Easter

 

 

There is probably no linguistic relation between the words "sin" and "cynicism," but to me the sin of the post-modern age is a vicious unrelenting cynicism, where it is more important to be hip than to forgive, more precious to be offended than to reconnect with your heart. I do not know if the Easter mystery redeems me from "sin," nor do I care. But I do know that the vigilant, ever-immaculate silence of Mary irradiates the dark, and the love of Jesus shatters the chrysalis in my chest with wings of wonder. They save me from cynicism. And it is this which empowers me to celebrate, to forgive, and be joyful.

 

Someone said to me that this was a nice painting, but "a fiction." I said, I have never seen more truth than this painting: the real power of the woman, the real vulnerability of the man. This picture was taken by the photo-journalist of our collective unconscious in Palestine, in Ukraine, in Yemen, in Honduras, just this morning. And yes, her sorrow is all-pervading, as her joy is all-pervading, because sorrow and joy are both flavors of her all-pervading love.

Detail from the Pieta by Bouguereau, 1876