The Black Parade

It was the saddest day.

On the eve of Good Friday, the long parade of the hooded make their way slowly through the streets of Sorrento like a black mist. At first sight, tourists catch their breath and shake disbelieving heads as an inaccurate association spills to the forefront of their understanding. But this is not a procession of hate.

The incappucciati wear their pointed black hoods with slotted eyes as a mark of tradition, sorrow and shame. Like Adam and Eve, they cover their sin and hide from the Lord. Pale hands clutch torches to light the silent streets and the solemn faces of two thousand spectators. Faint footsteps tap the ground as a prelude to the hymns that follow, the mournful voices that drift after the parade and mark it with pathos. In the distance, a drum beats like a deadening pulse. Yet I smile a little as men with authority and wooden sticks dig and knock the hooded back into line when they happen to drift. This parade is for the Lord; it shall be precise.    

Women cross their chests and bow their heads when their Lady passes. Dressed in black, the Madonna mourns the death of her son and searches for his return. Sceptics fidget in the silence, feeling out of place and yet unable to move away from the transfixing event. Soon they fall still and watch with the saved. In this moment, everyone is a believer.

Symbols of the Saviour’s end sail in the regimented sea of the hooded: the jug in which Pilate washed his hands of all blame, the bag that held the money of the betrayal, the rooster that marked Peter’s triple denial with its crow, the cross that encompasses the faith of Christians in solid wood and weight.

This is a funeral march, but as in all Christian deaths that follow Christ’s, hope overrides in the promise of new life.

You have sorrow now, but I will see you again; then you will rejoice, and no one can rob you of that joy. John 16:22.   

          

Six thousand three hundred and fifty six miles away, Filipino men walk in their own parade along the streets of Subic. The symbols they bear are different: deep slashes across bare backs and the holes of crucifixion held in open palms. For them, it seems the death of Jesus was not enough.