Guilt

(Part 1 of an indeterminate-number-of-parts recollection)

I was baptized a Roman Catholic. And, for the longest time in the world, I felt guilt like one. I carried a lot of guilt as a child. There was the guilt that came from knowing I was born with the taint of the original sin. Then, there was the guilt that gnaws at me whenever I looked at Jesus nailed to the cross. If you are born to Catholic parents, like I was, and if you go to an all-girls Catholic school, like I did, you'd know that this image of the suffering Christ is inescapable. It's part of the architecture. You see it in church, in school, in your school's chapel, inside your classroom, inside the school clinic, library, even the comfort room. You see it at home, too, staring down at you from your bedroom wall and gazing at you from the living room and the kitchen.

Guilt is a heavy burden for an eight-year-old to carry. There was the glaring inconsistency, too. I was too young to go to the malls on my own, stay up past nine, wear lipstick, or flirt. But, I was, apparently, old enough to be held responsible for the death of the Messiah and the intransigence of the first man and woman. To my then eight-year-old heart, I was doomed. I had not yet made mistakes of my own yet, there I was, forced to do penance for sins committed thousands of years before my birth.

If you live in the Philippines, and in a remote little town at that, you'd keenly feel this penance I'm talking about. Our annual observance of the Holy Week includes fasting, attending service every day, saying the rosary and listening to radio plays about Jesus' life and death from eight in the morning to three in the afternoon. One should not laugh, talk loudly, play, watch television, eat meat or a full meal in order to show sympathy for Jesus' suffering.

Some devotees, however, carry Holy Week observance to a whole new level. They have themselves flogged while some have themselves flogged and nailed to a makeshift cross. While these take place, hordes of devotees look on in fascination.

I won't even pretend to understand the logic behind the flogging and the crucifixion. I have always seen it as a malicious display of masochism. How like a Catholic to equate contrition with physical abuse! How like a Catholic to believe that blood dripping from a flagellated back would rinse the slate free of all sins!

It defies explanation, this voluntary flogging and crucifixion. Really. If Christ were the forgiving Messiah that we've been taught he is, then he wouldn't enjoy seeing his children bloodied and bruised. He would forgive our sins because we sincerely ask him to, not because we're dangling from a rackety cross. Exacting physical torture in exchange for forgiveness is not the act of a forgiving God; it is what you'd expect from a vengeful deity.

Of course, my grandmother (who, for all intent, might as well be married to the parish priest since she spends two-thirds of her waking moments in church) extols the bravery of these men who thrash themselves to within an inch of unconsciousness. It takes a really determined love for and of Christ, she says, to willingly inflict pain on one's self. But eight-year-old kids like me don't have to follow their footsteps. Grandma explains that Christ does not expect such a brave sacrifice from little children.

I found Grandma's explanation just as confusing as the whole concept of sin. She tells me that I need not have myself flogged or crucified because Jesus does not expect this from children. But she also tells me that having one's self flogged or crucified is a brave thing to do. So, does this mean that while Jesus does not expect such a brave sacrifice from little children, he requires it of everyone else? Does this mean, too, that having myself flogged or crucified is a goal I should dedicate myself to, these two acts being the paramount declaration of love?

I mulled over these questions, as a child. I contemplated many questions of a similar nature, too. Why shouldn't I laugh during Holy Week? Why should I have to whisper whenever I talk to my brother? Surely, Jesus would not be offended if I feel happy. I am not laughing at his suffering. I am laughing at something I find hilarious. Besides, wasn't that the point of Jesus' sacrifice? He died that we might live. He died that we might find redemption. He suffered because he loves us. And, if you love someone, you don't want them to be miserable. You don't want them to go hungry. You don't want them to torture themselves, physically, mentally, and spiritually.

*** To be continued because the author has to pack, so she can drag her husband and her two-year-old daughter to the remote little town that taught her guilt so well.