HOSANNA (PALM SUNDAY)
A cry of liberation
from the lips of those
who do not wish to maintain
the status quo—
a longing for Babylon,
America, and Rome
to be overthrown.
But, could it be that our hosannas
must go even deeper?
For if evil is not cut off at the root
it will continue to produce
Babylonian, American, and Roman fruit.
FLIPPING TABLES (HOLY MONDAY)
Anger at injustice is holy.
How sacred it is
to flip tables
instead of sitting quietly
and minding my own business!
There is no virtue
in being a pious bystander.
I welcome the slander
that comes with causing
a righteous ruckus.
Some tables I need to flip
rather than concerning myself
with whether or not there is space
for me to sit.
30 PIECES (HOLY TUESDAY)
There’s only one way
The empire wins,
By turning us against
Those that are kin.
We like to make Judas
Out as the villain
While ignoring the empire’s
Sinister dealings.
Don’t let them off that easy.
It was an intentional scheme
To offer a poor man
30 pieces.
TOWEL AND BASIN (MAUNDY THURSDAY)
When I know who I am
with nothing to prove
it frees me to do
the work of love.
THE NINTH HOUR (GOOD FRIDAY)
I turned to my left,
my eyes swept across the terrain
to see if anyone had remained—
stayed closed by while the noonday sky
filled with thick darkness.
I turned again, hoping
to find your right hand
that always beckoned me to come and sit,
but now my enemies have made me their footstool,
and you are nowhere to be found.
Listening for your voice,
but only hearing the pounding of my abandoned heart
and the sound of my bones being crushed
under the weight of this forsakenness—
unwanted isolation.
I have known what it means
to be alone—at home,
silent and still, in the desert of my soul,
but being quarantined away from all Presence
is more than my essence can bear.
Even my breath can’t be near me,
as it slips out of my lungs,
rejecting me
like everyone else
in my hour of greatest need.
Like a seed, I fall
into the earth alone,
with nothing
but the stones
to keep me company.
SATURDAY (HOLY SATURDAY)
Is liminal space—
betwixt and between—
when all I can see is loss,
And I toss and turn in bed
because I dread
what tomorrow may hold.
I was told that gain is coming—
that after the rain
the sun will shine,
But my mind
can only conceive of death;
it is all we have ever known.
UNDER THE GROUND (EASTER)
Life is always happening
underground—
the place that light has forsaken.
Finite minds cannot take in
that the belly of mother Earth
is, indeed, a womb.
Entombed in the soil is the pip
of a new Eden.
Only the seed that has fallen into the pit
can burst through into the morning dew
to announce to weeping eyes
that a new day has risen—
a day in which the voices and stories of women
are believed, their word received
as good news,
and the men have no problem
following them and
learning how to believe again.
What I mean is this:
the world has been flipped
on its head.
Heaven has invaded hell,
the spell of death is broken,
and the doorway opened to a new way of being.
It all begins with seeing
that the darkness of our world is luminous,
and in the humus of life is where we become fully human.