Easter Time used to mean a lot to me. I was once a Christian. I would pray every day and I believed in a creator, the Lord. I felt pain when I imagined the journey of Christ as he carried the cross, just a man who was burdened with all of our sin. The son of God. The one who had been sent as a saviour, to teach us all and to inspire.
I would imagine him stumbling in exhaustion, beaten, thirsty, in pain. The crowd watching, soldiers kicking him, officials indifferent to his religious importance, the wealthy and commoner screaming, yelling, tormenting him. As he fell, I imagined a beggar going to his aid, or thanks to Ben Hur, a Charlton Heston insert, returning kindness. A weeping sex worker offering him water, a labourer trying to help carry the cross. Jesus walked on deliberately, despite those there to help or the mob there to jeer at him.
Each nail smashed through his flesh, a savage blow. Pain. The crown of thorns forced down his head, blood running into his eyes. Then raised, with an indignity of torment before all.
“I love you,” my Grandma told me that he had said to them all.
“I forgive you,” he said above a whisper. The apostles and those who loved him crying, each helpless as they watched. He loved them. Those who had come for entertainment witnessed the gore, the misery, the pain. He forgave them. Those soldiers who murdered him, doing their job, did so for pay, mercenaries of government. They raised Jesus alongside a thief and other criminals. He forgave them. Justice to them was whatever they were paid to do. For the Roman government, it was another day to reign. For Christ, he reigned on long after. I dearly once believed.
To the faithful it was a day of mourning. To be a holiday of celebration, to give thanks, to sacrifice and to endure the burdens of the world. To look beyond ourselves, and into the distance at strangers and those who may have wronged us, to say, “I Love You.” To stand tall and say, “I forgive you.”
I once believed all of that. I believed that a man should be capable, answering to the morality of his own conscience. To be better, to stand for the weak and those who are unable to stand for themselves. To be charitable, to do what is right. Strength was not in the capacity to harm or exploit, but in the ability to protect and to be kind. To also, suffer. To endure. To sacrifice. To go without if others were in need.
That is charity. It is voluntary. It’s setting an example.
The killers, those who would make Jesus and scores of others, a martyr they engaged in welfare. That is not charity. Welfare needs coercion and creates obedience and dependency. Charity is goodwill, fosters community, it nurtures and invigorates. Be charitable.
The killers acted according to law, the law of man. They waged wars of conquest and imperial ambition. The glory went to themselves and claimed it was for the abstract of Rome. Their Gods existed only to validate their needs, their greed, their desires.
Jesus and his kingdom found it’s strength in nobility, kindness that came from being the example. Not forcing, not imposing, not by being another version of Rome. But instead being Christ like, walking among the poor, befriending the outcasts, labouring, toiling, knowing others and experiencing their world, our shared world. Refraining from the corruption of temptations or vices that others may enjoy. Helping them not through force or prohibition. Not in censoring, or cutting off their tongue, be a better, strong and inspiring person. Set the example, live on through the words and teachings of the Prince of Peace.
My grandparents also told me that we only know our strength and faith, when we are surrounded by temptation. We don’t swipe the chocolate bar from another, we may witness them eat it and still say that we do not need to. We don’t steal from another out of spite or because we are hungry. We don’t block others eyes from sin or bind them up because of it, we avoid it, we show that we can live that life of goodness. We do not need to ban this or that, we simply don’t have to indulge in it ourselves. That is inspiring others through deed. I was told that we should not fear sin and temptation, to be good in ourselves, be good to others. Then sin and temptation can not break us.
I left the faith, in part due to the hypocrisy and actions of others who claimed to be believers. In them I saw a God, that I did not believe in. If they were hateful, then so was their God. If they were jealous, then they had that God as well. If they wanted revenge and violence, they found such a God. The Bible could prove us all correct, and wrong. We could find whatever God our own ego and intuition, desire and ambition required.
Through the TV I would then witness the first Gulf War, it was exciting to see the missiles go in and out at nighttime. CNN broadcasts washed the television here in Australia with imagery that bewildered a young mind. My Grandpa, a World War Two veteran, was dying of cancer during the war. I remember sitting in a hospital room alongside of him while watching the TV as he lay in pain, a bible near his bedside. I felt joy in seeing the new Stealth fighters on the screen, the tomahawk missiles.
In between his pain, the good strong man that my Grandpa was took my hand, and he told me, “war was not a thing to smile about.”
I did not realise I was smiling. He had often commented on my fascination with the old war films and the military books that I would read eagerly on his lounge room floor. He had discussed faith, and scripture with me from time to time. Morality lessons and how to be a good man, nothing preachy. Always with a lesson wrapped inside each story.
He asked me to pray for those who were dying over there, those scared people, the families, the innocent. It then occurred to me that this was not a battlefield in the desert, where only soldiers met. Rather it was a city, homes were under attack. People were being punished because of a leader. I felt guilt, shame. Disgust. We prayed.
So from then on as I held my rosaries, prayed in bed each night not only for my family, my friends, anyone I could imagine. I also prayed for the bad people, those who I had experienced in my life, bullies and otherwise. Those who I only knew as villains through the news and movies. I prayed for them to be forgiven. I could never love them. I could only pray that they would find love, peace.
It turns out as I grew older, that empathy for others, especially the alien foreigner was often rare. People were slurs, collectives. In war time, a claimed Christian could snub his nose at the suffering of strangers, including children. Claim to love Christ, even use his name to validate mass murder. Is this not the worse form of taking it in vain? I have seen those with a crucifix in their bio, who often talk about Christ, celebrate dead children. One even said, “if they give up the hostages, they would not need to die.” As though children, were responsible for the actions of a few. I never believed in this Christ, was I wrong? Is this the true faith?
The Christ, the Lord that I prayed to, that I once believed in would never have condemned strangers to pain and death. I found the religion of peace, one that I loved, that I cherished is also filled with spite, hate, bitterness. An extension of the very killers of Christ himself. It is not the faith of the people, the individual but instead one that validates nation, government, ideology, imperialism, war. I am told that such people are not true Christians, they disagree. Who is right? Who decides? I am often reminded that the Right especially loves Christ, he is their lord above all else. I only ever see them worshipping the State, the modern day Rome. Is that the love they know?
This Easter, as an atheist, as one who once believed. How, I wish at times that I still did. I wish for that faith of peace to return. Where Christ is Lord and not a slogan, or an avatar. Where Christ is an example. The true Christ, well perhaps that is naivety, the one I loved. The Christ I was taught. The one who sacrificed, and forgave. The one who wanted peace, the one who would not endorse missiles into the families of strangers, the saviour who promoted charity, not coercion. The Christ who was an anarchist, a rebel, a loving punk, a dissident, a revolutionary for good.
In one of her last Easters my Grandma told me that we can find the peace in the world around us, in the flower, under a tree, in the chirps of a bird. That we don’t need to listen to men tell us what they think we should believe. In her last years she became a bit of a rebel, defiant but always kind. She always reminded me that anger is not the answer, patience first. I miss her and the Christ that she believed in. The Christ or version of faith that I see others use as their self expression is all very alien to me. Maybe I was just wrong, and they are right. That may be why the world burns, war is always the way and the real religion is coercion. The true cult of death is their faith.
Happy Easter and Peace be with you all.
