For Catholics around the world Ash Wednesday kicked off the Easter Season. Forty days of abstinence from a favorite pleasure was a token of sacrifice for the crucified Messiah. On Palm Sunday the faithful brandished palm fronds to celebrate the son of god entering Jerusalem. Each and every Good Friday of my childhood the priests and nuns led a mournful procession around our church stopping at each station of the cross. Prayers, incense, candles. There was nothing joyful about the ceremony. God's son was dead.
Good Friday was a day of buzzkills.
Yesterday afternoon I was working on a small film at the northern end of Mulberry Street. I caught sight of a three young priests carrying a large wooden cross. About a hundred teenagers followed them. Their faces glowed with devotion to their faith. The director, knowing my feelings about the Catholic Church, sidled up to me and said, "It's their holiday. Don't say anything.""I won't, if they won't." I had been persecuted by the priests and nuns for my youthful atheism.Several of the passing worshippers wished us, "Happy Easter.""Happy nothing." I muttered up my breath. "Zip it." The director kicked my shin. Eric was a private apostate."Okay." He was paying me to work, not haranguing the believers.They procession disappeared into Nolita and we returned to shooting our scene.I have to learn some tolerance.My mother would like that.She was a good Catholic and a loving parent.Happy Easter, Mom.