The most intimate nearness, the nearness closer to my innermost being than i am to myself has transcended me. God escapes me, words escape me, as I dwell in the deep shadows of the suffering of my people. I am faced with despair at times, that mayhap the almighty has forgotten us, has forgotten the simple and the needy.
I look to the cross and see one in our midst, but infinitely far off, and at times I feel that He too has gone some place far beyond, what was once a historical fact is over now, and the resurrection has taken him from our midst, and placed him into a beyond so far he cannot remember what he suffered.
God escapes me, I cannot find utterance and the desolation is ineffable, beyond comprehension and senseless beyond understanding. I don’t have any reason to feel this way, other than the inexplicable madness that I see in the world around me. I cannot see why or in what way these tears are justified, in what ways new life will spring forth from the abysses and clutches of death and despair, how the suffering of even a single child will have been worth it.
I know that these sufferings are the sufferings of Christ himself, but the objectivity of the claim escapes me. God is far off, he is not a God who is near, he is the absence, He Himself is the great silence the eternal abyss that swallows all things into himself. There is no peace among the dead, nor rest among the living, heaven is a chaos, and the throne of the lamb is under girded by suffering martyrs, waiting patiently for an end that is promised.
I cannot see the life promised, nor do i know where He has gone, but surely God is not in our midst. He has forsaken us, and delivered over to the powers of this world, He has died, and we were the ones who killed Him. He has risen, and we were the ones who sold out everything that this means in favor of bread, we sold the burden of freedom for the bread of the church, for the will to be told what to believe, in the hope that being told might save us.
I do not have the courage to believe what He has promised, and find myself struggling to see the meaning in the senselessness that escapes words. The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church, but which martyrs are starting what churches? I do not find the courage to hope what has promised shall come to pass, how can I know that what I believe is even right?
Even with the objectivity of the revelation of Christ, what if all of us are wrong, what if God once again, simply reimagines everything surprising all of us n the end?
Yet, I look to the crucifix, there one suffering, alone and dejected, showing me that yes, God still works wonders for the dead, His praises are heard on the lips of the weak and the outcast, his love flows to the god-forsaken. His cross beckons us all to die, there is no victory or life without the necessary way of death. I will follow, despite my protest, I will be led into this new exodus, I will pass through death, and follow the way that leads to life. We have killed God, yet, in His death is the beginning of life itself, and Jesus of Nazareth has compassion on us. He is the love which we can know, and the first promise of a world that has to be more real than this one, the first sign of a promise which remains to be fulfilled.
We are at the end of this day and all the ones that follow, the people of easter, the people who have chosen to be shaped by the story that this man Jesus has to tell, and we gather at the table of original blood, to sing hallelujah, to the one who himself has entered into and beyond the depths of our deepest despairs.
We are going to him who is outside the camp, facing the consuming fire and the shadows and darkness of ones who find themselves outside, yet, Hallelujah is our song. Despite the hope that I have, God escapes me, still, Hallelujah is my song.