11
April 2004
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Written on March 6, 2001 in a cathedral in Seville, Spain. Christ hangs from a cross before me. And beside me. And all around me. A Catholic image I'm not comfortable with. After all, my God is a living God. My Christ doesn't hang beaten from a cross. He lives. He walks beside me. How defeated one must feel to construct an image based on only half the story. To build a cathedral so so massive, with cold stone and golden alters. With ornate moldings and plush red velvet. Then to stick inside a bloody, beaten half-naked lamb. Nowhere is He depicted as the rised God. For what is my life worth if I worship a man still nailed to a cross? To worship an image of a man, nailed to a cross hanging above a golden alter, nestled into an ornate, cold, empty church? Give me the wooden grail. Not the chalice fit for a king. Give me Golgatha with her blood-soaked ground and three empty crosses. Give me a tomb where a dead man slept. Give me my Christ. Alive and clothed in the fingerprints of God.
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