Lord, take this cup from me, I can't drink it anymore... I drank so much of it already, and my cup runneth over still. There's just too much I have yet to drink and to commit inside me, inside this sickly vessel that is my body. It burns as it gushes through my throat, like burning oil, it twists and churns inside my belly, it swells and deforms me. What I drank so far remains inside me and won't vanish, it simply won't pass from me, Lord. There was a time when the spirit was willing, but now I falter and I fear. The spirit is indeed weak, but the flesh is weaker still, riddled with demons and serpents. And they whisper to me... They tell me I just can't take it no more, they strike me with heavy blows, they whip my back, they chain my wrists, they leave me out to wander through these desert sands. When my very soul hurts, when even you have forsaken me, only then do they come to soothe me. They perch over my shoulders and tell me not to drink anymore. And their words pour through my ears like sweet milk and honey, and I believe them for it is such a beautiful sound to believe in... I'm tired, it all aches, even my bony fingers rattle and shake as I draw the cup to my lips. So then the demons tell me to lay down my hands, to let the cup fall where it may, to let it shatter onto the cold bathroom floor, flowing red. And today I want to, Lord, oh do I want to, more than I ever did before... Yet I don't because I think maybe it's just a little more, the cup will soon be emptied and I will have carried it all inside me and it shall pass from me before my soul can tremble. But no, it's still so full and I'm so close to giving it all up. No more, I can't do this, I cannot do this... The demons echo those words in my ears until I so fully believe them... However, when a shred of hope remains, I look up, I raise the cup to the heavens and beg for an angel to come and voice some vain words of encouragement against the cold but oh so true words of my demons. But no angel comes to me, I have no visions, there is nothing new under the sun. It's all dark.
If even your beloved son doubts and trembles in his worldly flesh, then what chance have I? If even your beloved son needs an angel's embrace to get through the night, then what chance have I? If even your beloved son cries out for you on the cross, then what chance have I? And who am I who hopes to deserve a chance? Behold, I am vile! The world is a den of thieves among which I am king, the world is a pit of snakes among which I am king, the world is a wheel of sinners among which I am king... For where sin abounds, I abound there too... I spend my life locked away, I spend the day in bed so as to hide my eyes from your creation, I carry my cross in circles so as to avoid the way to my very own Calvary. My shoulders weigh so much already, I can't take no more weight, no more drink, no more sin. And yet I do nothing but sin, as the pleasure of it fills my mouth with ashes. When I became king of sin, I crowned the whore of Babylon my queen. And though I was a king, I still knelt at her altar, I kissed her hand and I was disgraced in return and thrown down those steps. So why do I keep climbing towards that wicked temple? One day the fall will kill me and no one will remember me then, no, not even you... I will have died as I lived, alone and sick and clinging to a big nothing. So don't let me fall. Restore my soul, Lord, restore my sickly old soul, anoint my head with oil and feed me bread, old and new. Be my very own Simon, carry my cross for just a little while and then lay it on me when I'm ready to take it up again. And smile and say you love me. Because I don't think you do, even on this day... So do that for me. Maybe I ask for too much and deserve none of it but that's what I need, and if this isn't an hour of need then nothing is. So do that for me, Lord, do that or ignore me, forsake me and allow me to return to sin. Turn away from me, and may no angel of yours shed a single tear for poor me. I've already done enough of that for mine own self. And if I can't see you when I'm wide-eyed and innocent as a child, then how can I see you when I'm this sick and sinful and with eyes full of salt? I can't and I don't. It may be true that you send rain on the just and the unjust unlike, but some of the unjust drink your soothing rain through their skin, while on the rest of us it falls salty upon gaping wounds.
What now? What's the plan here? I don't know what you want me to do and I've given up trying to figure it out. I have no purpose in your world, you forgot to give me one, you forgot something in me, Lord. You made me far too sick for this place. Your only begotten son couldn't find mercy in his cross for my sins. And he, having shed so much blood, couldn't one drop of it be given unto me? Behold, this little drop of blood I give unto you, that you may not perish, but have everlasting life... Where in the Gospel is that one written?... Verily, I was a firstborn son of Egypt, I was a child of two years old in Bethlehem, and yet here I am now. I was forgotten somewhere along the way and thus other people have taken my seat at your table, all of them better people by the mere fact of not being me. And all of them more deserving people by the mere fact of having something to do in your world. Because I'm not of your creation, I tend to think of myself more as your mistake. Is it blasphemy to say so? If it is then let this sin be added onto the others, but if it isn't then show me why it isn't. Show me why I'm worth something, anything at all, show me why I'm meant to be here now, show me why I'm meant to keep drinking from this poisoned cup. Because it's all beginning to get to me... I feel old and tired and sick. The story of my life is the story of my sin. And speaking of stories, you know when I was a child I went to your house, I walked along that aisle of beautiful red silk, I knelt by those stairs and looked up at that cross. Lord, on that day you bore witness that I was innocent, just little old me with my well-creased clothes, my combed hair, my pudgy cheeks, and the kingdom of heaven was truly mine then... My mind was so simple and so pure and oh so washed away of all these evil thoughts. And my shoulders... Lord, my shoulders were free and weightless! Now I miss that child. He was a good boy. But now the boy has grown and has put away all the childish things... Those tiny white shirts, those tiny shoes, the colorful books and toys, the school backpacks, and his name in silly handwriting on the first page of the Gospel... It's all gone, and my eyes along with it.
No one cries for me so I cry for myself. Yet I cry so much that my own sorrow swallows me whole. It creates a void that eats away all light, like the mouth of hell gaped open, forever hungry for sinners. Such is my self-pity, this wicked red dragon chasing a child. At least the child is long gone. I remain here, and though much older than that child, I'm often told I'm still young. And compared to other men, to greater men, I suppose I am. There should still be many years ahead of me... So why is it that I can't catch sight of any of them? Why is it that life has led me here only to leave me like a thief in the night? There was no sign, no warning, no note. How was a sinner such as me supposed to know what to do then? You made me how I am and left me alone, you left me to strive and to find my way home. Now I can't even stop and ask for guidance because I can't even decide if guidance is what I truly want... So why should I go anywhere at all? Why not just lay down right here, rest my weary head, my swollen eyes, my sore back? Verily, my cup overflows and will never stop doing so. Even if I were to drink it all, someone would just come along, find me curled up on the desert sands and kick me in the belly until my side opens and gushes out all this filth from me. And no one would care then, not even the legionnaire whose sandals I would smear with my own blood. I'm so vile I'm not even worthy of being pierced with a spear... And if I were to purge and thereafter be ignored, I would wish for a sponge of vinegar like a man who is athirst wishes for the fountain of the water of life. But how many people have I seen athirst and hungry only for me to ignore as I just walked on by? Too many to remember, though I'll be reminded of their faces when I die, their faces and their suffering which is not worth a shred of my own. If a wretch like me should suffer now so that a poor soul may be saved from hunger, then so be it. Just show me why even that has been denied to me. Why is my life meant to have no meaning at all when even just a little bit of it would be enough? If I am to suffer with this cup then let it be for a good reason, however meager and tiny and even vain. Just give me a little reason why and I promise to drink of it some more.
So take up my heart, Lord, hold it up high for all to see what a sinner's heart looks like. Let them gasp at how shriveled and black it is, hold it up in your hand and let them see, this heavy forsaken stone I carry within my chest. It can't be the same as when I was a child, otherwise I would not have been strong enough to carry it to that altar, and to that cross... I so wish I still had that same heart, beating so strong and full of love and wonder. What I give unto you now is indeed a mockery of what you have given me... I'm sorry. I didn't know what to do with it, I took bad care of it, I filled my own heart with sorrow, and so when it's yours again do with it as you will. He who giveth to the Lord lendeth unto whom?... I am likened as a son who is given fruit seeds by his father, seeds that he should plant in his garden and tend to, with care, yet with a strong hand, with true judgment, yet with mercy, that through it all the seeds may grow into a vast vineyard. Yet in his blindness, the son makes nothing but mistakes. He realizes just how unwise he is, how full of vanity and arrogance, he discovers how worthless he is when kneeling before the dirt and having to toil away until his fingers become weary with blisters and blood, until the damp soil fills his fingernails, until his hands are made wrinkly and old, and he feels so sorry for his own poor hands... So he sighs and despairs, he feels full of misery, no longer worthy to be called his father's son. Then instead of asking for help he just falls to his knees, but not to pray, for all he does is cry. And so he dreams of his loving father appearing unto him saying, My son, what has thou done with my gift? Thou couldst now be resting thy weary shoulders against a beautiful tree which would yield fruit for all the years of your life, and the life of your beloved, and of your little ones, and their little ones... And the son's face would be awash with tears and he would shout, O father, behold thy son!
This is my story and yet I was never meant to play the son. Nor was I ever meant to be given the seeds of anything that is good, nor was I ever meant to be given life. So tell me, how can I be anything but your mistake, Lord? How can I be in any way yours?... The truth is I now pity myself and I pity my earthly father and mother for they don't deserve a son like me. You placed innocent little me in an ark of bulrushes and left me to drift along the river until they found me. My mother took me at her breast and my father lifted me onto his shoulders. I am what you have given them. Now if I can't take up my own cross, how can they carry theirs along with mine? If you are my Father who art in heaven, then help them by helping me. Light up my path, silence my demons, soften my heart. Make me fear no evil, for you know I fear so much of everything already. Give me living water that I thirst not, give me strength to forgive and to love all those who persecute me, give me the faith, and the love, and the loving-kindness to believe that your world is worth it... Give me all that or give me nothing at all, give me all that or forsake me forever and hear nothing of this prayer. Forsake me and leave me out in the wilderness of the desert, leave me to eat stones as if they were bread...
Save me or condemn me, Lord, thy will be done either way... But whatever your will may be, have a little mercy upon me, just on this night, and don't let me drink from this cup no more. Or then, at the very, very least, help me by drinking some of it yourself... Nevertheless, whatever my end may be, I know today is not the day I'll be with you in paradise... Though for a sinner such as me, that day might never come.
April 26, 2019
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“Gethsemane” by Linda Curley Christensen
This has been text number 350 from Nostos. The book is a collection of four hundred texts, most of which are written in portuguese, while only twenty-one of which are written in english. As such they will be periodically published here, in full.
You can find out more about the book here.
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