"We are an Easter people."
What does that mean?
This past week has been one of intense reflection for me. Last year - I'm talking about the liturgical calendar here - around this time, I was in crisis. I had decided to spend my semana santa traveling around Guerrero and planned my trip so I'd end in Taxco, a magical little city known for silver and elaborate religious processions.
I witnessed things like this:
As I watched, I was very aware that I was an observer, not a participant. It was fascinating, yet alien. I couldn’t understand self-flagellation as having anything to do with my spirituality. My Lent, my Good Friday, my Easter didn’t leave me bloodied or raw.
But, last year, the Divine mystery had other plans for me. As I listened to the “Roman army” make its official accusation of a wooden Christ, with someone else’s blood splattered on my feet, I noticed my wallet was gone. And so, all of a sudden, I was in a not-so-safe part of Mexico, alone, without any money or identification.
I didn't know what to do, but I still had my phone with one U.S. number in it, so I called Kevin. He was getting ready to leave for the airport to come visit me - great timing, right? - and was trying to finish some stuff up at work. I asked him to buy me a bus ticket online or over the phone so I could get back to Toluca but he couldn't figure it out. His departure loomed and hysteria took over. We were anxious, afraid, helpless, and broken down after months of being in different countries. And I was afraid for my physical safety in a way that I hadn't experienced before. Things fell apart.
Long story short, I made it to Mexico City - thanks to the generosity of the hotelkeeper and my roommates - but Kevin didn't, at least not that night. The amount of misunderstanding, fear, selfishness, and anger - from both of us - that created that situation is still baffling and the memory of sobbing and screaming into the phone while lying on the airport floor still hurts immensely. I spent that Friday night alone and hungry in an airport hotel, feeling overwhelmed by the darkness.
Our relationship - and my spirit, to be honest - was broken for a long time after that. But I tried my best to ignore my instincts and tough it out, believing that love was there and would return.
And it did.
I told this story to one of my students last week and her first response was something along the lines of "how blessed that this all happened on Good Friday, that you were able to experience such deep communion with the suffering Christ."
I was floored. It was so true, so beautiful, and I could hardly imagine a white American - a person like me - ever saying it.
You see, my student is from Guatemala and she knew exactly what kind of processions I went to see in Taxco. In Guatemala, like Mexico and most of Latin America, people tend to focus on the events of "Holy Week" - the Last Supper, the betrayals, the Crucifixion - and not really on Easter itself. I might be oversimplifying, but I think that a lot of it is cultural. It can't be just a coincidence that white Americans (and Europeans) - the colonizers, the conquerors, the entrepreneurs, and the well-provided for - tend to identify with a moment of triumph while Latin America (and Africa and Asia and all their various diasporas) find meaning in the Shadow of the Cross.
We are an Easter people, but we are also a Crucified people. The Resurrection is always ahead, and that can give us hope, but sometimes, hope is not enough. We need to know that there is meaning in the present moment, in the pain, in the doubt, in the cruelty and isolation. We need to know that Communion with the Divine is not something that will happen in the future, when everything has been resolved, but something that is most tangible when we have been stripped bare.
I find it very easy to forget that amidst all the talk - on TV, in newspapers, in casual chats, in sermons - about success and prosperity and achievement and how we're #blessed. But luckily, there are always reminders - in Lenten revelations, in conversations with immigrant students, or even marching around the streets of Boston:
A year later, a different city, but the Crucified God still found me.
What does that mean?
This past week has been one of intense reflection for me. Last year - I'm talking about the liturgical calendar here - around this time, I was in crisis. I had decided to spend my semana santa traveling around Guerrero and planned my trip so I'd end in Taxco, a magical little city known for silver and elaborate religious processions.
I witnessed things like this:
As I watched, I was very aware that I was an observer, not a participant. It was fascinating, yet alien. I couldn’t understand self-flagellation as having anything to do with my spirituality. My Lent, my Good Friday, my Easter didn’t leave me bloodied or raw.
But, last year, the Divine mystery had other plans for me. As I listened to the “Roman army” make its official accusation of a wooden Christ, with someone else’s blood splattered on my feet, I noticed my wallet was gone. And so, all of a sudden, I was in a not-so-safe part of Mexico, alone, without any money or identification.
I didn't know what to do, but I still had my phone with one U.S. number in it, so I called Kevin. He was getting ready to leave for the airport to come visit me - great timing, right? - and was trying to finish some stuff up at work. I asked him to buy me a bus ticket online or over the phone so I could get back to Toluca but he couldn't figure it out. His departure loomed and hysteria took over. We were anxious, afraid, helpless, and broken down after months of being in different countries. And I was afraid for my physical safety in a way that I hadn't experienced before. Things fell apart.
Long story short, I made it to Mexico City - thanks to the generosity of the hotelkeeper and my roommates - but Kevin didn't, at least not that night. The amount of misunderstanding, fear, selfishness, and anger - from both of us - that created that situation is still baffling and the memory of sobbing and screaming into the phone while lying on the airport floor still hurts immensely. I spent that Friday night alone and hungry in an airport hotel, feeling overwhelmed by the darkness.
Our relationship - and my spirit, to be honest - was broken for a long time after that. But I tried my best to ignore my instincts and tough it out, believing that love was there and would return.
And it did.
I told this story to one of my students last week and her first response was something along the lines of "how blessed that this all happened on Good Friday, that you were able to experience such deep communion with the suffering Christ."
I was floored. It was so true, so beautiful, and I could hardly imagine a white American - a person like me - ever saying it.
You see, my student is from Guatemala and she knew exactly what kind of processions I went to see in Taxco. In Guatemala, like Mexico and most of Latin America, people tend to focus on the events of "Holy Week" - the Last Supper, the betrayals, the Crucifixion - and not really on Easter itself. I might be oversimplifying, but I think that a lot of it is cultural. It can't be just a coincidence that white Americans (and Europeans) - the colonizers, the conquerors, the entrepreneurs, and the well-provided for - tend to identify with a moment of triumph while Latin America (and Africa and Asia and all their various diasporas) find meaning in the Shadow of the Cross.
We are an Easter people, but we are also a Crucified people. The Resurrection is always ahead, and that can give us hope, but sometimes, hope is not enough. We need to know that there is meaning in the present moment, in the pain, in the doubt, in the cruelty and isolation. We need to know that Communion with the Divine is not something that will happen in the future, when everything has been resolved, but something that is most tangible when we have been stripped bare.
I find it very easy to forget that amidst all the talk - on TV, in newspapers, in casual chats, in sermons - about success and prosperity and achievement and how we're #blessed. But luckily, there are always reminders - in Lenten revelations, in conversations with immigrant students, or even marching around the streets of Boston:
A year later, a different city, but the Crucified God still found me.
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