Good Friday was grim. The rain was pelting down. The garden had the air of misery. No one in sight. Totally deserted.
People were either sheltered in their homes or had left the great metropolis to spend Easter in the country.
The occasional dog walker could be seen from time to time, but also looked fed-up and couldn’t wait to get back home and try to make the most of an uneventful day where an enforced holiday is hoisted upon us – whether we like it or not.
Religious people go to church on this day when Jesus of Nazareth was led to the cross and crucified over two thousand years ago for the redemption of our sins. Two days later, the faithful mark his resurrection from the dead to signal the birth of Christianity.
Doubters feel a sense of despair, for they too would like to believe in the Bible and look forward to an afterlife where they encounter an eternal serenity, bereft of the cruelties that our world heaps upon us, but can’t make sense of it all.
They suffer a great deal in the process, envious of those who find the grace to shake off the complexities that hamper the dis-enlightened from being converted to a Christian dogma; one that, scientifically, is at odds with reality as we understand it, and therefore cannot be verified.
Brought up as a Roman Catholic and being taught by monks from an early age in the Holy Land, I too have sometimes my doubts, which I fight constantly in order to give more meaning to my terrestrial life.
But, having said that, I’m resigned, as most people are, to the inevitability of death and the consequence of a ‘beyond’.
For surprise has always been an element which, irrespective of what it brings in its wake, has given me that strange lift-up that curiosity engenders. For this I’m grateful, and content to embrace the enigma of creation.