Saturday, March 22, 2008

My dearest God,

It is the Eve of Easter. The morning is dark, wet. It is the in-between time of crucifixion and resurrection. A day of mourning. The light of Christ snuffed out, darkness rolling in. A day of hope. Will resurrection come?

I read the story in public last night. The story after the arrest, coming before Pilate, the crowd hungry for blood. Carrying the cross, hanging, dying. I snuffed the candle myself. The quiet. Leaving. Even now I feel the abandonment, the aloneness, the crosses standing alone as a symbol of death. Silence, sheer silence.

There is part of me who wants to go to the cross now. I want to run there. I want to sit there. In the darkness. I want to be with God who grieves his son. I want to be present, to break down the barriers of hate and rejection. I want to bring a wave of acceptance, love, understanding, beauty, faith. It's what I want to do on the eve of Easter.

I sigh, thinking about last night. Sitting on the first pew, my eyes fixed upon the crosses, the middle one, the one with the tall, white round candle at its base, the light still flickering, then going out. The warmth gone. Growing cold.

I went out
to eat
after the crucifixion.
I laughed and teased
and ate
a full plate.
I acted
as if
nothing had changed.
There's part
of me
who wishes
I would have stood
in the middle
of the restaurant
and cried out,
"Jesus is dead;
we killed him."
Everything has changed.
But...
I would have been arrested
for disturbing the peace,
the peace of the people.
Are we at peace
with ourselves?
Can we rationalize
our peace
in light of our darkness?
What peace
do we have
without him?

Love, Andrea