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This Good Friday--Atlanta Friday traffic being Atlanta Friday traffic—I participated in services at another parish than I usually attend. Gosh, we gave it a good effort as a diverse community and truly it was beautiful in many ways. A struggle in others. For better or worse, the presider’s detailed and substantive homily on St. Anselm’s 11th century theology of atonement gave me more time than one might usually anticipate to close my eyes and meditate on what it would have been like to be standing as one of the women at the foot of the cross today. What would the women be talking about? Would they be saying anything at all about what was going on?
Standing in their midst, I imagine the outcry from others to write the Roman Republic___ and voice my opinion on the events at hand. I acknowledge I am supposed to be calling their offices and sending post cards. But words are treasures. Pearls. I have to dive deep for meaningful ones. They cost me a great deal of energy and sleep. It is hard to freely give away hard won words to those who I perceive do not value words and do not respect the very purpose for which words exist—to be containers for truth. No, I just don’t have any spare words to send in that direction at this moment.
So then I imagine that I should be using my words to try to enter into significant conversation with my fellow citizens who voted current events into reality, and those who didn’t vote at all because…? I should be finding words to build bridges. For healing. For reconciling. But I know words are also meant to be honest. And I don’t have any words that can do both right now. I’ve simply exhausted my supply. Once upon a time Isaiah had some. Jeremiah had some. And then I think maybe the psalmists used up the rest. Maybe we just sit in their words for the time being because the ones I have at my disposal would scorch the earth between us, and I don’t want my present anger and sadness to destroy possibilities that one day…? Something wondrously new could happen between us? It only makes me more sad to know it can’t be now.
I could engage words to talk to the other women and the beloved disciple who stand at the foot of the cross, but what is left to say to each other at this point? Those words feel unnecessary, especially when none of us are really looking at each other. Our eyes are on the naked body of Christ suffering in an El Salvadoran prison with shaved head, whisked away without trial by plane in the dark of night. On children afraid to go to school. Parents afraid to go to work. On the people of Ukraine asking, “Why have you abandoned us?” and HIV sufferers in Africa whose spirits wane as life-saving drugs are cut off.
No, the only words I have are for Christ on the Cross: I am truly sorry. I am truly sorry to be in any way complicit in this. I’d like to ask you forgive us because we don’t know what we are doing, but we do. Sadly, we’ve known for some time, and we chose to go in this direction anyway. So, I’m just sorry. I don’t really have any more words than that, but I hope that You know that I am standing here still, albeit silent. Many of us are. You are not alone.
Maybe there is a Sunday right around the corner. Maybe we’ll be given good news to preach once more. Maybe we’ll find out words have meaning again and can make powerful things happen for the good. But until then, maybe we just stand here at the foot of the cross and not say anything more. Maybe we let Anselm take a rest at trying to make sense of it all. Maybe we just be. For a couple hours… for a day… for a bit more… in complete silence. Acknowledging that the Word has been taken from us.