Catholic sacrifices

Tomorrow we are going to witness real-life Crucifixion scenes mostly in Central Luzon provinces. I never had the stomach to watch that.

But I grew up seeing flagellants. Called hampas-dugo in our very Tagalog hometown of Hagonoy, Bulacan, these are the men, who walk the dusty roads during Holy Week flogging themselves. I never saw the beginning of the ritual, but I was told that their backs are slit — ouch! — and they march together whipping themselves, while oozing with blood.

I am not aware of any relation who made penance that way. My father never did even if his family was Catolico cerrado. But as part of his Holy Week ritual, he walked from our house to Quiapo Church every Good Friday. We lived in Sta. Mesa then — that area behind Lourdes Hospital toward Mandaluyong. I think that was a breeze for him. No sweat. After all, he used to jog from the Folk Arts Theater to the Luneta and back every Saturday morning as part of his exercise.

His real test, however, was when we moved to La Vista off Katipunan in the fringes of that side of Quezon City. Now, that was far. Every Friday, he also heard the first Mass in Quiapo Church until work brought him to various provinces in the south and returned to Manila only once a month.

My family is also aware that our mother was a prayerful woman. At her bedside now that she is ailing are various icons of Christ and the Blessed Mother. She was the one who initiated this practice of us reciting the rosary after we were done with the New Year’s Eve festivities. Never mind if we were all too sleepy after a hearty media noche that she always slaved out for: Ham that she would bake herself, fruit cakes she drizzled nightly with sherry brandy two months before the Yuletide season and other Christmas treats.

But would my siblings be surprised to discover that our mother only became Catholic at age 27. Even if I am the youngest in the brood I’m sure I’m the only one aware of this fact. For sure, however, they wouldn’t wonder anymore why I knew that. From the beginning, they sensed I was going to be the journalist — the inquisitive one — among us children.

My maternal grandmother belonged to the Philippine Independent Church founded by Gregorio Aglipay as a protest against Spanish oppression. My mom was baptized Aglipayan and so were her other siblings, except for the youngest, Dolores, who was Roman Catholic from the very start. On my mother’s father side, I don’t even know if her Dad had a religion. But my grandfather was buried under Catholic rites because I was even the one who did the reading at the Mass said before his remains were brought to Loyola Memorial Park.

My mother only became Catholic because she had to marry my father and no way was he giving up his religion — remember they were Catolicos cerrados on their side (some cousins though had already turned born-again Christians, I was told, and we respect that).

If my Mom had any embarrassing moment in her life, that was going through the rituals of baptism at age 27 when she was already a lawyer and was already with the congressional staff. No, she didn’t have to wear a baptismal gown and be carried like an infant. But she had to look to the left and to the right first before signaling to the priest officiating the rites that he could go on with the pouring of water on her head.

It actually took a while for my Mom to embrace totally the Catholic faith and its practices. She seldom joined us for Sunday Mass, in fact.

I don’t know what became the turning point of her life, but all of a sudden she began attending the Wednesday novenas at the Redemptorist Church in Baclaran and heard Mass every Friday in Quiapo. And she walked on her knees — at the center aisle leading to the framed photograph of the Mother of Perpetual Help and two days later toward the image of the Black Nazarene. Until she migrated to the US, both her knees were perpetually calloused.

Thinking about the penitential rites both my parents observed in their healthier days and how devout Catholics they are makes me feel this small. My sister nags me (we look after each other) to have a personal relationship with God. I insist that I have. At least, I pray every day. But deep in my heart, I know that is not enough. I will try to work on that, however, without necessarily doing flagellation.

But when we all go, when all my loved ones are called to a better place, I’m afraid I will be the only one missing in the family reunion in heaven.

May God save my soul!