Death by Jesus (last year nostalgia)

Semana Santa, the holy week, brings a lot of questions to the surface. Especially when spent in the south of Spain. Andalucíans take pride in celebrating this week in the most grandiose manner possible; with processions, worship and packed streets they seem to be searching for penance for the lazy year passed. Andalucía, and Cádiz in particular, is known for its lethargic and laid back attitude. Why work when you can enjoy life? Unemployment rates are the highest in all of Spain here, yet no one seems to mind. This is Cádiz, the city that smiles, the city that makes you smile.

As a sceptic Protestant Jew with a fascination for eastern religions, a procession can at first be slightly difficult to digest. Correction; is at first a frightening experience. Why? Because you don’t know what to react to first; the over exposure of Jesus and the Virgin Mary, or the fanatic behaviour surrounding it. Is it not just all a way to show off the assets of the church in the end?

As a gesture of remembrance and identification with the sufferance of Jesus, large processions take place in all of Andalucía throughout the week prior to Easter. It is nowhere near Easter bunnies and sweet eggs hidden in the garden. Instead people mobilise themselves to find the processions that lie them closest to heart, all through the week. Granted, sweets exist, but it is more similar to buying popcorn before going to the cinema. While awaiting a procession you will find people sitting on a chair (brought from home) on the side of the streets nibbling on sunflower seeds and overly sweet lollypops. As the procession comes closer the tension rises and the crowd grows. Some will have been waiting long. Maybe to get a closer glimpse of Jesus, I don’t know. I’m just wondering how all this fuss makes anyone feel closer to God.

Then finally, comes the procession, first the men (women or children as well, but frankly one can’t tell) with the hats and covered faces, who look like they belong with the KKK (but we try to say that quietly not to offend anyone). Some carry wax candles others signs or crosses that are symbols of the fraternity of the church, somewhere in there is always a sign that says SPQR (the ancient roman designation of a king) which was in fact put on top of Jesus’ cross as he was crucified, to mock him, a friend tells me. Then come the men with the embellished candlesticks who lead way for the grand platform, or what not; an enormous piece of wood often embellished with gold or silver and fresh flowers. On it stands some kind of image of Jesus, embodying part of the story of his last 12 days alive. Under it; forty to fifty men who gladly and even voluntarily carry this beast around for the duration of the passing, which can last up to ten hours, if not more. After this comes the band and then….another procession or, better, another part of it, which is in the honour of the Virgin Mary. Men with candles and incense escort her through the streets. And again; a band. In between we find the people walking for penance; those who carry a cross or wear chains around their ankles, or simply the quiet crowd of followers crying for the pain and sufferance of Christ their saviour. And where was he to save me from this? I keep thinking to myself.

But I don’t know. Walking through the streets, where the atmosphere is filled with vacation and exited expectations, there in some way a sense of belonging, a grander purpose. I find myself respecting it. Still I don’t really know how to relate. There are far too many questions and far too much critique for me to swallow this pill whole.

A friend and I walk down the street and turn a corner. In front of us: the KKK dressed in purple and black. The streets are narrow and full. I grab her hand, because yes, truthfully, it frightens me. Through the holes in the cap I can see the eyes of the first person in the procession following every individual crossing his path. Although I can’t see his regard I can apprehend the pride in his posture. I know I don’t want to make them angry or in any way disrespect their tradition. We try to find a place along the street. Ironically we get told off at first, by and elderly woman rambling on about how she has been waiting for an hour. I look in front of me: Procession, behind me: a wall. Where exactly does she want us to go? We gather all our courage and cross the procession as it is standing still, to finally find a place on the over populated street. When the scent of incense reaches us, we know he is getting closer; Jesus is about to make his entrance. The heightened platform just barely fits the narrow street, to the point where older men on both sides of us, spectators, push it to help the carriers reach equilibrium. Looking up at the impressive spectacle of a platform passing, who is looking down at us if not the man himself? Jesus. We look at each other. He will fall, the screws will come loose and he will drop on our heads, and that will be the end of us; death by Jesus and the end of this marvel of a thing we call life. Despite all of this we are laughing. True, that fear often calls for laughter, but also, what other way to welcome something new than with a smile?

Towards the end of the week someone asks me: Have you taken this week to reflect on your sins? My sins? I keep thinking. In today’s terms a lot of things considered pleasure can be regarded as sin. So, am I a sinner? Or am I not enough of a sinner?

Although conclusions are still ripening, this is what I’ve learnt so far: Approach religiosity (and probably life in general) with a smiling caution and curiosity. And, be as big a sinner as you like. Because whether you die by Jesus or any other, in the end the only one who needs to forgive you is yourself. (And I can only speak for myself, but I’d rather forgive myself for a step mistaken, than a wish unfulfilled).