Sacrificial Lamb

Explain it. Justify it. Will you?

These are the demands I make to a god I know longer believe in. I stare up at a sky, peaceful and blue, how can a calm heaven be? Do angels not weep? Shake the air and clouds in their fits of rage and tears.

Seizures, blindness, pain. Tumors taking refuge in her brain. Two surgeries and then a slip into half slumber. A limbo state between coma and conscious. A woman I have never seen, will never know, but I have heard her voice. Gentle and soothing, how she raises him up, the lord of her life, the savior she holds first in her heart. She is beauty in the pure. But now she rests even before mid-age, leaving the life she bore and the hand she wed.

And she is everywhere. In their hearts. In the mouths whispering a thousand prayers. The dreams of her son.

I look up and demand an answer. Silence.

As she lays in waiting, he writes of her, the man she left behind. And in the hours since her death he has rationalized this soul mate stolen from him. Her death was needed. Through her death many will come to know god, renew a relationship with the almighty.

She has become the sacrificial lamb. Martyr. The Christos in feminine form. One death to save hundreds.

Such logic scares me. It elevates death to divine status, justifies it in terms that one can hold to, mold a reality from it. I think I forget too often the underlying necessity of religion for many. It explains.

So his heart is wounded, but content. He knows god’s hand was behind it. And now he can settle on what is to come. The hundreds that will seek god through her inspiration. But she bled on no cross, her pain was not held in her heart alone. And she left amongst kneeling bodies and tears, lifted up by the prayers, dozens of tongues wishing her home so that her soul may know peace, may see the face of her creator, and smile.

Breathe.

Praise.

Lift on high.

But I find myself undeterred.  My eyes on the sky.  Still waiting for the answers. Still waiting for it to be justified. I thought all that was needed was the original sacrifice, but you come for more. To me she is not a lamb for your slaughter.

I am not at peace. I am not at peace.

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This entry was published on July 11, 2008 at 3:11 am. It’s filed under death, Religion, Society and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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