“I’m here with them in the fulcrum…”
I
I sit on a creaking camp stool
surrounded by assorted grim Jesuses
who bleed,
who hang their heads with eternal weariness.
Sad, solitary suffering,
standing forever with hands bound,
hanging forever with xylophone ribs.
This is Good Friday stuff,
not yet the resurrection.
I’m here with them in the fulcrum,
stuck between the abasement of the cross
and the irrational hope that Easter will come again this year.
II
In walks a mother with two girls.
They stop before a crucifix
with a Jesus the size of the younger daughter.
“Look at his knees!” says the girl.
The knee caps, smashed and bloody,
tear through the skin.
“That’s what might have happened,”
her mother answers.
“They beat him, too.”
“I don’t like that one.”
“It is hard to see, isn’t it?”
The older sister adds,
“It’s good for Halloween.”
III
I suddenly get it–
the link between Good Friday and Halloween,
between Halloween and Easter:
these Holy Week holidays carry their own brand of terror–
demanding more than any of us can bear.
Ready for your crucifixion?
Ready for your resurrection?
Whomever you’ve illusioned yourself to be
will be gone forever…
forever.
Follow Dirk and his daily poetry and photos at The 60-Second Sabbath. Image by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
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