He was every man and no man.
His death was everything
His death was no thing.
His death was the ending of a life,
the negation of all his hopes.
His followers deserted him,
all except the women, that is.
But they didn't count, in most people's eyes.
He was different - to him, they counted.
To him, every sparrow and every lily
was beloved in the sight of the All.
It was his life that meant something,
not his death. How he loved, who he loved,
the things he said, the things he did.
He was just a man, frail and mortal,
but what a man. Of course, he had his off days.
The day he was rude to the Samaritan woman,
and she showed him a better way to love.
The day he cursed the fig tree.
Those are the days where he showed his human side.
We all cast a long shadow behind us,
even as our light shines fitfully,
a flickering flame of love.
His life is what matters, and his love,
not his death. There are so many deaths.
So many brutal and dreadful ways to end a life.
Retelling the story of his death creates brutality,
as if his death mattered more than all others.
All deaths matter, all the lives cut short by cruelty.
No, we should tell stories of life,
of lives lived well, peacefully, joyfully.
Life in abundance, life and love.
Forgiveness in the face of cruelty,
joy and peace in the heart of destruction.
How to keep the flame of hope alive
in the face of despotism and despair.
(written on Good Friday)
