There was a time in Jamaica when Good Friday did not need explaining. The island slowed, shops closed early, radios softened, and even conversation seemed to carry a different weight. Television, where it existed, told the story of the cross, and even those who did not fully understand it knew this was not an ordinary day.
Now, the speakers are louder, the costumes brighter, the weekend longer, and somewhere between the road march and the rum punch, a question lingers quietly in the background, almost too polite to interrupt the party, what exactly are we celebrating?
Jamaica has never been short on churches. One could argue, though the exact figures may shift depending on who is counting, that few nations carry as many steeples per square mile. Faith has long been stitched into the Jamaican identity, woven through Sunday service, grandmother’s prayers, and the rhythm of everyday life. But identity, like culture, does not stand still, it shifts, it stretches, and sometimes, without noti…
