Today is an odd day. Caught between the awful recollection of the crucifixion of Christ on Friday, and before the celebration of the resurrection, on Sunday, the Church has little to say. Perhaps this IS the lesson: before such deep mystery, silence is the correct response.
A few years ago, I was inspired to write two poems. The first drawing on an ancient homily by a bishop who is now dust: Today is the day the king sleeps ... the second, a shout-out fir the joy of resurrection.
The Christian religion, by which these poems are shaped, is my heritage, and my nurturing ground. Time was when I received it and believed it uncritically. No longer. Maybe it took the shock of clerical abuse to wake up to the fallen institution that the Church is, or needs to become. The horrors of pogroms and crusades, of support for imperialist expansion, the failure to oppose slavery, the inaction on climate catastrophe and political corruption - oh yes, I come to my faith deeply humbled by weaknesses that are also my own, but I stay.
The crucufied man was a Jew, a reformer, a campaigner for justice and peace, who hangs before me in silence, his battered body witnessing to this. Forgive me if I shock you:
“ Folliw me, and the bastards will do this to you, too.”
I have to believe that the other side of the ghastly defeat of the cross is victory over everything that erected it and nailed Jesus, Yeshua, to it.
Yes, I do.
So, the poems:
The King Sleeps
I will mine the agony of my God with a pick and a lamp.
I will hew the stones and teach them to cry ‘Hosanna!’
I will fashion a tomb to bloom in a garden
I will fracture the face of Israel with a blow
That will become an earthquake
To awaken the dead.
I will set my lamp beneath a splintered tree
I will close my ears against the forsaken cries of the Holy One
I will seal my mouth against the acrid taste of blood
I will shut my eyes to hide the corpse that hangs above me.
His eyes, not -closed. His body, not-clothed.
‘IT IS FINISHED!’
It’s over. God -
Adored, outpoured - passes over.
Numbed, beyond fear, I whisper a lullaby into the dark:
‘Be still. Be still.
Night dawns.
Death dies -
The King sleeps.’
God Awakening
I will celebrate the victory of my God in silence, and in song.
I will gaze upon the likeness
Of the one-who-was pierced.
I will touch the mystery
Of the dead-one-living.
I will trace his signature over my heart:
North to South
East to West:
King of Kings
Lord of Lords.
I will open my mouth to sing the serenade of the stars,
The song of the angels before the throne of God.
I will shout into the sunrise, a canticle for my King:
‘Rejoice! Rejoice!
The Lord is Risen -
Alleluia!’
I will bury myself in his joy,
And, with laughter,
I will rise again.
