Christ's Wounds

Flickr photo by Randy OHC.

From: justin.mahone@spirit.ca
Sent: September 1, 2009 7:21:10 AM
To: the.apostate@hotmail.com

Thousands were crucified by the Romans during their occupation of the Holy Land. Indeed two thieves suffered with Christ on the day of His crucifixion. So why do we remember the agony of this man above all others?

You can broaden that question, Bartholomew. Millions, billions of humans have been swallowed up by the insatiable earth without leaving a trace. They have been consumed like moths in the fire. They have been trodden like ants underfoot. And yet no-one remembers their names or their accumulated suffering. They are like leaves, fallen to the ground, then mulched back into the ceaseless cycle of physical being.

And yet, we do we remember the death of this man, Christ? Why?

Countless books have been written on that theme. You have read many of them yourself. The answer, of course, is that Christ suffered for all of us. He died so that we might live, willingly bearing the burden of our sins. That is the central truth of Christendom. But as a priest - for you cannot shirk your nature - you must understand the deeper meaning of that central doctrine. You must not let the deadening effects of dogma smother the searing truth.

Christ's Passion is infinite and eternal. We can't even begin to imagine the depth and duration of his pain. If every cell in my body turned incendiary, and ignited at the same moment, and burned for a thousand lifetimes, I still would not have grasped the true meaning of Christ's sacrifice. 'Forgive them Lord, for they know not what they do!" This anguished cry rings out through all time because it was shouted from the depths of an agony that goes beyond meaning...

Bartholomew, Where are you?

Detail from stained glass window at Holy Rosary Cathedral - Christ with the Children.

Bartholomew, Where Are You?

From: craig-spence@shaw.ca
Sent: August 8, 2009 6:21:10 AM
To: the.apostate@hotmail.com

I will go to Holy Rosary Cathedral today. I don't expect to find you there, of course. But perhaps your memory will appear. Maybe you will materialize like a biblical hologram, illuminating the arched atmosphere with your terrible brightness. Or perhaps I'll see you in the stained glass - one of the children being presented to Christ.

Why have you forsaken us, my friend? Why have you condemned yourself?

Lust is not a sin. We talked about that, remember? We insinuated ourselves into the finer threads of the debate over pitchers of beer at the Lighthouse pub. You took the affirmative; I the negative. We were drunk, our thoughts slurred, but that didn't matter. We came to the conclusion that the yearning of the loins cannot be condemned, it can only be denied... by fools! One more pitcher, and I would have had you admitting that celibacy is a perversion, foisted on the world by the Old Men in Robes. But you had to go.

Where? Why? What could have been calling you that boisterous afternoon, except some trick of conscience.

What the church has classified a Mortal Sin, we agreed was God's energy diffusing through the atmosphere, electrifying the 'procreative anatomy' of men and women, drawing them toward the 'sacred merging of reproductive flesh'. I almost threw up. I remember a twinge of embarrassment, because we were shouting at one another, disturbing nearby patrons with our riotous reasoning. The waitress began avoiding us.

Is that why you had to go? Were you too embarrassed to bluster on? Do you think God might have been watching, his anger building like lightening in the universal capacitor of vengeance? One more blasphemous word, one more lewd thought, and - Zap! - we'd be done like lamb flambé. That's not really how it works, my friend. God manifests through human proxies. He's become a terrorist with bombs strapped to his body. A petulant, who blows himself up to make a fine point.

Anyway, you're forgiven. When I find you, I will deliver the good news. I will hold you close, man, and say: 'It's all right, Brother. You've done nothing wrong. Pain is the obverse of passion. You didn't invent it or bring it into the world. Your accusers are liars.'