An Easter Miracle

One of my earliest Christian memories occurred on Easter Sunday when I was nine years old. Our family had a favorite priest named Father Tony. A short, wiry man, with intense passion for social justice. He was in our home several times a month for dinner, or, to drop off donations from the food pantry. We struggled financially.

Father Tony was selected to play the part of Jesus in the Passion play. I was not a Christian, and did not know the story, so I was shocked when Father Tony was led down the center aisle of the old Catholic church building to be “nailed” to the cross.

I watched in horror as Father Tony, the guy I’d eaten dinner with countless times, who had gotten down on his hands and knees and played with me and my brothers and sisters, who went camping with us at Green Lakes, who was always smiling, and who’d sat with our family a few months earlier when my sister died, was being roughly pushed down the middle of the church by mean looking people in strange clothes. He was straining to carry a huge block of wood and wearing only a sheet. I saw it all happening, but I didn’t understand why it was happening to Father Tony.

I looked around and no one was doing anything about it. They were all just watching too. My mom was tearing up. People all around us were upset. Everything was perfectly still in the room. Breathless. Motionless. Silent. Then a sniffle.

Father Tony was now at the front of the church. No one stopped to kneel and genuflect at the altar. “Something is seriously wrong with all of this,” I thought.

They strapped his arms to the scaffolding in front of the church. Someone wearing a metal hat grabbed a hammer and started hitting Father Tony’s hands. “Why are they hitting Father Tony’s hands with a hammer,” I was thinking.

The horror progressed to the worst possible conclusion. Father tony yelled something in a language I didn’t understand. His head flopped to his chest. Everyone was sobbing. Father Tony was dead!

I burst into tears yelling, “STOP!! FATHER TONY!! NO!!”.

The whole church turned at once, even Father Tony. I didn’t see any of this, though, because I was sobbing and being whisked out of the room by my embarrassed Mom.

After mass, we went into the parking lot. I was greeted by lots of old ladies with names like Rosa-Maria and Katie O’pray. They were treating me with a suspicious kindness, and seemed more amused than sad. The sun was shining. We came around the corner of the building to head to our car.

Father Tony was standing there!

He was wearing a white robe. People were gathered around him. He was laughing out loud, a big, boisterous laugh. The one he’d laughed while losing at Hungry Hippos. I knew that laugh. How is this possible?!

Mom walked me over to him. He had asked for me by name. He bent down on one knee and looked me in the eyes, “John, it was just a play. I’m okay. We were telling the story of Jesus. It’s Easter Sunday.” He gave me a huge hug. I cried.

Strangely, that was thirty-four years ago and I’m tearing up thinking about it. Of course, they hadn’t actually killed Father Tony, they were just banging on the scaffolding with the hammer. It was all just a play, but that doesn’t for one second suggest it wasn’t real.

Jesus was not just God in flesh, he was a good man. He loved kids, fed people who were hungry, spent time with people others rejected, He was passionate about social justice, and He sat with those who grieved, and then they killed Him, brutally! The people He loved stood around paralyzed, unable to do anything about it. And then, afterword, against all odds, He just showed back up again, alive. That’s incredible!

It is not just a play. We chose to live our lives however we want. The way we chose to do so tells a story that people read. Father Tony lived in such a way that when he played Jesus in a play it made sense. I loved Father Tony because he was real and he was there for us. That’s why I was watching, that’s how I saw the truth.

I hope to be a man like that. Life is short. Live a good story.

Happy Easter.