The Holy Week I'll Never Forget

It was Holy Week, probably 1978. I think I was in the first grade at the time and we were living in a remote town on the southern half of the main island of the Philippines. The town of Labo was a farming town, not too much different than Lititz.

During that time period Roman Catholicism was ingrained in the Philippine culture. I remember how much not just Holy Week, but the whole month leading up to Easter was a big deal. Even as a first grader, I remember hearing the verbal accounts of the men who were embarked on a month-long pilgrimage carrying a cross for miles and miles. To put it in our terms, probably something like carrying a cross, on foot from Philly to Pittsburgh.

I remember the night of Good Friday. There was a procession through town, led by a band playing a dirge. Following were sights that as a young first grader, I had never pictured so vividly in my mind before, the 12 stations of the cross. Each station was in or on a wheeled float-type thing pulled by people. Just about everyone in town was out to watch the procession. And I seem to recall that the crowd as a whole was pretty emotional.

I felt uncomfortable. They looked like idols to me and I knew I wasn't supposed to worship idols, so even seeing them pass by seemed wrong. Add to that the detail of the stations and having never contemplated the magnitude of Christ's sufferings, it was a lot to take in on one night. Little did I expect what would pass by our house the next morning.