Good and Holy

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

No.  I wasn’t.  I haven’t touched his feet like you, Mary. I didn’t recline against his chest, John.  I didn’t break bread with him at that last meal.  Judas knows the feel of the Lord’s rough cheek beneath his dry, nervous lips.  But I don’t.  

I didn’t see him as he walked through the crowds who had so recently greeted him with hosanas.  I wasn’t with him before Pilate, Herod, or the crowd.  I’ve heard you could see his bones beneath the whip marks on his flayed, open back.  But I never touched them.  I didn’t walk with him to Gethsemane. I didn’t bear the weight of his cross like Simon.  

I never laughed with the soldiers, mocking him as they nailed his beautiful, dirty feet to the tree.  I didn’t grab the ropes to lift him up toward heaven and let the gravity he created rip open his wounds.  I didn’t stand beneath him and let the crimson drops fall upon my face.  I didn’t mix his blood with my tears.

I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there two thousand years ago.  But I was there today.  And I swear I heard Jesus cry as he was hit by an abusive husband.  I heard Pilate wash his hands of my lord and order the troops to head to war in the Middle East.  I watched the crowd mock the loving promises of Christ as they spit poisonous words at a junior high boy for being gay.  I felt the weight of the sin, the hate, the bigotry, the hypocrisy of our world and of my own heart echoing two thousand years after the cross and I felt the Father turn away.  

My god, my god.  Why have you forsaken me?

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