Easter
Nothing says, "Jesus is Risen" like firecrackers.
That's just one of the many intricacies of Easter here in Guatemala. No serious business gets done all week, such as finding work for an American who recently arrived, and the vast majority of shops have been closed since Wednesday. There have been processions every night, with probably the biggest ones on Friday. I'll post some photos of the Good Friday processions, because words alone can't capture the thousands of people lining the streets to watch hundreds of paraders carry huge floats on their shoulders around the city.
Today I'll focus on my Easter morning. I woke up at 7 a.m. (I get to sleep much earlier without a computer to waste time in front of), did some exercises, showered, and got dressed in the finest clothes I currently own: a plaid short-sleeve shirt tucked into blue jeans, plus my well worn brown boots and blue argyle socks. I'm afraid that's as classy as I get these days.
I went to the kitchen, and as I started to scramble a couple eggs, Connie, the recent college grad from Tennessee who lives in the room next to mine, opened her door. Connie and I were going to meet my friend Steve at 9:15 to go to the Catholic church he attends. Although I'm an Episcopalian and Connie's a Methodist, we didn't feel particularly tied to our sect for the day. Connie and I talked over breakfast, and then I killed some more time cleaning up the kitchen.
We left our apartment, met Steve, and then walked a little bit further to his church. We came in and sat in the left section, about 25 feet from the band of two guitarists and a drummer, all in their late teens or early 20s, who would be providing the music for the service.
"I'm glad we have these guys playing today," Steve said to us. "There are about six different sets of musicians that rotate, and sometimes there's this one guy who comes in with his keyboard synth, and the music sounds like you're at the circus."
One of the first things I noticed was that the wooden pews we were sitting in had no hymnals, no prayer books, no Bibles, no orders of service, no nothing. I was hoping that I would be able to read along with the prayers to better understand them and to better participate, but I quickly realized that wasn't going to happen. Probably the cost of hundreds of each book was just too prohibitive for the church.
The service started a few minutes before 10, and although there were seats for hundreds of people, nearly all of them were taken. The overflow stood in the aisles.
I'm used to a procession coming in from the back of the church, but the priest and alter boys (and girl) came out of the sacristy, accompanied by a hymn. The tune, played on guitars and drums, was "Oh When the Saints Go Marching In," but the words were totally different, so I was reduced to standing quietly as one of the most joyful tunes in the world played around me.
The mass went much as expected, but because I don't know the right things to say in Spanish, I was only able to chime in with the occasional "amen" or catch on to the refrain of a psalm. My Spanish was good enough to catch that the Gospel was about Jesus' tomb being found empty, but then again anyone coming to church on Easter would know that that's what the reading would be, whether they knew Spanish or not.
The fun started with the sermon. The priest seemed to stress that today, a day of joy and rebirth, was the most important day of Holy Week, and that too often Catholics focus on Good Friday, a day of pain and suffering. The focus of our lives, the priest said, should be on the positive aspects, not on suffering.
His point was clearly lost on a whole host of babies near the back of the church, all of whom started crying in the middle of the sermon. But the mothers didn't take them outside. The babies, easily six or more of them, continued to cry for minutes.
"I guess they don't have Sunday School here," I whispered to Steve.
"Normally, they'd take them outside when they started to cry," he replied.
At that moment, the priest stopped his sermon, and told the mothers, in slightly less direct and more holy language, that they needed to take their babies outside, and that they had "the resources" to make their children happy, i.e. milk. Once the babies had been taken outside and things quieted down, the priest continued with his sermon.
The only other interruption in the service was during the Eucharist, when the neighboring church's Easter procession began. The jubilant band played pleasant background music outside, but the procession's full minute of firecrackers caused our priest to pause the service. The Eucharistic service continued, and bread was served. I asked Steve why wine wasn't served in this church, since wine is usually part of a Catholic service. He said he wasn't sure, but that either it was an extra cost, or the priest didn't want to include alcohol in the service when Guatemala has such a high rate of alcoholism.
The service ended, slightly more than an hour after it had started, and Steve, Connie and I began making our way out of the church. Steve ran into some old friends, as he manages to do just about everywhere in Guatemala, and we talked for a while.
After church, the three of us went to a hotel in the center of the city, where they serve an excellent breakfast buffet. We were too late for breakfast, but we had an excellent Easter lunch anyway.
After the meal, I had only one more errand for the day; I was finally going to get my boots shined. There are usually more than a half-dozen shoeshines in the small central park, and I had meant to have my boots polished before Holy Week. If you had seen them the previous Saturday, coated in dust from hiking up and down the volcano, you would have agreed that they needed a good scrubbing. Add to that my inherited Moldovan fear of people judging me based on the cleanliness of my shoes, and I knew that I needed a shine. The shoeshine worked fast, and within five minutes my boots were sparkling. All it cost was five quetzales, the equivalent of 63 cents. One could argue that I should have gotten my boots shined before going to church, but in the end, they're shined and it's Easter, and that's what matters.
I'm eager to start this upcoming week, because Holy Week had made it impossible for me to establish myself with any sort of work, paid or volunteer. This week, I have a number of meetings that will hopefully find some use for me, either teaching English, training Guatemalans on computers, or working in some other capacity that I haven't imagined yet. Just as Jesus was reborn today, my trip will be reborn tomorrow, when I finally start to add a purpose to my stay in Xela.
That's just one of the many intricacies of Easter here in Guatemala. No serious business gets done all week, such as finding work for an American who recently arrived, and the vast majority of shops have been closed since Wednesday. There have been processions every night, with probably the biggest ones on Friday. I'll post some photos of the Good Friday processions, because words alone can't capture the thousands of people lining the streets to watch hundreds of paraders carry huge floats on their shoulders around the city.
Today I'll focus on my Easter morning. I woke up at 7 a.m. (I get to sleep much earlier without a computer to waste time in front of), did some exercises, showered, and got dressed in the finest clothes I currently own: a plaid short-sleeve shirt tucked into blue jeans, plus my well worn brown boots and blue argyle socks. I'm afraid that's as classy as I get these days.
I went to the kitchen, and as I started to scramble a couple eggs, Connie, the recent college grad from Tennessee who lives in the room next to mine, opened her door. Connie and I were going to meet my friend Steve at 9:15 to go to the Catholic church he attends. Although I'm an Episcopalian and Connie's a Methodist, we didn't feel particularly tied to our sect for the day. Connie and I talked over breakfast, and then I killed some more time cleaning up the kitchen.
We left our apartment, met Steve, and then walked a little bit further to his church. We came in and sat in the left section, about 25 feet from the band of two guitarists and a drummer, all in their late teens or early 20s, who would be providing the music for the service.
"I'm glad we have these guys playing today," Steve said to us. "There are about six different sets of musicians that rotate, and sometimes there's this one guy who comes in with his keyboard synth, and the music sounds like you're at the circus."
One of the first things I noticed was that the wooden pews we were sitting in had no hymnals, no prayer books, no Bibles, no orders of service, no nothing. I was hoping that I would be able to read along with the prayers to better understand them and to better participate, but I quickly realized that wasn't going to happen. Probably the cost of hundreds of each book was just too prohibitive for the church.
The service started a few minutes before 10, and although there were seats for hundreds of people, nearly all of them were taken. The overflow stood in the aisles.
I'm used to a procession coming in from the back of the church, but the priest and alter boys (and girl) came out of the sacristy, accompanied by a hymn. The tune, played on guitars and drums, was "Oh When the Saints Go Marching In," but the words were totally different, so I was reduced to standing quietly as one of the most joyful tunes in the world played around me.
The mass went much as expected, but because I don't know the right things to say in Spanish, I was only able to chime in with the occasional "amen" or catch on to the refrain of a psalm. My Spanish was good enough to catch that the Gospel was about Jesus' tomb being found empty, but then again anyone coming to church on Easter would know that that's what the reading would be, whether they knew Spanish or not.
The fun started with the sermon. The priest seemed to stress that today, a day of joy and rebirth, was the most important day of Holy Week, and that too often Catholics focus on Good Friday, a day of pain and suffering. The focus of our lives, the priest said, should be on the positive aspects, not on suffering.
His point was clearly lost on a whole host of babies near the back of the church, all of whom started crying in the middle of the sermon. But the mothers didn't take them outside. The babies, easily six or more of them, continued to cry for minutes.
"I guess they don't have Sunday School here," I whispered to Steve.
"Normally, they'd take them outside when they started to cry," he replied.
At that moment, the priest stopped his sermon, and told the mothers, in slightly less direct and more holy language, that they needed to take their babies outside, and that they had "the resources" to make their children happy, i.e. milk. Once the babies had been taken outside and things quieted down, the priest continued with his sermon.
The only other interruption in the service was during the Eucharist, when the neighboring church's Easter procession began. The jubilant band played pleasant background music outside, but the procession's full minute of firecrackers caused our priest to pause the service. The Eucharistic service continued, and bread was served. I asked Steve why wine wasn't served in this church, since wine is usually part of a Catholic service. He said he wasn't sure, but that either it was an extra cost, or the priest didn't want to include alcohol in the service when Guatemala has such a high rate of alcoholism.
The service ended, slightly more than an hour after it had started, and Steve, Connie and I began making our way out of the church. Steve ran into some old friends, as he manages to do just about everywhere in Guatemala, and we talked for a while.
After church, the three of us went to a hotel in the center of the city, where they serve an excellent breakfast buffet. We were too late for breakfast, but we had an excellent Easter lunch anyway.
After the meal, I had only one more errand for the day; I was finally going to get my boots shined. There are usually more than a half-dozen shoeshines in the small central park, and I had meant to have my boots polished before Holy Week. If you had seen them the previous Saturday, coated in dust from hiking up and down the volcano, you would have agreed that they needed a good scrubbing. Add to that my inherited Moldovan fear of people judging me based on the cleanliness of my shoes, and I knew that I needed a shine. The shoeshine worked fast, and within five minutes my boots were sparkling. All it cost was five quetzales, the equivalent of 63 cents. One could argue that I should have gotten my boots shined before going to church, but in the end, they're shined and it's Easter, and that's what matters.
I'm eager to start this upcoming week, because Holy Week had made it impossible for me to establish myself with any sort of work, paid or volunteer. This week, I have a number of meetings that will hopefully find some use for me, either teaching English, training Guatemalans on computers, or working in some other capacity that I haven't imagined yet. Just as Jesus was reborn today, my trip will be reborn tomorrow, when I finally start to add a purpose to my stay in Xela.
posted by Peter Myers at
1:08 PM
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