Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?

There is a furniture store in Redondo Beach, on the corner of Inglewood and Artesia, that is perfect for hiding when a man in a grey hoodie chases you down. If you are ten years old, you won’t be seen behind the navy blue couch. Remember to crouch low and stay real quiet when he bangs his fist on the glass window.

There is a church in West L.A., nestled on hills that overlook the wetlands. You’ll see egrets on the pot-hole-ridden road there. The doors of this church will be secured with heavy metal chains to keep out demons and unhoused people looking for a restroom. In this church, men will ask middle school girls if they are menstruating. They will tell you there are sins even God can’t forgive. They will teach their sons to touch you, and hurt you. They will point shot guns at men who smile at their wives, and turn their cheeks when their daughters cry out for help. 

They will pray for you to be a godly woman. But godly-women are not godly. Women-God’s do not split the sea, or birth water from a struck stone. Our voices never part the clouds and descend like doves. We are not heard. Women-God’s do not roll away stones or flood the earth with anger. We are not allowed anger. The church does not ask women to be God, they ask women to be Jesus. By that I mean, women are called to crucifixion. Give yourself. Suffer. There’s no difference. 

I have stood in a room of men, who they told me to call brothers. I have stood in a room of brothers. They sang songs about blood, how it will make them whole again. I have read of leeches swelling to ten times their body weight while feeding, I have felt a brother in Christ suckling my side. His pointed teeth sunk deep, and deeper still. He wants to feel big. He wants to be saved. He wants, he wants, he wants. While I hung there. Godly and godless. Waiting for a flood that never comes. 

Growing up, I was told two things: God is not dead. God does not sleep. But if this is true … my God, my God, where the fuck were you? 

Sometimes I wonder  . . . I wonder if Jesus ever forgets that it is finished. Imagine a stone dropped in the middle of a lake. Water ripples, as water does when disturbed. Out and out and out. There are stones big enough to create ripples that are felt for miles. There are hurts so heavy they span eternity. 

Jesus, do you ever find it difficult to stay seated at the Father’s right hand? Do youever need to get up and pace instead? Sometimes I imagine you rubbing the wound at your side, wondering how it can still ache after all this time. Is that why you wept for Lazarus? Because you understand that no resurrection can erase what happened. To return is not the same thing as never leaving. The body remembers. The body remembers. 

And I think I know what wound you remember most. The silence. The deep pierce of quiet when you need the heavens to split and God to claim you, and save you — and they don’t. 

I wonder, Jesus, if you laughed in heaven when Paul wrote: God will never give us more than we can bear. Or did you cry? I cried. My God, my God — I cried.