Courage to See
Good Friday 2023
Even though I am two years removed from parish ministry, I still felt the tension in my shoulders and back upon entering this Holy Week. My body is still holding the stress of years of pastoring, especially from this week. The poem I share today is about another body, a Black body, which bears not just stress from his lifetime but centuries of generational trauma from slavery and racism. I wrote this poem last May, shortly after the race-motivated mass shooting in Buffalo, NY.
I saw the crucified Christ
last night in the trauma bay.
His feet hung off the edge of the bed.
His arms sprawled off the bed,
upward,
as if hung on a cross.
He was unconscious.
He was severely injured.
He was airlifted in from
the scene of an accident.
Does it make a difference
if I tell you
He was a Black man,
He wore a parole ankle bracelet,
He had track marks on the insides
of his elbows?
Why does that information make a difference?
When I saw the crucified Christ
last night,
I couldn’t unsee him.
Tears sprang to my eyes
and I grieved for him.
I took a step back,
and held vigil with the others.
It was less than a week since the hate-filled
shootings in Buffalo,
when a White supremacist targeted
Black people, again.
I saw the crucified Christ
last night in the trauma bay,
sacrificed on the altar
of America’s racism. 
mercy. thank you, friend.