IT HAS only been a few days since Holy Week ended, and life has returned to regular programming. As I try to get back on track, I couldn’t help but feel and realize that we no longer observe Lent the way it has always been done.
Sadly, things have felt different.
Gone are the days when young boys took pride in crafting their own palaspas. It was more than a woven palm. It was a rite of passage where older brothers and fathers would guide eager hands, passing down patterns, patience, and pride. Now, many simply buy them outside the church. It is quick and easy but detached from the story they once carried.
Gone, too, are the solemn Palm Sunday processions led by a parish priest on horseback. From the chapel where the palaspas were blessed, the faithful would walk together, singing Hosanna Filio David in one voice. There were no speakers blaring, just a community moving as one, their songs filling the streets with reverence.
Holy Week itself once demanded presence.
Despite the heat, people came and filled the church for Misa ning Tawling Hapunan and Pamanwas Bitis on Maundy Thursday. They returned for the Siete Palabras and the Tanggal on Good Friday. They stayed through the Easter Vigil, waiting in darkness for the light. Then at dawn, they gathered for the Salubong, where sorrow finally gave way to joy.
Now, many choose to stay home, watching through screens. It is convenient but something sacred is lost when faith becomes something we only observe and not live.
Even the once-prayerful Visita Iglesia has changed. Before, families and friends would quietly go from one church to another, completing seven churches in deep devotion, whispering intentions and prayers at each stop. Today, it often feels like a group tour that is rushed, timed, and heavily documented. For some, the goal seems less about prayer and more about who finishes first and who can post the most picture-perfect altars of repose online.
The Good Friday procession tells the same story. Before, parishioners walked with lighted candles and softly prayed the rosary. People dressed simply and respectfully. The focus was clear.
Today, phones glow brighter than candles. Some take selfies, live stream moments, even bring pets along. The solemnity has faded, replaced by a kind of casualness that would have felt unthinkable before.
Worse, what happens at the end of some processions is deeply troubling. As the carrozas near the church, the mood shifts not into deeper reflection, but into noise. Some parishioners shout, dance, and celebrate as if it were a street fiesta. Others rush toward the carrozas, pulling out flowers and leaves even before they reach the church patio, as if these were souvenirs to grab rather than sacred symbols to respect.
Even the saints were not spared from change. The camareros once dressed them with deep care, using vestments rooted in tradition and meaning. Now, some outfits seem designed more to impress than to express faith.
This is not to reject change. Times do evolve but not everything should be left behind.
These traditions are not just rituals. They are expressions of who we are as Kapampangans, as Filipinos, and as people of faith. They carry memory, identity, and meaning that no modernization can replace.
Lent was never meant to be convenient. It was meant to be lived.
Perhaps the real question is not where these traditions have gone; but whether we are willing to bring them back.
