As I write this, the procession of the recumbent Christ passes through the streets of the town that has welcomed me every summer, over in the northwest of Spain. It is the procession of the Holy Burial. The Divine Offices of Good Friday have already been held, the Blessed Sacrament has been consumed, and in the churches of the Christian universe the tabernacles are empty; with their open doors, warm light, the recollection of praying orphans.
[T]he first Christians were flesh and blood like you and me.
I am always overcome by a deep melancholy, the pain of orphanhood, after the celebration of the Passion of the Lord. For the rest of the afternoon and all of Saturday, the death of God, Jesus is not in the varieties of bread and wine in earth’s tabernacles. We remember, or rather, we recreate or repeat, that bewilderment felt by apostles and disciples when after so many promises and prophecies the hour of truth came, and Christ died on the cross, died as a man, died and was buried, and then there was silence on earth, and only a tiny space was left for that which today we call faith. (READ MORE from Itxu Diaz: The Best Kind of Hippie: A Classy One)
The Scriptures imply that the apostles were scared to death. No wonder. With their leader dead, they would be next. And they knew not whether their blood would run before that strange Resurrection of which Jesus spoke to them, but of which they understood almost nothing. Really, they believed in their Friend, but it was an act of love, not of understanding.
I like to pretend to be brave and think that I would remain watching over the door of the tomb, knees to the ground, and my forehead resting on that great slab that sealed it, watching over the Friend. But the truth is that bravery is an intermittent virtue in my history, so I would most likely have hidden under the robes of the stoutest apostle, always with a window nearby in case the Romans came to turn me into mortadella for supper.
Be that as it may, the holy Sabbath is the day of God’s silence. The hour of man’s truth. Believing, loving, and following Christ, even in the midst of persecutions, may be easy when one is watching the Master perform miracles here and there, but it becomes an uphill struggle when his voice is silenced, after hours of cruel torment, and his body is laid out and shrouded.
No reasonable person could understand, in the midst of the scourging, that, being God, he would not have a thunderbolt split in two the executioners who tortured him so viciously, the idiots who insulted, betrayed and humiliated him — today we are still those idiots — or those who nailed him to the cross amidst mockery. It is as if, in the infinite pride of mankind, we could accept the suffering of God made flesh, if it is to redeem our guilt, but not the humiliation, not the mockery, not the macabre laughter and the cries of, “If you are God, get down from the cross.”
Jesus accepted everything, including the mockery, and that is why the Calvary of Christ was disconcerting and terrible for the hearts of the apostles, and that is why indignation and pain were followed by terrible fear; deep down I love it, because that fear is human, after all, the first Christians were flesh and blood like you and me. (READ MORE: Notes From a Traveler)
At sundown on Saturday evening, in the first instances of Sunday, during the darkest night ever known on earth, from nothing a light shall be lit. It will be done by a priest in every church, but it could well be an angel sent by God, who with a small match will light a fire, which will be blessed, and from that fire a candle will be lit, and with it another, and another, and another, and another, until the temple is filled with a gentle light, and we are finally awakened from our hopelessness, to emerge from the cave of our fears, and understand that Christ is truly God, and that we are still ordinary men, fallen always towards evil, betrayal, and fear, but redeemed by the infinite mercy of a God who, besides being magnanimous and all-powerful, is funny, because, when we contemplate his passion, death, and resurrection, it is undeniable that he is a master scriptwriter. We would expect nothing less from a God who sent his Son to earth to bless wine for all eternity. Let us toast, then, if it is already Sunday.
Happy Easter, dear friends and readers!
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