With spring comes remembrance of Jesus’ epitaph

Springtime is marvelous in Greece. The wet and cold of winter, along with its persistent mold, give way to warming days and pleasant evenings. Once again Greeks begin returning to the open seating outside the kafeneos, enjoying hearty conversation with friends along with their coffee or ouzo. The hills, which had been bare and grey, come alive, blanketed with red poppies. The heat of summer is still a couple of months off and everyone is in a better mood.

But the mood is tempered by the nystia, or fast. From the beginning of the Lenten season, devout Greeks have been fasting, moderately at first, then with greater severity. The solemnity of the fast and the season reach their apex with the Epitaphos of Christ, with Jesus’ coffin. It is an unparalleled visual aide.

Our English word epitaph comes from Greek. Two words, epi and taphos, come together. The first word simply means “upon,” and the second means “tomb,” hence our English epitaph, or the words spoken at one’s funeral — or more correctly, the words written upon one’s grave. Which brings us to Jesus’ epitaph.

Near the end of the Holy Week, the epitaphos, an image of the crucified Lord, is brought into the church. The image is typically embroidered or painted on heavy tapestry. Jesus’ image may appear alone or with others such as Mary, Joseph or John. The background and borders vary greatly. One thing is constant. Jesus is dead. The image of the dead Savior is placed on the altar. It is an unpleasant sight. It is grievous. It reminds us of the cost of our sin. Here he remains.

The visual soon begins to change, however, as village girls bring from gardens and surrounding hills armloads of glorious flowers. Red and white are predominant, but every color imaginable is there. Soon the epitaphos is covered in brilliant color. It is adoration. It is worship.

On Friday night, the epitaphos is lifted up, carried by four young men, typically veterans or active duty soldiers home on holiday leave. They carry the coffin, bearing the image of Christ and its covering of vibrant color out of the church. The entire village is waiting outside. Everyone, young and old, carries a candle. Some of these candles are beautifully decorated, others are plain. Borne by these four young men and followed by the people of the village, the epitaphos makes its way along every street, past every home. The procession is silent. It is, after all, a funeral procession.

It is, especially the first time it is experienced, an indescribable event. The entire village follows in silent repentance and worship. The surrounding hills are dotted with strings of lights. These are neighboring villages, joining in their own processions. Yet they are all one. The nation is, at this moment, silent. Political differences are gone. Personal grievances laid aside. For this moment Greeks, arguably the world’s most argumentative people, are completely unified. The epitaphos is the price of peace.

Finally, the procession arrives back at the village church. The door stands open. All want to go inside and join in worship. There will be reading of the Prophets and the Gospels. There will be singing, beautiful Byzantine singing. It is something not to be missed. But to enter the church there is something one must do. One cannot enter without this one thing.

One must pass under the coffin.

The epitaphos arrived first, leading the procession. At the door of the church the pallbearers lifted it high, above their heads. It is another expression of “if I be lifted up, I will draw all. ...” Those who would enter the church must pass under the coffin, under the epitaphos. There is simply no other way in. “I am the way, the truth, and the life.”

My grandfather’s village church is small. It’s a typical small church in a typical small Greek village. The outside of the structure is typical, plain, whitewashed cement. There are hundreds just like it. The inside is dark, the walls colored by centuries, many centuries, of candle soot. Some of the icons that cover the inner walls are getting hard to see. Restoring such art is prohibitively expensive for a village church, so the smoky hue of the icons becomes part of the village story. Four centuries of brutal occupation are never far from the memory.

But in this moment this old church is glorious, wonderfully glorious. Part of the experience is intensely personal. My grandfather worshiped here as a child, as did every generation as far back as anyone in my family can recall. My experience at this moment is a gift from God. My wife and children are with me. It is a gift beyond measure.

The greater part of the experience, however, is beyond me, beyond my family. It is the experience of a church spread across continents and centuries. It is the experience of every believer, regardless of the particular expression of this moment. We all have passed under the coffin. It is the only way in. I am reminded of this every Easter, the price for my sin was great. But it is paid, and Sunday is coming.

May your pascha, your celebration of his resurrection, be blessed.

John Moropoulos and his wife Joyce are co-pastors of Gateway Fellowship. They meet at Sophia’s Café and may be reached at jjnm@mtaonline.net.

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