By a perversion of justice he was taken away.
God did not send Jesus to die.
But I confess that in a musty place in my heart
the lie that Jesus was meant to die suits me fine.
Oh, I abhor the theology: God does not need more gore.
But in my heart I confess
I’m comfortable with others suffering for my sake.
I rail against the idea that God needs a blood payment,
that God planned a tragedy—
a payoff instead of true forgiveness—
and I say with my lips the cross is a lynching,
a nazi gas chamber, another police shooting.
But secretly, I confess, I like my place of ease and safety.
I’m addicted to my privilege.
I let others suffer instead of me.
Even as I protest I participate.
I know God demands otherwise.
But I live as if God meant for me to survive
at the cost of others’ lives.
I confess: I am saved from the virus of evil;
I also carry the virus.
I stand at the foot of the cross with tears in my eyes
and a hammer in my hand.
May I die, forgiven, and be raised, changed.
Listen to the audio recording:
Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 2:02 — 2.8MB)