Sterile worlds of study are an easy place for my pen to rest. However, here, we step away from heady theologies (for there are many) and reach for the texture of the cross. “…what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our hands, concerning the Word of life” 1 John 1:1 Finally entering into the holy city, what ease the young donkey must have felt under the warmth and calm of the Master’s touch. Clamorous streets ablaze with joy and celebration. Passover would have little effect on the colt while the Silencer-of-Seas’ hand rested upon its course fur. Having been brought near in service as a silent witness to the awe, to the fevered “Hosannas” to the shouts from the people, The animal startled not and offered no resistance. Having arrived, the Mother is the next to receive Him. Wrapping the Son in warmth and love. She embraces the Firstborn and brings Him out of the crowds into the covering of an upper room. For perhaps the last time, she speaks closely with Him about her own journey upon a donkey, his tiny body enwombed in her’s, protected by her form nourished from within. The tones of the Shema hang in the air calling those close to give an ear as the hastily baked bread offers an alluring scent to the room Preparations made to tell the story once again. The story of slavery and freedom. A dense, honey-tinged loaf held gently in the hand of the Rabbi is broken, leaving jagged edges, a picture of what lay ahead for this body. The cups of wine, poured and consumed in the remembrance of unbound life guided through wilderness by the fiery, cloudy pillar A cup to offer a new covenant, a fresh observance of this body. This body which will be broken and bloodied, nailed and hanged. Full bellies and happy hearts Having seen the expected Elijah standing opposite Moses with their own Beloved They came to another garden to rest and to pray. Eyes heavy with an evening full of laughter and drink. Prayers seem too much in this moment, the last they would spend by His side. Finding rest for their heads among blossoms and vines that promise fruit, they carefully avoid the thorns, that would soon adorn their Master, a crown of mockery upon His head. The one who had slipped away on business returns with a kiss but the glinting blades behind him bring rattled fear, more blades and blood. Some dash behind bushes and brambles, Quiet, taking only shallow breaths, minds filled with questions, nostrils filled with dust. Dust from which they came and dust to which they will return. tonight? Crossing here and there, too hurried for footfalls. Knees bent and scored, having been felled by lesser men along the way, the bound man’s toes mark lines in the courtyard. Dragged and dropped, questioned but not heard. Lies fill the ears but truth rests steadfast in the heart, air filling the chest to its depth releasing slowly. A picture of calm, the Lamb trembles not before those who lead. Lead the witness, lead the judge, lead the executioner. With no advocate, He can but rest in the presence of those who heard the Shepherds voice, but not His call. These faces that joined him in the temple are now made of stone set against blessing, against peacemaking, against neighbor. The kangaroo court moves and shifts in order to build on the thread they use as a net. Tones of hatred fail to bring Him into its snare. He will not play their game of might among men. He utters no threats to those who seek to tether Him in theirs. Handed over to men of military, men of sword, men who are not men at all. Humanity, drained by a system of earthly gain. Gain the land, gain the wealth, gain the power and leave the weak to die in the trenches. Their roads divide the city, divide the people, divide the one God into something to be squeezed for tribute. It was their coins in the outer court, their errand boys sent to collect and their empire under threat of resistance by the preacher from Galilee. One who, in truth, forgave like a priest One who would stand, in truth, as a king. What is truth? No time to answer, Prophet. Crucify Him. But not yet. There are still lessons to be taught. It is not likely that the one recently revered with cries of “Hosanna” and palm branches had ever been naked in the presence of many men. Neither in assisting a loving father, nor in accomplishing his work on the coast of Galilee, would he have found himself in a position that called for this much bare flesh. The Rabbi who had willingly laid aside outer garments to wash the disciples feet an act of service, was now a victim of humiliation and ridicule, forced into nakedness. An intimacy reserved for the closest relationships now displayed among men who saw it their duty to bring down the high-minded Those who fancied rebellion against mighty Rome. Bent down in anguish, the nakedness ends. Whip-torn shoulders are covered. The mockery of a men drapes the One crowned with thorns, still resting in peace while men who are not men spit and tear, ripping the beard, marring the face of God incarnate. God in flesh. This man called “King of the Jews” must be brought low, lower than low, down to the point of death, death on a cross. Finally reclothed in the familiar the Carpenter is presented a gift. The memorialized scent, of childhood. Jesus, would have bore the weight of a beam or two. Finding knots and grains in the cut of wood to make the work of a carpenter light. Knowing the rough cut timber, He could have estimated its weight and length, its species and best uses. Crucifixion would not be on His list. the Healer, the Resurrector, the Feeder of 5,000 plus the bringer and Firstborn of all life, would not put that on the list of best practices. Yet here it is. The corruption of men corrupting creation. Turning it in hand against brother. A story before time. Did He look with kindness upon the beam? for it knows not what it does. The King has chosen the throne and stretches from East to West. Carry your electric chair. Carry your gallows. Carry your injection. Carry your cross. Thirst The time has come to drink from the cup. Finished
Guest post: Nanci (she/they) is a member and participant in the worship life of GSLC, serving in music and on Council. A longtime thinker on Christianity and History, she enjoys making connections in story and brings the occasional homily.
This poem breathes an agonizing portrait with tension so well woven that when I reached "Finished," I felt hot years on my cheeks, stumbling for words to convey my grieving. There were no words, save the tears. Furthermore, the poem holds my rapt attention as if I were standing to honor Christ whose life is mine and mine is his.