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?