After six years, I returned home . Ie Easter, or Good Friday, the streets of the old town my father, full of incense, and spring rain, it felt a shudder through the body and a storm of emotions and memories, whip me face. Attempt to evoke those feelings translate, but I have only words, words awkward and discouraged, unable than ever to express anything they want. Words that could swim in art, lyrical or popular folklore, but that only make sense from the faith. Faith as positive and cheerful acceptance of a divine Absolute us whole and perfect, a creative spirit that moves us forward and upward. Faith that can shelter maternally almost any kind of belief, from the humble and simple blind faith to the more intellectual, lined existential doubts and anxieties. That faith tells us that the Good Friday Passover of the first full moon of spring, the absolute and transcendent God who had wanted to share the hardships and miseries of our nature was tortured and died as an outcast by men, who loved him. This historic scandal of God man's murderer is unbearable for human reason, who wanted to see sometimes on Good Friday a mere "occupational accident" resulting from the actions of Jesus or the context of the time. Someone said that when men stop believing in God begin to believe it all. Since then now is the sweet far rabbi of Nazareth who walked on the waters of the lake, was transfigured on Tabor, made miraculous catches of fish and men, healed many wounds of body and soul. It was Friday and on the false dilemma Machado bolt between the Jesus of the tree and he walked in the Mar-false because both are the same-we were at the heart of Golgotha.
The house was full of people, family and friends. Meanwhile isolated myself busy when the coach stopped the Holy Sepulchre under my balcony. The smell of herbs on the portal and wax candles, surrounding the throne under a cloud incense and the call to prayer was Legionnaires', ... so it makes life moments. The bearded and serene image of Christ lying, almost English roots, it seemed looking at me through his closed eyelids from the ballot box and the throne of Andalusian florid Gothic style, with arches, cresting and praying angels mahogany under four black candles . It's as if everyone wanted to pet him and house the figure of Christ, that looks like just another failed prophet abandoned by his people because God can not be the one to whom God has left hanging from a tree. Life is a short light between two dark nights and death is the faithful companion of man. Jesus lies in the abyss of human indignity. We must die to be reborn.
A black cloud ripping moon shines over the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, a guard of honor is rooted in military orders of the Holy Places.
Is this all?. Where is the triumph over pain and death?. It's simple and complicated at the same time. It is that God has the last word. If to live is to suffer, to survive is to make sense of suffering. In the nearby, bright dawn of the Resurrection definitely changes the perspective and Jesus overcomes death a new life of power and glory. But the Risen One bears the mark of the nails and wounds of the cross is the Crucified God recreates assuming that all his words and deeds.
Good Friday gives us a sense of nostalgia and inevitable abandonment. It is finished, I would say the Nazarene from the cross.
But you never leave, barefoot our pride, look at us with pity, passes through our fears, resentment and misery, our lives are barren and sterile. And let me live many Holy Week, the agony and the triumph of my God rooted in the heart of my people beating in the dark streams of blood, generation after generation.
From there I came from. To that I belong. I hope there final rest.
I suggest you hear the trumpet solo at minute 3:10.
