Today, I am thinking of my dear aunt, with whom I grew up. She was also my Godmother when I was baptized. And she was ultra traditional.
During holy week, yes the whole seven days, we couldn't turn on the television or radio. It was deemed sinful to laugh or tell jokes. We had to dress in black or other sombre colours on the gray scale. We also had to fast, so we ate just bread (butter, kaya & sugar was acceptable), and drank water (I'm surprised we weren't forced to drink vinegar!). On good Friday itself, only breakfast was allowed, and we should do well to wear head veils to mass (no I didn't). I remember how my whines of, "but that boy is eating french fries! In the church carpark!" would simply fall on deaf ears.
I enjoyed the Maundy Thursday church-hopping visits at night. It always gave me a passport to staying out and up late, especially since there would be no school the next day. But going to the 3pm mass and the long tiring procession on Good Friday with my aunt meant going to the church 3 hours before anything happened just to get a seat. Near the aisle. Near the front. Near an exit. (I was too young then to understand that she was much older and all this guaranteed her comfort for the long hours we were slated to be there.)
I sometimes miss it now but the procession was always a long drawn exhausting affair, crawling around the church with dangerous flames that came alive as an offering. The boxy makeshift paper candle handles couldn't protect our hands from the hot angry wax dripping from the silently dying candles. Besides the rare cackles, these willing candles never complained as they slowly faced the inevitable. Much like Jesus himself. My aunt and I would be part of a large ensemble of church goers trickling out of the church with these lights. Walking just a few steps and then stopping, singing sad choruses over and over again, kneeling on the hard granite road, edging about to make sure everyone had space, then getting up to repeat the whole process over again. Hence, procession.
Every Good Friday, wherever in the world I was, I found that it would drizzle a little at about 3pm. It was an interesting sight to notice. I imagine a special army of Good Friday rain clouds would be hired by the Heavens above every year, to make its round from longitude to longitude, and to begin its duties only at 3pm at each time zone. Each soldier of the rain cloud army will stare menacingly onto earth, floating in wait. And just when the hour is about right, they almost each let out a typhoon, but their general reminds them that they have 24 time zones to visit. So they reluctantly let out just a drizzle in order to save their ammunition. The sun beckons and the army knows it's time to move on to the next set of longitudes.
I recall one Maundy Thursday, I was sitting and staring at the covered crucifix in a quiet church. As a curious child would do, I asked my father what the story of Good Friday was. He wasn't a Catholic then, but God knew he believed in Him. He explained the sad end of Jesus' life. I was appalled. Someone these worshippers loved had been tortured to death on this day. Why is it called Good? How twisted are they? Shouldn't it be Sad or Bad Friday? Oh yea, He died for your souls so hooray you're saved, so it's a good day for you? How selfish! I started weeping. I couldn't understand how these people could be so mean. To say they loved this saviour of theirs while essentially calling the day of his painful death good.
Years later in my late twenties, a friend of mine from France mentioned Good Friday in French, "Vendredi saint". I asked why it wasn't "Bon Vendredi". He revealed that it was a different kind of good. Bon meant happy and pleasant while Saint meant holy. Then it dawned on me. Good Friday was more like Virtuous, Saintly or Holy Friday! It was never Happy Friday. I felt so silly, yet so relieved. It all finally made sense. :)
If you do celebrate it this year, may your Good Friday be meaningful and holy. Will it be as traditional as ours from the 80's and 90's?
