Good Friday

Last Friday we remembered the sacrifice that Jesus made for us by dying on the cross. I contemplated deeper this year what that actually meant for Him. What did He feel as He hung, nailed there by His own people?

I was asked to create some kind of "performance" for the twelfth station ("Jesus dies") at my local "Stations of the Cross." I wrote a piece of prose and read it out whilst playing an amazingly moving song by Sigur Rós, "Vaka." Here's the prose:

Naked. Exposed. Everyone could see me.

But none really saw me.

It was my heart that you were blind to.

It was my heart that you refused to see.

After all I had taught you,

There was nothing I could do but hope.

After all I had fought for you,

There was nothing I could do but wait.

You spat at my existence,

Your disgust reigned down.

Your hateful eyes pierced me

Deeper than any iron spikes or crown of thorns.

I hung low, sucking in air as my body would let me.

Cramps rushed my muscles.

Blood pounded my veins.

There was no peace to be had.

In my exhaustion you mocked me.

In my agony, you jeered.

You knew no better; you knew not what you did.

So my nature poured out forgiveness and pleaded the same of my Father.

You turned away from me

As I took on your agony:

Pain beyond all pain, fear beyond all fear.

I was abandoned.

Never did I turn my back on you,

Never did I condemn.

No, it was I that could see only backs.

And it was I that was eternally judged.

Rejected,

My heart lamented,

Sorrow abounding.

I ached with the grief of your hardness.

Time pressed forward,

Each moment unbearable.

I faced too many moments-

Six hours to be exact.

Every movement caused a ricochet of pain,

Pulsating through my every vein.

I shifted my weight and found little relief-

Instead a new pain to endure.

The wonder of human creation:

What once brought life and pleasure,

Now brought a seemingly endless death.

Death could come no sooner.

But I would wait.

Patience: the very virtue of trust.

It would be my friend and enemy all at once.

I could wait.

Enduring,

All in my pitiless human strength.

It was the key to unlocking forgiveness.

None other would ever have to suffer as I.

And in suffrage I was multiple.

The physical hardships were few and far between the emotional strain

Of your hardness of heart,

Of your incessant need to rely on yourself.

I don’t need you.

I just want you.

But you leave me time and again.

And I was left alone, hanging on a tree.

Alone, no one could comfort me.

Alone, I hung on a tree.

Alone, my Father left me.

Alone, I was alone in that too.

Humiliated.

Taunted.

You lashed out at me.

I couldn’t breathe.

Thirst brought me closer.

Bitter-sweetness quenched me.

There was not much left to do.

My time had almost come.

And it was there that I experienced

Pain- excruciating:

Physical, mental, spiritual.

But it was your lack of faith I couldn’t bear.

Eyes upon Heaven, soul gravitating to Hell,

I gave in. I gave up.

I promised my spirit to the only One that could hold it.

And it was there that I breathed my last. 

Questions and answers

Does our search for answers actually prevent us from accepting life and living it? Or when we search, are we just embracing this life and digging deeper to find more?

I could wait a thousand moments

With a thousand questions.

Would they be answered by my patience,

Or left hanging in my mind?

The alternate is to seek and search,

To search and seek for a thousand moments.

Would the time be fruitful or wasted?

Would I find what I'm looking for?

Perhaps even, discarding my questions

Might be easier and less disappointing.

Would I be free to live this life,

Or feel as if something is missing?

Something like a life of mystery.

Something like a purpose to move forward.

Something like a desire to be fulfilled.

Something like a thousand questions.

Wait

In the Communion Rite of a Catholic Mass (right after the Our Father) the Priest says "... as we wait in joyful hope for the coming of our Saviour, Jesus Christ." I feel that this is the place that Evelyn has come to: "waiting in joyful hope." She doesn't know the joy. She doesn't know the hope. She doesn't know Jesus. And she certainly doesn't know that she is waiting, let alone what for. But she is. The time is coming. "Tomorrow", not in the sense of "the next day" but in the sense of "that day", is not so far away.

It must be an subconscious thing, but I am finding my own journey running parallel to Evelyn's. I feel that I am waiting too. I, however, do know the joy, do know the hope, do know Jesus, and most certainly do know that I am waiting and what for. It's probably more frustrating for me, though, because I'm just waiting (actively with hope and joy, but waiting nonetheless). Oh such a painful thing we must endure!

I can see it clear as day.

But the Lord, He says "wait."

I could speak the truth I know.

But the Lord, He says "wait."

I can feel it within arms reach.

But the Lord, He says "wait."

I could take it into my own hands.

But the Lord, He says "wait."

I could kick up a fuss.

I could speak too soon.

I could shed light.

I could.

I could.

I could.

But His answer would still be "wait."

And I would still be waiting.

Truth and lies

It's funny how truth can blaze through a lie. We try desperately to protect ourselves, and put on a great show- a quite convincing act. Our act proves that this is all we are: acting. Attempting to fool others, but in the process fooling ourselves. 

Evelyn might believe that Shaphan cannot see her inner ugliness, covered safely behind a thicket of lies. The truth of the matter is that whilst others don't really know what is going on, they do know that what they are being told is not the truth. That probably speaks louder and clearer than the truth itself: our lies are unconsciously intentionally obvious. These lies are us screaming out for help, without actually screaming. Our pride is our worst best friend.

Naked. Exposed. Everyone could see me.

But none really saw me.

It was my heart that you were blind to.

It was my heart that you refused to see.

Waiting

I am waiting (rather in anticipation) for autumn to show its full colour. I know I shouldn't hold my breath- Queensland rarely experiences a real autumn. The days are nothing more than pleasant- so much so that the weather almost goes unnoticed. I am waiting not just for my own heart-contenting pleasure of a sight of red, orange, and yellows, cascading to the ground (which I will probably have to go south to see). No, I am waiting so that by experiencing real autumn, I can recall the memories of autumns past to piece the words together for this book.

Ahh, the perils of writing a book based around the seasons of our year. It is rather difficult to fully capture a season from memory. Perhaps the days will begin to crisp up a bit soon and I will find the words I need.

Such a shame we don't see things like this in Queensland:

Death can mean life

So, in my previous post I talked a lot about life and death in a very earthly sense. The thing is, there is so much more to these words. They have a double, deeper meaning.

"Life", not as in life on earth, nor as in everlasting life after we pass from the earth, but life in the sense of truly living. Life in the sense of being consumed with joy, love, and peace.

And "death" not in the sense of deathly things such as sin. No, death does not always need to be ugly, repulsive, or something to be feared. Certainly not in the sense of its other meaning- because with death brings new life (as exemplified with the butterfly and leaves giving to the earth). Death brings us with entry into everlasting joy, love, and peace.

Ironic, isn't it, that death (as in expiration from this earth) can mean life- everlasting life in joy, love, and peace in Heaven. Yet, life (truly living on this earth) can bring us things of a heavenly nature, living in joy, love and peace. Confused?

The bird soars south.

He follows his beak.

It leads the way.

The whale travels north.

The treacherous waters

Won't have her fooled.

They are where they are.

Not where they've been.

Not where they're going.

They are where they are,

Living with life

until death brings life.

Life and death and beauty

Death is meant to be ugly, tasteless, colourless, lifeless. Isn't it? When a butterfly dies, it is no less beautiful in shape and colour. Certainly, it is not flitting about, dancing in the wind, but it still holds something.  It holds that something for only so long before decay brings it back to the earth that once sustained it.

These are dead, so why do I see them as so beautiful?

They too will eventually become mulch; fine fragments of what they once were, no longer holding the rich reds, yellows, and browns.

Why do they live such short lifespans? Because beauty is fleeting. Yes they may appear beautiful as butterfly's or leaves now, but soon enough they will be a part of the earth, contributing to another beauty, no longer beautiful in and of themselves.

Life nor death can take away

Agape come Your way.

Sight upon sight You woo my heart,

You who've been from the very start.

Life nor death can cause me forget

All the grace you have let.

You who've made this wondrous sight,

You who've made my darkness bright.

Life nor death can bring me despair.

The price's been paid, the burden beared.

Your beauty has already won out

Over the wretched life-drought.

Freedom

Instruction to Governor Arthur Phillip on April 25^th, 1878:

We have by our Commission, bearing date (2nd April) 1878, given and granted upon you full power and authority to emancipate and discharge from their servitude any of the convicts under your superintendence.

What would those first convicts of Australia have felt upon learning of this? To be set free: Peace. Weightlessness. Potential.

But there are things other than incarceration that man can be bound down by. Things like bitterness, resentment, anger. Feelings of helplessness, hopelessness, insignificance. They can be self-taught or other-inflicted, with us for a lifetime or recently acquired. Whatever they are, the reality is, when we choose to find meaning and healing, when we choose to dig deeper and discover the origin of these things preventing us from truly living, and when we choose to learn to deal with the implications of them in our present life, it is there that we begin to experience freedom. The difference between those convicts and us is that we have a choice to find our freedom.

The darkness has seen a great light,

A new dawn of hope to keep up the fight.

So set these shackles free

And let me just be me.

I'm not a number, not a mask,

I just want life to be my task.

Here I stand pleasantly by a spring.

Oh! for the joy it makes me sing.

In this land of peace

Where my suff'ring did cease

There's no more shouting, no more pain,

And now I can live my life again.

I am free.