Night has fallen. He has died now.
A fly crawls over the still flesh.
Of what use is it to me that this man has suffered,
If I am suffering Now?

— Jorge Luis Borges

Swallows flutter in the rafters overhead while Jesus hangs in agony on the wall ten feet in front of me. The little pink church had been beckoning us for two hours as we hiked the dry hills north of Zacatecas. Our morning exercise—more of a series of scrambles than a hike—had brought us around the valley from one hilltop to another as we followed scraps of old trails and past the litter of abandoned silver mines with their steep, unguarded, enticing shafts. Now, in this child-size pew, I’m quietly absorbing graphic images of the True Faith.

I don’t know when I’ve seen such a bloody Christ-on-the-Cross. Usually, images portraying the crucifixion are sanitized to the point of His not looking too upset, awaiting His end with that resigned “Yeah, it’s tough job, but someone’s got to do it” expression. This Jesus pulls no punches. He is in unspeakable pain, face ratcheted in torment, body wrenched and contorted. Blood from the five wounds is everywhere, running in streams down His face, over His torso, down His legs. Nail holes gush blood, and the spear has left a gaping bloody hole in His side. Nothing is left to the imagination. “Anyone can die for your sins,” the artist is telling us, “but this Jesus suffered for them.” 

Unbidden, my mind goes back half a century to the combined gym and assembly hall of my primary school in England, 300 pre-boomer war-babies lustily warbling that pretty hymn about Calvary. “There is a green hill far away/ Without a city wall.” (Why, I wondered back then, would a hill have a wall around it anyway?, before learning that “without” used to mean “outside.”) Then I see myself puzzled on the steps of the Holy Sepulcher church in Jerusalem: If this was the site of the crucifixion, what’s it doing inside the walls of the Old City?

Back here in northern Mexico, I’m still staring at the graphic agony on the wall, a far cry from the sweetness of the old hymn. And why not? I ask myself. Why not portray the truth, at least the truth according to the gospels? He took nine hours to die, according to young Mark, plenty of time for Him to ask what in God’s name He was doing there after schlepping that cross up the hill.

My mind is chorusing out the melody, There is a green hill far away… Feeling slightly guilty, I turn away from Jesus and look behind, through the stone-arched doorway. Nothing green about these hills. Dry and dun, their sparse vegetation is complemented by what at first appear to be blue and white flowers. Then I realize I’m staring at hundreds of plastic bags blown up the valley from the inadequate landfill we’d seen earlier.

I close my eyes, shutting out the garbage behind and Jesus before, swirling mind watching swirling mind.

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Barry Evans gave the best years of his life to civil engineering, and what thanks did he get? In his dotage, he travels, kayaks, meditates and writes for the Journal and the Humboldt Historian. He sucks at 8 Ball. Buy his Field Notes anthologies at any local bookstore. Please.