Joy: Panajachel Guatemala
8 am Easter morning.
The church is transformed; white banners, edged in gold,
cascading from the ceiling and down the wall, the somber Lenten purple
disappearing over night. In the quiet hush, we choose a seat near the back,
hoping that our lack of familiarity with the Catholic service goes unnoticed
there. We're not there long, however. To our confusion, the priest starts
recruiting women to carry the statue of the risen Christ, and everyone starts
filing out the door. 
We join the group, wondering over the lack of service and
ceremony, and cross the plaza in front of the church to the street. Realization sets in: "Easter mass and
parade" is what the sign said when I stopped in to find the service time. Apparently the parade is first. The women,
representative of those to whom Jesus first appeared, lift the statue of the
risen Christ and lead us down the street.
Next comes a dusty pickup truck, crowded with an entire band in the back.
The music starts, joyful, celebratory. He is risen! We are saved! Chains are
broken!
I'm beaming as I join in the songs, simple choruses that are
easy to pick up on the spot. We parade down the street where all the bars and
clubs are, dead at this hour on a Sunday morning, passing underneath
pineapples, flowers, and other fruit swinging above us, decorating the street
for Easter. We reach the main
intersection in town and swing back up toward the church, early morning
shoppers stopping to watch, or join in. After our joyful procession through
town, we file back into the church for a more traditional service, but I'm
brimming with joy. Can there be a better
way to celebrate Easter than singing all through town my joy that my Lord lives?
Reverence: Ramnicu Valcea, Romania
11 pm Easter Saturday
The lawn around the church is already overflowing with
people, but we push towards the door, Cristian assuring me there will still be
some room inside. We crowd in the back,
standing together. The lights are off,
it's dark, solemn, we're all waiting in expectation, remembering the death of
Christ, and anticipating the moment we celebrate His resurrection.
At midnight, the bells start pealing and a single candle is
lit. The light of the world has
conquered the darkness. The priest
lights the candles of the other priests and they begin slowly processing out of
the church, waving incense, and stopping to sing "Hristos a înviat din morți"- Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and to those in the tombs bestowing life!
I join in the first phrase, since Cristian taught it to me before we came, but my tongue gets lost in the unfamiliar sounds of the next phrases. As the priests get closer, Cristian's mother's caution to be before we left suddenly makes sense. Putting my hair up seemed unnecessary- I'm an adult, I thought- I won't catch my hair on fire with my candle. But now, with everyone pressing in around me, trying to light their candle directly from the priest, I realize it wasn't my own candle I should worry about, but everyone else's. My protestant Christmas Silent Night with candles mental image shatters, as instead we're crammed tight as sardines and lighting candles over one another's heads. I abandon any idea of lighting my candle from the priest- I'll just light it from Cristian instead.
The priests, long robes and beards flowing, leave the church and cross to a platform set up facing the church doors. We all stand on the lawn, candles glowing in the dark, as the priest speaks and Cristian occasionally whispers translations in my ear. Outside there are even more people than were crowded into the church. I'm filled with a sense of reverence and awe. This ceremony seems ancient to me, and I'm sure it is- the Orthodox Church has been around for a millennium.
There's something deeply rewarding about joining in both of these Easter traditions, so different than my own, but both so symbolic of the joy and reverence that the death and resurrection of our Savior should invoke. My faith is bigger than me, than the way I have lived it out, and I feel joined to something larger- the universal Church of all believers. It's another moment where I can almost envision heaven and the beauty of people of every tribe, nation, and tongue coming together to sing praise to the Lamb who is worthy.
I join in the first phrase, since Cristian taught it to me before we came, but my tongue gets lost in the unfamiliar sounds of the next phrases. As the priests get closer, Cristian's mother's caution to be before we left suddenly makes sense. Putting my hair up seemed unnecessary- I'm an adult, I thought- I won't catch my hair on fire with my candle. But now, with everyone pressing in around me, trying to light their candle directly from the priest, I realize it wasn't my own candle I should worry about, but everyone else's. My protestant Christmas Silent Night with candles mental image shatters, as instead we're crammed tight as sardines and lighting candles over one another's heads. I abandon any idea of lighting my candle from the priest- I'll just light it from Cristian instead.
The priests, long robes and beards flowing, leave the church and cross to a platform set up facing the church doors. We all stand on the lawn, candles glowing in the dark, as the priest speaks and Cristian occasionally whispers translations in my ear. Outside there are even more people than were crowded into the church. I'm filled with a sense of reverence and awe. This ceremony seems ancient to me, and I'm sure it is- the Orthodox Church has been around for a millennium.
There's something deeply rewarding about joining in both of these Easter traditions, so different than my own, but both so symbolic of the joy and reverence that the death and resurrection of our Savior should invoke. My faith is bigger than me, than the way I have lived it out, and I feel joined to something larger- the universal Church of all believers. It's another moment where I can almost envision heaven and the beauty of people of every tribe, nation, and tongue coming together to sing praise to the Lamb who is worthy.
