I just came back home from our yearly tradition—Visita Iglesia.
There is something about moving from one church to another that quiets you, kahit sandali lang. In between the walking, the prayers, the traffic, and the familiar routine, there are small pockets of stillness. In those spaces, you begin to hear things you usually drown out—your questions, your fears, even your faith.
I didn’t finish it in one sitting. I couldn’t. The flagellation was too real. Not dramatic in the way movies usually are—but disturbingly physical. I flinched. I paused. There is a kind of suffering that you can intellectually understand but emotionally resist. Parang may instinct na umatras—this is too much.
And then there was Mary. Her eyes. She did not scream. She did not protest. She simply looked at her son—with a love so steady and a pain so deep that it almost felt unbearable to witness. It was quiet suffering. The kind that does not need words because it fills the entire space.
I remember watching it last year and not having the courage to finish it. Even in the years before, I would stop midway—as if protecting myself from something too heavy. But this time, I stayed. It was not because it became easier but because something in me needed to see it through.
Siguro ganito rin sa buhay. We often stop where it hurts the most. We step away from conversations that feel too heavy, from responsibilities that feel too overwhelming, from truths that demand more of us than we are ready to give. We tell ourselves we will come back when we are stronger, when things are lighter, when it becomes easier.
But some things are not meant to be easy. Some things are meant to be endured. Sometimes, we endure not because we are strong—but because we sense there is something worth holding on to.
I remember, during one of our conversations in a modernization project, one of our coaches once told me something that stuck: “You keep going, despite the challenges, because there is purpose.” At the time, it felt like a simple observation. But over time, I realized it was something deeper.
Purpose does not remove difficulty. It explains why we stay. It gives meaning to the staying.
And maybe that was what was happening as I watched the film this time. What kept me watching was not the suffering itself. It was what I knew would come after.
Somewhere deep in the story—beyond the pain, beyond the silence, beyond what seemed like defeat—was the resurrection. That changes everything. Without the resurrection, the suffering is just suffering. With it, the suffering becomes part of something larger—something redemptive.
There is a verse that quietly captures this tension:
“He is not here; he has risen, just as he said.” — Matthew 28:6 (NIV)
That line is so simple it almost feels understated. Walang drama. Walang buildup. Just a quiet declaration that what everyone thought was the end… was not. Maybe that is why the Passion is so difficult to watch. It forces us to sit in the middle.
Hindi agad dumarating ang resurrection. There is the waiting, silence and the uncertainty of not yet knowing how things will turn out.
We like Easter. We celebrate it. We dress it in light, in color, in joy. But we often forget that Easter only makes sense because of Good Friday. Somewhere between suffering and renewal is a space where nothing feels resolved. That is where many of us live.
In our own quiet ways, we carry crosses that are not always visible. Responsibilities that weigh heavily. Decisions that demand more than we feel we have. Sacrifices that go unnoticed. Pain that does not announce itself but lingers quietly.
Minsan, we endure not because we fully understand—but because we choose to believe that there is meaning beyond what we can see.
Watching the film this time, I realized something I had missed before. It was not just about how much Christ suffered. It was about how quietly He carried it. There was no attempt to escape. No negotiation. No resistance to what had to be done. There was just a steady, unwavering movement forward.
Perhaps that is the deeper invitation. It was not to glorify suffering. but to recognize that even in the hardest moments, there is a way to carry ourselves—with purpose, with dignity, with faith that what we are going through is not meaningless.
The truth is, most of us will not have dramatic turning points. We will have ordinary days when we show up despite the weight, when we continue despite the doubt and when nothing seems to change—but we choose to move anyway.
Maybe that is where resurrection begins - - not in grand moments but in quiet decisions to continue, to believe and to endure.
When purpose is present, staying is no longer just endurance. It becomes intention.
As I finished the film—finally, after years of stopping midway—I realized that what sustained me was not strength. It was hope - - hope that the story does not end in suffering, hope that what feels final is not final an hope that even in the most painful chapters of our lives, there is something still unfolding, something not yet revealed, and something that, in time, will make sense.
Perhaps that is what Visita Iglesia, Holy Week, and this story have always been trying to remind us— that we are not meant to stay in the suffering. We are meant to pass through it. Because in the end, the story was never about the cross. It was about what came after.
- Director Noreen
Image Credit: https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ0H0gkrWt43rrvPZ1V0Pk-eGr-v4hIDV33IrYM0LJB-Xff3rwY
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