No, they don't blast Judas in Sto. Tomas anymore

IN FIERY-RED pants and long-sleeved high-collared shirt a la Elvis taking over the flowing robe of his time.
Short cropped hair a la early Beatles, and sideburns straight from King FPJ himself.
Mick Jagger tongue, yeah that same one hanging from wide open puffed lips that has become the trademark of the now-geriatric-but-still-rocking Rolling Stones.
There is nothing biblical in the countenance and appearance of the Judas on-a-perch at the center of the courtyard of the St. Thomas the Apostle parish church in barrio Poblacion of the eponymously named town. He looked more like a puppet from some Punch-and-Judy show. But the throng, nay, the horde of faithful did not mind at all.
That was the Judas the elders have seen since their youth. The Judas now passed to their sons and grandsons, and to be passed on to their own progenies.
It was past the stroke of twelve noon, and the crowd was getting uneasy. Easter Sunday noon has always been the designated time for the Judas show. But the concelebrated Mass officiated by the archbishop is taking a little too long with all those post-communion remarks of the pastoral council president and the awarding of some certificates of appreciation to the comite de festejos led by the Honorable Melchor Caluag, barangay chair of Dolores, City of San Fernando but whose mom Imang Paulette nee Santos is a true-blue native of Sto. Tomas.
The tensed uneasiness turned to collective relief, and explosions of joy, at the pealing of the church bells, the music from the band, and the explosion of kuwitis that signaled the end of the Mass.
Some more minutes of waiting had to be endured as the patio gets cleared of the parked vehicles.
Then some firecrackers woven in large sipa ball-like contraption are let loose around the platform holding Judas’ perch to clear it of people. To establish a sort of a safety zone.
Then, the show starts.
Four paper mache pyrotechnic black ravens from four corners of the platform “peck” at Judas’ feet igniting them and propelling Judas to make dizzying twists clockwise and counterclockwise, then turns upside down, round and round, the tongue sticking in and out.
Then the explosions begin with the feet, the legs, the hand and arms – the head last, and loudest.
Judas was blasted to smithereens. In all of 15 minutes. There was a murmur of disappointment. Judas did fewer twists and turns. His tongue did not stick out that long. And the head exploded too soon and not too loud, as the crowd desired.
In years long past, this would have borne an ill omen. The loudness of the bang ending “Judas” then deemed a sign of the volume of the year’s harvest in the then-farming town: the louder the bang, the higher the yield.
What the heck, to the handful of foreign tourists including some mediamen from Japan, Singapore and Malaysia, it was one fine show of “local culture.”
Ain’t that what the Holy Week is supposed to be? Foremost a cultural show, its being a spiritual experience only an afterthought?
So, where you’ve been, what you’ve done this past week, Jude?
xxxx
SO I wrote here under the head Hey Jude five years ago.
Alas and alack, that is no more.
Instead of Judas, what exploded Easter Sunday noon in Sto. Tomas was a globe. No, it was not meant to signify the end of the world, not to presage any interpretation of the Mayan calendar.
What was blasted away, symbolically, were the worldly sins, those that keep mankind away from God. It was some sort of raising the event from pure vengeful glee to a higher level of spirituality.
Whatever, the loss of Judas at the scaffold unsettled, utterly disappointed the loyal crowd who, year-in and year-out, come from near and far – even from overseas – just to be part of the annual spectacle.
Me, born into and bred in this tradition, shall always have Judas in my being. His blasting at Easter Sunday noon, I mean.