Easter memories
My obsession with crucifixion
I was eight. We were at a hospital lab where I was about to get a blood test to see what was behind my latest lung congestion and I’d asked my dad, the chronic smoker, a simple question. “Will the needle hurt?”
“Son, did our savior cry out when the Roman soldiers drove the nails into his hands and feet? He did not.”
I never asked him if anything would hurt ever again.
The Master Sergeant was a devout Catholic who’d been an altar boy at St. Patrick’s cathedral where he later sought refuge when he was orphaned, often sneaking into his beloved cathedral to steal food money from the donation box and sleep on the floor behind a statue of Saint Andrew.
The Master Sergeant was a patient Christian.
“One day your mother will convert.”
“Like Hell I will.”
One Good Friday I noticed that the small plastic glow-in-the-dark crucifix over my dad’s bureau matched the HO scale of my toy train set and I fished as many of my HO scale Airfix 1:72 scale blue plastic Roman soldiers out of my toy box as I could find. I had archers and infantrymen with long shields and spears and charioteers and centurions with swords.I quietly plucked every crucifix off every wall in our home and carried my makeshift Roman Capital Punishment play set out to the front of our modest ranch style house and down to the foot of our gravel driveway where I planted seven crosses and crucifixes in the sand like daisies and scattered the Roman soldiers among them.
I knew how the story went. I’d read the gospels. And I had seen the Max von Sydow study guide, “The Greatest Story Ever Told”, where we learned the Nazarene was a tall Swede.
I had enough Messiahs on crosses to recreate the mass crucifixion of the Spartan rebels depicted in movie “Spartacus”, starring Kirk Douglas. this was going to be the most epic Easter ever.
Dad’s glow-in-the-dark Jesus was the coolest, so I planted Him between two other Jesuses on crosses who served as the two criminals on either side of Him and I had enough leftover crucified saviors to add four Jewish rebels to the playset. I knew all about the rebels because I’d seen the biblical study guide starring Anthony Quinn called “Barabbas”.
When my toy Jesus said, “Into your hands I commend my spirit” each toy Roman soldier fell over, overcome with shock, awe and shame. And then I made thunder sounds and slapped all the soldiers away and stomped the earth. And then I looked down at Jesus on his cross there and realized I needed a different Jesus to bury in a tomb to complete the play. And I knew where I could find the perfect toy Jesus.
In dad’s Chevy Impala on the green metal dashboard sat my favorite plastic Jesus. Last summer’s heat had melted dad’s savior so that he leaned backwards and with his right hand pointing two fingers up to Heaven he resembled the Robert Crumb “Keep on Truckin’ ” figure stepping out and wagging the Peace sign. The Master Sergeant grumbled and tossed it and I rescued it and returned it to its rightful place beneath the rear view mirror from which dad’s rosaries hung.
And there Jesus remained.
Until I swiped Him because I needed a Jesus to bury.
A small burrow between our house and the street served as my Savior’s tomb. One of dad’s Hamm’s beer coasters made a nifty stone to roll over the entrance. As I was happily posting my tiny blue Roman guards at the entrance to the burrow I looked up to see the Master Sergeant marching straight at me. Was he going to kill me?
”I’ll put ‘em all back when I’m done. I prom-”
“Was this a Sunday school assignment from your mother’s church?”
“No! I’m making a Passion Play!”
Fast thinking, sinner.
“Put every last Jesus back where He belongs before lightning strikes us all dead.”
How many of you have ever heard your father say that to you?
I was a junior in high school and I had completely forgotten it was Easter Sunday when my friends and I gathered at the base of the white cross on top of the hill next to mission San Xavier del Bac all because my media teacher, Barb Pinter, accused me of being incapable of ever making a serious film that wasn’t juvenile or didn’t reference farting. I accepted her challenge by making a movie about the Crucifixion of Jesus with my friend Richard Crowell cast as Jesus, Wayne Peate as Pontius Pilate and assorted Roman soldiers and my girlfriend Barb Slusher as Mary and Mary Magdalene. Ketchup in his palms, wearing a bed sheet around his waist, a crown of rose bush thorns on his head and sporting a mascara beard, hand drawn by me, my friend Richard stood in front of the cross on his tiptoes, stretched out his arms and waited for me to shout, “Action!”
When I shouted, “Action!” the mission bells heard my cue and began to ring, signaling the end of Easter Mass. Damn! What the Hell? We froze as we watched the entire parish pour out of the mission only to look up at we sacrilegious interlopers clustered around their giant white cross on their revered hill and the response was not charitable. The commotion, led by a couple of kids on low-rider bikes, made its way up the hill towards us at the same time we all scrambled down the opposite side of the hill into the fields nearby, including barefoot Richard who may still be out there on the rez on the run wearing a bed sheet around his waist, ketchup on his hands and a wreath of roses on his head.
Raised on Jesus, I was perplexed by the whole Easter bunny thing. “What does a bunny handing out Easter eggs have to do with the resurrection of Jesus?”
“Ask your mother. She’s the Protestant.”
“What does an elf living at the North Pole with flying reindeer have to do with-”
“Ask your mother.”
“What’s the difference between fairy tales and the Jesus stories?”
“One’s real, the rest are baloney and don’t ever ask that question again or God will strike you dead and you will burn in Hell forever.”
Got it.
My mother loved dying Easter eggs with her grand kids. One Easter I showed them how to use the wax crayon to write graffiti like “Jesus saves, but Moses invests” on the eggs. My nieces and nephews and I thought we were so funny until she looked closely at our eggs and looking me in the eyes called upon the Almighty to help her in her hour of need as she bellowed “So help me God I’m going to kill you!” and chased me out of the house and down the street.
Every Easter dad went to Mass at St. Joseph’s and mom dragged me with her to the Unity Christian church. Some Easters we’d switch it up and I’d go to Mass with the Master Sergeant. In my bowed head I’d recite Tom Lehrer’s “Vatican Rag” and pray the girl in front of me would turn around and cover me with kisses. When she turned one Easter to shake my hand and said “peace be with you” right to my freckled face I believed miracles could take place.
At least for a magical morning.
I was fascinated by the 12 “Stations of the Cross” that I found in every Catholic church and mission, the grisly storyboard of the cruel torture and barbaric murder of our favorite Judean peasant who never hurt anybody. Kids should not see torture porn at an early age. I’d stare at the life-sized body nailed to the cross at the front of so many churches and wonder is that what happens to good people who want us to be kinder to each other? You fight for what’s right and this is life’s answer? You get whipped, beaten and nailed to a cross?
And then nearly 40-years after you’re gone your four best friends co-write a best seller claiming you rose from the dead like a Holy zombie and walked around and then left. And then thousands of people who hear this argue over what they think you said and what they think you meant and they kill each other by the hundreds and then thousands and then the millions for centuries and here’s the bonus: most of your holy men? Child predators.
I liked Superman comics. He can fly, walk on water, and he’s a good guy. And he gets the girl.
With Christ’s message perverted by charlatans, cult leaders, politicians, and wicked profiteers since Day One, A.D., I am mindful of Mark Twain’s assertion there has been only one Christian he’d ever heard of and he was fairly certain they’d caught him and crucified him early on.
And you can see why.
Anyone who admonishes us to feed the hungry, welcome the stranger, forgive the sinner, love one another, visit the prisoner, care for the sick and embrace social and economic justice for the marginalized is asking way too much of we God-fearing Jesus-loving Americans who’d rather be right than woke. Whatever the Hell that means.
It’s so much more appealing to crusade against satanic democrats, drag queens, immigrants, invisible pedophiles and Jews than to get on your knees and serve the poor, love your neighbor, welcome the stranger, heal the sick and repair the world.
Despite being a heathen I have many crucifixes in my hacienda. I tell my friends it’s because I like folk art.
The truth is they remind me to keep fighting for what’s right in this world.
Even if the price can be steep.
Happy Easter.
Best Easter sermon ever!
I'm glad I subscribed. Classic Fitz: funny, heartwarming, soul stirring, thought provoking. Thanks for being you.