there is no life within
“if you do not eat the flesh of the Son and drink His blood,
you do not have life in you.”
Emerson rejected the Eucharist
along with him many do the same.
It is but a symbol, they say.
To hell with it then, southern realist writer said.
Of course she partook and suffered in her short life. She rejecting the idea of it being symbol.
The presence of Christ is the heart of the matter.
Most believe in his absence–a nihilist nation (that of absence).
Crying out for consolation
not even Jesus got that.
Is God the god of uncaring,
the God of suffering in silence?
Or does He suffer with us in silence?
Christ crying, “Eloi, Eloi lama sabachthani.”
Partaking of his body and blood, we proclaim his death until he returns.
Partaking, we partake of his suffering.
To follow Christ is a road paved with hardship, not prosperity.
If prosperity has any small part, an attainment of contentment, not emptiness in having and each thing a gift that can easily be given away.
In Christ is our being at peace, at rest. Striving ceases. Only obedience in joy remains.
It is purgatory to come to this point. A pain, an aching, longing always present
until the final breath, hoping then it will be a relief and a longing to be embraced within the Kingdom of God.
A quiet slumber into grace.
What of a violent death? Sudden? Excruciating? Is God not there? Or is he like the presence in the furnace with Meshach, Abednego? Or like the sobbing mother’s of the Holy Innocents slaughtered?
In this time in between one point and another, is a state of suffering, with occasional relief. Distraction a temporary relief, friendship. Until the night. When another presence taunts or the morning devil.
Fear to move forward. To go elsewhere. I will if you tell me to. Instead of asking what I want, shall I ask what is your will?
What I want leads to nothing, my own nihilism.
Gift me with your life. Not a spiritual gnosis, detached, but your bleeding hands and feet, torn, broken body. Touching your hands scarred or still with holes, to touch your side where the spear pierced your side. To kneel on Galilean shores, the pebbles grinding into my knees, your hand resting upon my head absolving, blessing, calling me to rise. Reconciled to you. Your life pulsing through my being.
That I can die to myself, take up my cross and follow you.
God, it is so painful.