My first Good Friday in Malta
I will never forget my first Easter in Malta because it started with a storm full of noise followed by a Roman invasion.
There were three different churches in the hands of my studio in Żejtun, each competing like voices on the street to drown each other. They chimed all the right hours into bad intervals because none of their clocks were synchronized.
The angelus ran three times a day like a handful of coins falling on a sidewalk. Other bells were sober and sonorous, while some sounded their praise in a frenzy of clanging.
I never thought about the bells, even when I had to shut myself up during conference calls, or hang up and try again when I was done. They provided a rhythm for the day and reminded me where I was. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t reconcile myself to I moved.
A monotonous wooden clapper that replaced the bells on Good Friday, thundered from dawn to dusk with the penitential insistence of a triple-volume jackhammer. Only a few very traditional villages still tormented believers, non-believers and small animals with this device, and Żejtun happened to be one of them.
It’s hard to imagine as strong as possible two pieces of wood joining together until you’ve been kicked out of bed by it. I started the day in a state of tachycardia and spent the rest of it desperately trying to keep one thought in mind.
The I moved I drove them all out, perhaps, of lamentation: for the acoustics of the old stone houses, for my sense of hearing, and finally, for existence itself. Surely the gap is better than this?
I humbly suggest that all politicians spend part of their Easter weekend locked in that bell tower while the I moved being thundering at full volume. Even living a block away will make you repent of sins you did not plan to commit.
I felt really good about my life when it stopped, and maybe that’s the point. I’d faced something even more disturbing than firecrackers, but now it’s over, and I’ve gone back to reading – for that and a plate of Lent, my favorite seasonal care. I like them even better than figs or Cadbury eggs.
I had just tasted the beautiful almond and spice chewing biscuits when my wife burst in at the door to tell me that the main square was filled with Roman centurions.
“I realize that things are slowly changing in Zejtun,” I said, “but if Rome were still ruling here, I’m sure someone would notice.”
Then again, we saw Michael Jackson long dead performing at a village festival, so I think I shouldn’t have been surprised when Ramses the Great fell on St. Gregory Street.
Moses was not far from him, followed by shepherds who lead the living sheep, and enough Old Testament prophets to severely tax the memories of my Catholic school, recorded at a time when I was severely cut off. I spend more time looking carefully at girls in my class than I do. for a litany of old bans.
The rhythmic arrival of the feet walking on the stones heralded the arrival of the Romans. One had a striking resemblance to our local butcher, but maybe that was just the way he grabbed his sword.
Definitely not smiling. Nor were those villagers who staged scenes from the Passion of Christ. Okay, two girls in Roman gowns laughed a little when they saw friends in the crowd, but for many, it was a solemn occasion. Black banners brightened the streets, and two marching bands played richly at the funeral while participants marched the route in mourning.
The story of the last hours of Christ was told through large trailers that carried eight people who were distributed under the weight of their responsibilities.
The costumes were wonderful, and a testament to the participants’ dedication to investing their savings and countless hours to make the annual procession a truly unforgettable experience.
Easter is a reminder of the many-scale sacrifice: of the sacrifice of something in the present to reap greater rewards in the future, and of the ultimate sacrifice of one’s life for others, whether in the story of Christ or in the more immediate history of war or sacrifices. immigrants do it to create a better life for their children.
Easter is a time when we remember that the way to salvation – if such a thing could exist for any of us – requires that we stick to the truth, and if necessary, that we suffer for that truth. The alternative is the short-term path to profit, and the last nine years have shown us where it leads.
Easter is also a time of renewal, and this is particularly appropriate as we emerge from a two-year pandemic that has seen us isolated in our homes, kept away from friends and family, and cut off from any concept of progress. ‘ forward.
Did you use that time as a period of reflection and re-evaluation, or did you stuff in resentment, complaining about the loss of freedom? Have you lost friends or family members because of Covid – a loss worse than a lack of ability to come together in mourning and remembrance? What will you do with your life now that it is no longer a break?
Finally, Easter is a time of hope. No matter how bad things get – economically, politically, personally – these things will go wrong. What matters are the values you hold along the way.