Three Days

Precious and Holy Father,

My mouth feels full of sand.  My gut is heavy as concrete.  I taste bile and blood.  

I awoke yesterday with such hope and joy.  Like a child the morning of Christmas Eve knowing that incredible presents are coming wrapped in brilliant paper and bows.  

And as I cry to you in the middle of this night, Christmas Eve never came; the hour has shifted to Good Friday.

The altar is stripped.  The candle is extinguished.  The music is silent.  

Yes, I know your Christ rose on the third day.  But, dear God, this is not that.  And this is not then.  As time has shifted from Christmas Eve to Good Friday in a matter of 24 hours, those three days for Jesus will be 4 years.

I’m angry.  

No, precious Father.  Angry is not the word.  I’m livid.  I want to put my fist through the wall again and again and again.  I want to shriek and scream until my throat is raw and bloody.

I’m terrified.  I am a gay woman married to an amazing force-of-nature.  What is going to happen for us in the coming years?  What is going to happen to my precious, vibrant, heartfelt queer friends in the next years?

I’m mortified, God.  I’m post-menopausal with no children.  What will happen to girls and women made pregnant with force?  What will happen to women pregnant enduring unimaginable bodily trauma and will die?  What will happen when they face murder charges because of miscarriage?

I’m privileged, God.  What will happen to your beautiful children created in different shades who want to live here and work here and love here but will be driven out in chains in front of their children?

I’m dumbfounded.  Absolute and utter disbelief.  Is this who we are now?  Is this who and what we want to be. 

Almighty, have we really chosen racism and misogyny and theft and deception and homophobia and sexism and discrimination?  Is this really and truly who we are?  

America says it is a Christian nation.  Is this Christian?  The cognitive dissonance is stunning.

Was I that naïve?

Holy Father, I am silently raging.  My eyes swollen shut and cheeks raw with tears.  Holy Father, how am I supposed to step into the pulpit Sunday when I feel rage and terror, horror and absolute hopelessness.  How am I supposed to offer solace and comfort to those who feel the same?  

And how am I supposed to be happy for those who chose this new reality and await the dawning of their new era?

I don’t know how to do this, God.

To speak the words in the dark of this night that we are a resurrection people feels like abuse.  Dismissive. Malignant.

Yes, Jesus rose again.

Yes, you are sovereign and hold all in your care.

Yes, I know.  I get it.

I don’t know how to do this, Father.  I don’t want to be fraudulent in my work.  I don’t want to lie and fake my way through it.

The long dark of Good Friday has just begun.