A Different Kind of Easter

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Easter ("Pascua") in San Felipe is very different than Easter in Santiago.


For two years in a row (2014 and 2015) I was in Spain for Easter. Hundreds of thousands of people flocked to the country for an opportunity to be a part of a two-thousand year-old tradition. They read the local papers for schedules of "Semana Santa" (Holy Week) events. They lined the streets to watch nightly processions go by, from Mary weeping to Jesus carrying his cross. They fasted and waited for the doors of Cathedrals to be opened so they could sit at the altar, touch the feet of the Saints, and receive a blessing. They packed the pews, eager to hear the familiar words of Scripture:
He is not here. He is risen!
Likewise, hundreds of thousands of people flock to San Felipe every year for Easter. Except they don't call it Easter. They call it Spring Break. They line the beaches to watch nightly processions of 4-wheelers racing across the dunes. They wait in line at the 7-eleven for beer and ice. They pack the local restaurants for fish tacos, but not because it's Friday. They shop for inappropriate souvenirs of sexual positions. The headlines in the local paper announce that 45 percent of people in Baja have herpes. Extra security is called in, but they end up partying right alongside the people.


It doesn't seem surprising then that one of the things I miss most is having a spiritual community. And yet it seems odd, given that we were clearly called by God to come to Sonshine Hacienda to do his work. So why does it often feel like we've been forsaken?



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