Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?
Sometimes it causes me to tremble...tremble...
Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?"
"So we have come to the last Station, " the Priest says."We have moved," he continues, "from the trial and sufferings and nailing and death--all the way to the end."
The disciples knew it was all over. Thank God," we whisper, "that's over. The suffering. The pain. At the last it was just unbearable. She's better off".
But us, you and me--what about us? Where do we go now as we leave this last station. This is the last stop.The tracks just run out. This is the getting off place. So we gather up our belongings, making sure we have everything, and begin to shuffle out into the sunshine. We go our separate ways. Back to life--our lives.
But we are different having made this long circuitous journey. Different, different indeed.
It was the same back there. Mary Magdalene the other Mary, the well-heeled Joseph, Nicodemus, the soldiers that stood guard. The frightened disciples. Weeping broken-hearted Peter. Even dead Judas.
What now? This is interim time. Somewhere between the no longer and the not yet. Later, because it still had not sunk in they moaned sadly, "We had hoped he was the one to redeem Israel."
Leaving this last station we hoped too, didn't we. Doing something about our loved one's cancer. Taking on ISIS, for God's sake. Changing the stupid, pathetic American political system. Turning back the old age clock. Doing something, anything to reach out to him or her and help them off this destructive road. Bringing home those 150 plus girls in Africa that were kidnapped so long ago--they have almost slipped from our memories. But not their parents.We had hoped we could resolve once and for all the crazy madness of the Middle East. We had hoped even our lives and the lives of all those we love would be kept safe from harm's way. Walking into the sunlight--heading for home with our satchels or little suitcases. We had hoped when we opened the door things would be better. We had hoped.
So this is interim time. Maybe the quietest of the Stations. When a friend lost his little daughter at age nine he wrote me back after I had called him and said, "Thank you for what you did not say." This is the time for grieving and weeping, weeping and just feeling flat and empty and numb. It really is not-saying time.
This is the last station. But not really. There is more to be continued. But in this Interim time--it seems like the end of the line.
|photo by dmelchordiaz / flickr|
--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com