook page, 21 March 2016.
ROBBY TANTINGCO is the Director of the Center for
Kapampangan Studies and Vice President for External Affairs of Holy Angel
University. He is the author of "Destiny and Destination" and
"Pinatubo: The Volcano in our Backyard" which won a National Book
Award. He also wrote the story of the film, “ARI: My Life with a King”, a
language advocacy film that won Best Story and Best Screenplay awards from the 2016
Metro Manila Filmfest, Gawad Urian and FAMAS for Best Story.
No comments:
Post a Comment