Ripples of My Christ
by Mario Gerada


I read to be one

with the suffering of Christ

and with Christ on the cross.

And I saw a Christ on the cross with multitudes behind Him

crying and sobbing and suffering themselves with their suffering God.

But then I saw a Christ walking tired in deserted streets,

where no one listened, no one followed.

He sat tiredly on a rock, gazing at Himself on the cross

surrounded by women and men.

Being one with Christ on the cross,

but being with Christ

also

when He uttered the words of hope,

when He healed the sick,

when He spoke to release,

when He shed light on dark paths,

when He embraced

when He forgave

when He looked at Magdalene with loving eyes

and when He did not fear the high priests.

 

Only then can we be one with Christ,

suffering on the cross

because of His own cause.

 

Only then

can we be one with the resurrected Christ,

when we were one with Him,

in everyday life,

when like Him and with Him,

with simplicity, love and strength,

shake the pillars of a society

imprisoned in its old sins,

of a society that breaks down souls

not to break down rules,

in a society that constructed safe ways to go to heaven

but leaves its people

to live in hell.

 

On Sunday the Churches are full

but Christ walks alone by the shore,

where only the sea kisses his feet,

where only the birds greet him with songs,

where only the earth glorifies his paths.

 

His ways are too rough,

His garments are too simple to wear,

His words are too powerful to say,

His life too dangerous to follow.

 

To live with Him

is to live in peace,

but to live in peace

is to shed what we are, to become.

 

To be one with Christ

to find oneself loving

whom we were thought to hate,

to find oneself amidst one’s own fears

only to understand

that they were only ghosts

who disappear in the presence of light.

 

The human spirit has resided too long

in the safety of tradition and past beliefs,

only to save a few

and bless others

with fear.

 

A lonely Christ,

walking in our dusty streets

but there is no one to wash His dusty feet.

His simple garments has been stained

while washing our souls

and mending our hearts

but now there is no one to wash

His dirty clothes.

 

Who will wash Thy feet?

or lay on Thy chest?

or eat on Thy table?

and pray with You in the garden of olives?

 


© 2013 Mario Gerada

 


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