Dia de los Muertos, San Jose del Monte

Alas, this morning I felt the heavy drag of my own corrupted nature: timidity and the ease of excuses, cried out for anything but repose and sleep. I honestly wrestled against sloth, compelled by the holy urge to honor my Redeemer before the very souls who, on this day, are tragically immersed in the second day of their solemn observance for the departed. 

 In this season, the people flock in such sorrowful droves, seeking to honor the deceased with vain oblations of light and prayer. But oh, the terrible blindness! To offer inanimate candles and dead prayers for the dead—a profound vanity that wounds the very heart! Therefore, I have resolved in my spirit to seek out three places of earthly rest along my destined route: the grave sites at Santa Maria, the cemetery of Tumana, and the sacred ground of Saint Joseph, where the mortal remains of my dear wife’s father and grandmother repose.

My journey led me past the first two resting places, where, perhaps by the kind arrangement of Providence, no great throng was yet assembled. I mused that the people were detained by the simple necessity of the midday meal, this being the second day of their observance. Thus, the way was clear, and I pressed onward. But upon reaching the third venue, the scene was altered entirely: a standstill of human souls presented itself. As is ever the case with this poor servant, my stomach was instantly afflicted by a great, trembling unrest—the constant, painful witness of the flesh against the spirit.

I confess, I suffer a lingering infirmity: a shameful tendency to hover and delay, like that hesitant sheep mentioned in Holy Writ, which refuses to drink of the waters for fear of their gentle stirring. Alas! There are some bitter lessons that this heart, in its obstinacy, seems never to truly master. May the Lord forgive this spiritual timidity and grant me strength faith and boldness.

In that solemn place, I consciously withheld my gaze from those poor families whose raw grief was a private offering to the grave. (I purposefully did not include pictures of families praying out of respect for them.) My heart shrank from intruding upon the sanctity of their sorrow. The realizations of the wages of sin surrounds me, but the gift of eternal life in Christ Jesus humbles me in unspeakable gratitude. The Lord did present before me a few honest workers—men employed in the humble toil of cleansing the monuments of the dead for a wage. To them, I offered a word of brotherly kindness and extended the gift of our precious Gospel tracts. We engaged in a short, sincere discourse, but the constraint of the hour pressed heavily upon my soul. The overriding purpose of my coming—the proclamation of the Word—I could no further delay. Though my spirit longed to tarry and converse, I was compelled to take my leave, and acknowledging the higher, more immediate call of the Great Commission. May those good men yet read the Truth placed in their hands!

The humble pulpit—so necessary for the delivery of the sacred Word—was positioned for me by a providence most kind. It stood directly before the very entrance, where the endless stream of souls passed to and fro, ensuring that none could wholly escape the sound of the Gospel. Furthermore, an outpost of the military, charged with the keeping of public order, was posted close beside. Having sought and secured the consent of the credible authorities for this holy intrusion, I finally ascended and took my destined post.

In that moment of conscious inadequacy, I cried out from my inner barrenness, beseeching the Lord to grant this weak heart the fervent earnestness required to rightly plead for the souls flowing before me. And, O, the exceeding goodness of God! He did not withhold His hand, but granted me, in no small measure, both a necessary heavenly boldness and a profound, heartfelt brokenness for the lost. 

With all the strength the Spirit afforded this mortal frame, I poured out my soul's plea before the attentive listeners—those gathered before me, and those who stood close by. Time and again, my eye fell upon the solemn gaze of the military personnel who watched across me. Thus, I turned my address directly upon them, earnestly imploring them not to place their eternal reliance upon the fleeting comfort of their station or uniform, but upon the Almighty Lord alone, who holds the very breath and tenure of all our lives within His sovereign Hand!

Who among us can tell the awful swiftness of the grave's call? How certain is the morrow? Perhaps those whose mortal dust rests in these very tombs today walked in their strength last week. Who can assure those who now visit their departed kin that they themselves will not be the very souls visited by others upon the following week? The certainty of tomorrow's sun is not guaranteed to any soul.

Therefore, let this truth ring out from the gates of this silent city of the dead: Today! Now! This is the day of salvation! Delay is the Devil’s deadliest snare! 

Thereafter, I eagerly took my journey homeward, traveling the appointed twelve kilometers which lay between that sacred burial ground and the gathering place of the faithful in Santa Maria, where our sixth street meeting is to be held. I pressed on with a lightened heart, longing with every mile to once more find rest and sweet fellowship among the beloved brethren.