The Body of Christ is dead.
Satan didn’t kill Christ; no, this was the work of men. Only men would have the audacity to kill Christ twice.
The men who abused defenseless children are the ones who crucified Christ. Men who feared scandal more than they feared justice are the ones who condemned Christ. And the silence of those of us who refused to challenge the presumption of the clergy are the people who approved Christ’s execution.
It wasn’t the state that killed Christ. It wasn’t secularism that killed Christ.
This was suicide: The Institution killed the Mystical Body.
I have lost my faith.
But faith is not what I need right now. I need patience. I need to hold this pain, this anger, this confusion—all this desolation—with compassion, to say “Hello Pain, you are welcome. I will take care of you. Welcome Anger, it is good that you are here. Please, sit with me. It’s nice to see you, Confusion. Will you join us?”
I don’t need faith right now because I have hope—I am waiting for the Resurrection. I don’t know when the Body of Christ will rise from the tomb. I don’t know if I will recognize him. But I do know that someday, it will be Easter morning.
The question for me now is How will I wait?
I could act like the disciples who fled. The pain is just too much for me to bear. I may hide in silence—I’m tired of reading about the abuse. I’m tired of hearing yet another apology. I may hide in denials and excuses—these are old cases, the Dallas Charter is working, the Church is not unique in failing to protect children.
I could act like the guards who cast lots for Jesus’ garment. If Christ is dead, I will make his garment my idol. It will be my banner to rally the faithful and lead a purge of those who are responsible for Christ’s death. I will disguise my desire for revenge with words like “justice” and “purification.”
Maybe I will act like Jesus’ Blessed Mother. All I can do is cry. Perhaps that is the only just thing to do. After all, only tears can convey the rawness of pain in a way that is universally understood.
Or I could be the beloved disciple who says nothing and simply holds Mary in her pain.
Maybe I can do what Joseph of Arimethea did. But where can I find such a tomb? Perhaps I can clean the Body of Christ of the doctrines and dogmas that were once useful and wrap it in the simple, clean linen of compassion.
Like Mary Magdalene, I could just simply stand numb, dumbfounded. I don’t know how this could happen—yes, my mind can connect the dots, but my heart . . . this tragedy just does not make sense. And so I will sit in the dark numbness of abandonment.
And so I stand at the foot of the Cross—not in my imagined prayer, but in real life. I ask you to join me so we can wait together.