We did not recognize him
A Good Friday Morning Reflection
We did not recognize him
when the soldiers cats-o’-nine-tailed his body.
Shreds of bone, swung upon ragged tendons.
Holy tendons, seeping flawless blood.
Hades’ original flagrum.
We did not recognize him
when perpetual sacrifices stopped.
Did the spotless lambs rejoice?
It took an eternal earthquake to stop them.
Human hands could not
under pressure of generations-old tradition,
the fitful oppression of religion.
The slaughter rituals cease, there need not be any, anymore.
For the work finished, three hours passed noon.
The work began at creation.
It began with flogs. It began with nails
lodged into veins. Lodged into secretions.
A beautiful perfect body, decimated.
Sin’s hellish consequence, decimated.
Shoulders separated, agonized, dislocated,
bearing our separation, our chosen separation.
The fruit we chose over the A & O.
Our ruthless, fruitless, rotten, divorce from God.
And still, the Sabbath came.
We did not recognize him
all on our own account.
Dice bounced beneath holy feet.
Sins pranced the wind, swept across rocky terrain.
The prince of the power of the air
dancing in vile entropy, laughing in
the propulsion of fists, cheering on the
disembodiment of purity.
We cheered it on in pride.
The pride of companionship with the despicable roots of Sodom,
Lot’s daughter-wives, Ham’s desolate impulse,
Esau’s dunced trade for a meal, David’s duplicity to Uriah.
Nebuchadnezzar, that prodigious name, almost forgotten, easily misspelled.
“May the king live forever.”
Whispered as soil caked under his finger-talons,
a wild beast enraged inside him.
But we chose the wild path, too, didn’t we?
We did not recognize him
even when the globe shook.
The darkness preyed upon the sun,
The crouching taste of hell on our lips.
Like the taste of the hyssop-branched sponge of Christ’s last drink.
We wanted this, didn’t we?
We didn’t want to recognize him
because then we’d recognize ourselves.
Our own reflections unrecognizable
from the grand-opening bodies of the sixth day.
O Lord, O Lord.
We are not very good.
We are but blasphemous second-faces.
Sallow bodies, oiled pores.
Wicked machines.
Leaching canals of bloody evils.
We wanted this—remember?
We didn’t recognize him
because he had gone—the angels
confidently at their post, waiting for the women.
More Marys, perhaps 33 years since the last correspondence.
Ethereal junctures and shared proclamations of joy.
Did the angels raise their hands in disbelief?
They still don’t believe? Even after Isaiah, Zechariah and Christ himself?
Words spoken. Words written. The pinnacle lost.
Give us more miracles! We demanded.
Whilst the greatest miracle had happened.
The iris, the cornea did not record.
We did not recognize him
even when he walked amongst us.
Woeful tales of everlasting redemption retold.
Meals shared. Weeps. Despondency. Eyes Downcast.
Cleopas, how silly,
asking the risen Lord if he heard about the story of himself.
We did not recognize him
until we touched the pierced hands and
shared a humble meal of broiled fish.
“This is what I told you..”
His gentle voice verbalizing the loving reminder that
we did not recognize him.
Yet, he still embraced our ignorant bodies.
The crucial sacrifice complete.
The settlement of sin.
We did not recognize him
but his hands grazed the hairs on our head—the blessing.
Raised arms, scaling heaven’s ladder.
A soft benediction sprinkled on foreheads of those
who did not recognize him.
Great joy. Great Joy. Great surmountable joy.
Wow. Favorite reminder: “We are not very good”