The Procession of Silence

Yesterday I was a boy and, hand in hand with my father, beside my grandfather and a multitude of other men, I walked the “procession of silence,” the “procession of the men.” The murmur of our steps on the asphalt and the sporadic beat of the Roman drum were the only sounds in the night. We kept silent and marched. Before us, blindfolded, hands bound, and forehead bleeding, went the image of Jesus, the Christ. Stiff, dressed in purple and gold, surrounded by flowers, with the eternal expression of agony petrified on his stoic plaster face, he too kept silent. I did not understand then the reason for that silence. I just kept marching.

Two millennia ago you chose us from among all men. You taught us on the mount that your way is the truth of life. I was dead and you raised me. I was sick and you healed me. I was blind and you opened my eyes. You came to me walking on the sea of my tears, you calmed the storm of my spirit, and with your voice you brought my heart out of its tomb. For three years we walked after you, though perhaps not with you, until that night came when you asked us to keep watch, Lord, for one hour only. But you found us asleep. “The spirit is willing,” you told us, “but the flesh is weak.” We kept silent, because we knew, in the intimate shame of our breast, that our spirit was not yet willing to face this bitter hour like men. Out of fear we betrayed you, Lord, though we swore to defend you; out of fear we denied you three times before the cock crowed. And we preferred to save Barabbas rather than you, we accused you falsely and we crucified you between thieves.

Today I am a man and I walk tonight, Holy Thursday, beneath the stars and the full moon that watch us, from the infinite in mourning, in silence. I walk at my father’s side; my grandfather has already departed for your glory. The narrowness of the streets of La Heroica Villa, the mildewed roof tiles, the sealed lips, and the pious eyes of the women are the only witnesses to our painful march. Before us, in silence, swaying on the wooden float, goes the image of the Christ. We march after you tonight, twenty centuries after our betrayal. An age has passed, Lord, and still we march, to expiate the sin of our cowardice that night, the original sin of men.

Forgive us, Lord, for even today we sin against you. Because upon this rock we raised your church, but stained with blood, with a hollow trunk and a thousand twisted branches. Because we still sleep while you keep watch and pray for us. Because we did not understand your holy message, nor did we put its letter into action. Because for thirty coins we sell you every day. Because our flesh is still weak, and our spirit is not yet willing. Because we go on drawing our sword and cutting off the ear of the innocent, without turning the other cheek, without loving him as ourselves. Because this very dawn we denied you a thousand times before the first cock crowed. Because this very afternoon we crucified you again between thieves. Because your voice is still a seed that falls on the stone of our hearts, among the thorns of our selfishness, and is choked without bearing fruit.

Forgive us, Lord, for even today we betray you. Because today we see you hungry at every traffic light, on the other side of the window, with your open hand held out to us, begging for food, and we ignore you. Because today we find you sick, lying at the door of the temple, dressed as a beggar, and your pain does not move us. Because countless times you have returned, as you promised, in the form of a boy or a girl, but we let you die of hunger, of cold, of curable diseases, under the stupid smart bombs, without water, without a father, without school, without rights. We do not recognize you…

Tomorrow I will be an old man and I will walk again in silence. Perhaps my father will no longer be with me, and I will walk with faltering step, clinging to the firm hand of my son. Or perhaps it will be I who am no longer in this world. Either way, in body or in spirit, we will all walk together. And our mother, wife, and sister will watch us, keeping silent, from the sidewalk, with pious eyes, knowing that we walk for the expiation of our infinite sin, which began two thousand years ago, which has not yet ended and which we will not be able to purge even if we walk with you this Way of the Cross, as men and in silence, to the ends of the earth, to the end of time.