The people in front of me, behind me, standing in a moving line, they went up to the cross and they mostly kneeled and many kissed the cross. I didn't want to do either. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to feel the cold touch of the wood, as if touching the cold body of Christ. I've never walked down the isle for anything. Especially not the communion.
I am not a believer. I am not a Christian. My believes don't carry Christ's name.
But I am thankful to him. And tonight I wanted to touch him. I wanted to connect with him, and thank him for being there for me, when things were tough.
Sitting there before I joined the group of people for the veneration of the Cross, I listened to the tragic story and drama that had been repeated for thousands of years, thousands of Easters. I was still touched. It was my third Easter in the church of the Christians. I came on Good Friday to hear that story again. The story of the man, the son of God, being sacrificed like a lamb before a slaughterhouse, for people's sins. Ever since I first heard that story I was touched. To believe that there's this abstract being, which many believe exist, represented infinite love, infinite generosity, infinite patience, and example of what we should be, and moreover, for me, at least, an example, the quintessential example, of what I wish someone else could be for me.
Sitting there with all these believers I realized I hadn't been to church in over a year now. I scuttled back to the Bible a year ago when I was trying to crawl out of the dark hole. Or, as the metaphor was in my head tonight, trying to surface from the dark waters. And I had come to give my thanks for the infinite love given to me by this abstract Being that helped me resurface, that gave me courage at a persistently constant level that no human being had been capable of giving.
Listening to the story of how the demonstration of His love was played out in the Passion, I was once again reminded that love came in different forms, and God's was the more enduring and timeless.
But along with gratefulness, there was also a sobering reminder of our frailties. The guest pastor talked about Peter's renunciation of Christ. That part had always struck me because it made me feel so sorry for Christ. He was there, with only his loin cloth and his courage shielding him from the torture inflicted on him, but nothing more. He had no friends, suddenly. All those who supposedly adored him abandoned him. Peter came closest, but when push came to shove, he denied the son of his God. I could imagine how lonely Christ was. I wondered if he had looked around looking for some support, because if he did, he would have seen only anger, hatred, or at best, fear. But I guess if there was any courage around him, any goodness, he wouldn't have had to come and save humanity. His sacrifice would not have been necessary.
I felt sorry for him because while he, and God, had been there for me in my darkest hours, which were so dark as his, no one was there, and I was likely to have done no better than the people there. But I understood that feeling of loneliness, so painful, more than the lashes they gave him, the thorny crown they forced on him. In the deep sense of empathy my gratitude for him also deepened.
And so there was my light over the years. When I felt my friends, family, everyone else had disappeared from me, in those moments when I needed someone, or something that was not possible for any mortal at the moment to give, I felt it coming from the light, that enduring flame that could not be blown out. And so I wanted to touch the person that had given this flame back to our hearts, my heart, and given me not only solace when I needed it most, but also a guiding light out of the sins, which, for me, are merely the challenges that keep me from being the person I want, from experiencing the happiness I deserve.
Tonight sitting there, then standing in line, I could feel safely where I was, to be present, and then to see the sins before me, and to not hate them, but to walk past them with the flame of God and move forward. He would forgive me before I could forgive myself, he would wait for me before I run out of patience with myself, he would always embrace me after however long an absence that would put me to shame. So I wanted to touch the cross.
But I dare not. It wasn't my religion. It wasn't my conventions. Probably no one would have cared. But I simply bowed in front of the cross, that symbol, so simple, that reminded me of the stories, of the constant vigil that God is always attending for me. I sat back down and I closed my eyes to give thanks, once more, to the immense sacrifice someone had done for me that I would not have done for myself. And with this courage I could perhaps come closer to myself, love myself in the same way that God has always done and with unconditional, infinite love.
