Saturday, April 23, 2011
Unintentional Still Life
A bit creepy, no?
But not nearly as creepy as the picture on the front of the paper this morning of a Good Friday reenactment of the crucifixion, all that long hair and blood and agony.
Why do we have to go through this over and over again? Why do we have to celebrate such horror? Why do we have to believe that one man could suffer for our sins? Why do we think that is the greatest pain anyone ever endured? Why do we think that Big God could have only one son? Why do we stand by such a gory story?
I think that Mel Gibson is no different than many humans, secretly thrilling at each cutting lash of the whip, each nail being driven through flesh and bone and nerve, ligament, tendon, the very impossible beauty of the human hand being rearranged with such disregard for the miracle of it.
The blood, oh the blood.
But it's okay! We redeem it all, that secret thrill of killing god in such a brutal, primitive way. We put Christ back into the womb-cave and then we allow him to be born again.
And if we believe in that we, too, can be born again and we too, can rise to heaven.
Perhaps the whole story has gotten twisted. Perhaps.
Perhaps because men know that they cannot create life in their own bodies they think that power is in taking life away. Perhaps the story is an allegory for the goddess's story. Men can take the life we create away in horrible, bloody ways but it is truly in the bloody wombcave that life can be formed, shaped, given.
And re-given again and again.
What do I know? Only what my heart tells me, what my eyes show me, what my mind allows me to believe or not believe.
Forgive them. They know not what they do.
Yes they did. They were killing a human. That's enough. Leave the godstuff out and it's just another state-sanctioned murder.
Here we are. Still celebrating this horror.
The madness of men. Let us make god in our image.
Where are the fluffy lambs, this morning, Ms. Moon? Sacrificed to a bloody god.
Easter just makes me mad. Take a perfectly beautiful celebration of the natural order of the resurrection of life here on this planet as winter passes unto spring and turn it into a bloodbath. Follow up with a hazy rising-from-the-dead and pass around the chocolate bunnies.
Well. I'll probably lose a follower or two on this one. I always do when I talk about religion. Or the Christian religion. And yet, I get flyers in the mail from local churches telling me that if I come to their church on Easter I'll know what salvation is. And oh yes- don't forget the egg hunt! Bring the kiddies!
I open the paper and there's some poor boy, acting out Christ's agony, another in the costume of a Roman soldier.
People come to my house and knock on my door, telling me that theirs is the way, the truth, and the life.
I am just writing what I think here. I am just saying what I believe. No one is forced to believe it. I am not bringing it to your door or your mailbox.
I am just saying that I KNOW what the resurrection is. I see the lilies push through the soil every spring. I know what the life is. I see it all around me every day and I pay attention and I praise it. I am not telling you that if you don't believe as I do, you are facing an eternity of hellfire.
Poor Jesus. Eternally on that cross.
One more thing- who do you think suffered most? Christ on the cross or his mother watching his torture?
Why do we even have to ask these questions? Why aren't we rolling around in the fields and forests, celebrating the fertility of it all, crushing flowers beneath our backs, making perfume as we release their scent into the air around us, howling at the rising moon, it's belly as full as a woman's carrying life?
Yeah. I don't know either.
But don't go piercing any hands and feet for me. My sins are my own and I will or will not atone for them myself. And the mockingbird singing outside in the magnolia doesn't care one way or another and to me, that says it all.