It took us five solid hours to complete our Palm Sunday celebration yesterday. We started at 7 a.m. for the Way of the Cross (from Tagkawayan to Napsan). We concluded with a Holy Mass, which was completed in time for lunch. (Hunger was so real.) As a community, we all look forward to our own versions of Semana Santa activities. On Good Friday, we will try to tire ourselves out again for another half-day penitential walk. On Black Saturday last year, along with young people, we trekked mountains before the sun rose and went down before it was already scorching. To say I enjoy this program is to be like Judas, who betrays the truth, or Peter, who can easily deny an obvious fact. I have to confess, I unintentionally took an unusually long nap yesterday. I was quite rested after such a pause. Thanks to the “Way of the Cross.”
As could have been implied above, two things are at stake here: the solemn beauty of our sacred traditions and the human need to rest, step back, and take a breather. As a result, many people experience a familiar tension every Holy Week: should I stay or should I go out? Stay in solemn observance, rooted in parish liturgies and quiet reflection—or go, take a break, travel, breathe, and unwind from the stresses of everyday life?
For some, the idea of “vacation” during Holy Week feels almost like a betrayal of its sacredness. We are a people shaped by deep faith, by inherited rituals, by the solemn rhythm of Pabasa, Visita Iglesia, and the long, silent processions that wind through our streets at dusk. In the Filipino psyche, these days are not foreign; they are familiar, almost instinctive. And yet, side by side with this devotion, there emerges a growing tendency to treat these sacred days as a chance for escape—a time to travel, to gather for leisure, to momentarily set aside the very silence that once defined us.
Are we being irreverent when we go on vacation while we are supposed to be focusing on meaningful reflection on the Lord’s Passion? Do we distract ourselves from God if we travel and gather along the beach instead of being gathered altogether in silence before the Sacred? And do we also hear again the voice of an “old school” mentality about a God who punishes those who do not perform according to what must be and what must not be? In other words, “Gabaan tayo sg Ginuo.”
While taking time off is normal, it becomes questionable depending on circumstances and intentions. For instance, when the sacred is slowly replaced by the convenient, when the memory of sacrifice yields to the desire for comfort, something within our spiritual inheritance begins to fade. The danger lies not in going away, but in forgetting to carry the Cross with us wherever we go. A beach may offer rest, but it cannot replace a quiet encounter with a suffering Christ. A gathering may bring joy, but it should not drown out the call to reflection and repentance.
I remember one friend who once told me, “Father, I go to the beach for Holy Week—but it’s the only time my whole family is complete.” They would rent a modest house by the shore, cook simple meals, and in between laughter and shared stories, someone would inevitably bring out a small wooden crucifix. By three o’clock on Good Friday, the children—still in their swimsuits—would be gathered, unusually quiet, listening to the Seven Last Words streamed through a small speaker.
Meditation and vacation. Can they mix? There is something uniquely Filipino about Holy Week. We are a people of “both-and.” We carry fiesta and funeral in the same breath. We laugh loudly, even as we hold deep wounds. Our Holy Week reflects this tension—not as contradiction, but as integration. Anthropologists often note how Filipinos blur the line between sacred and ordinary spaces. A roadside altar, a tricycle dashboard adorned with saints, prayers whispered in marketplaces—these are not exceptions. They are expressions of a faith that refuses to be contained.
The call, then, is not simply to abandon rest, but to sanctify it. To remember that even in moments of leisure, we remain a people claimed by a story of sacrifice. That within the Filipino soul is a capacity not only for celebration, but for deep, abiding reverence. And perhaps, in returning to this awareness, we may once again find that Holy Week is not something we leave behind—but something we carry, faithfully, wherever we go. In this sense, rest cannot be the enemy of devotion.
Here in Napsan, Holy Week is not about vacation with elaborate plans—no beach outings, no “break” from life, no nothing. While many speak of this “week” as a time to “disconnect,” the poor often cannot disconnect from anything. Hunger does not take a vacation. Uncertainty does not pause for the Triduum. And yet, here in Napsan, I saw something that challenged my assumptions: a depth of participation that did not depend on comfort. It made me ask: Who truly goes out during Holy Week?
We often think of going out as physical movement—traveling to provinces, beaches, or mountains. But there is another kind of going out, one that the poor practice with quiet fidelity: going out of oneself in faith, endurance, and hope. They go out to meet God not by leaving their place, but by entering more deeply into it. Indeed, poverty has a way of stripping things down to what is essential.
I recall the veneration of the Cross last year. There was no rush. Each person approached slowly, deliberately. Some touched the wood gently, others pressed their foreheads against it. One elderly man lingered, his hands rough from labor, his eyes closed longer than most. When he stepped away, there were tears—but not of despair. Something in that moment was being entrusted. It struck me then: for those who cannot “go out” in the way the world defines it, Holy Week does not become less meaningful. If anything, it becomes more real.
Spiritually, there is something the poor reveal to us. They remind us that the heart of Holy Week is not about where we go. Perhaps the deeper question is this: Where is your heart going? In this light, we recall Pope Benedict XVI, who says that to go out is to allow ourselves to be shaped by that same love which “gives itself away.” Thus, every act of going out must be an echo of love—of love as shown in the Cross.
Have a meaningful week, everyone.
