I became a Christian through osmosis; early in life, I was given the language: sin, debt, fear, wrath, hell, grace, love, repentance, atonement, heaven; this was the lexicon of belief.

I left Christianity when the world grew larger than my Saskatchewan village, and I overheard, then began to pick up, another language. I returned out of personal failure, left again when the cloud of guilt moved off, returned through theology, left through philosophy, returned through experience, left by the same route, returned hurt, left angry, returned, left — to where I can honestly say that I can leave and return daily.

Except for this: beneath that crow that caws in my head, lower, at heart level, I remain a Christian because of Jesus’ singular cry, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

It’s a line from the twenty-second Psalm, a poem that Jesus recalls, consciously or half-consciously, moments before his death. It’s a prayer of someone staring into the abyss. A prayer prayed by the wretched of the earth. And here, in the mouth of Christ, because of what we supposedly know or have been taught about this God-man, it sounds almost scandalous.

Why? The one who promised never to forsake, who taught that God, his Father, would never forget his covenant of mercy and never forsake any who sought him, at his last hour cries out in pain and confusion, and casts accusations of abandonment into the quickening dark.

There is, of course, theology to explain it. The traditional exegesis here is that the Son, in matchless grace, bore the weight of the world’s sin, and so, became sin, and necessarily endured the furious wrath of the Father. Now, while he knew all along that God had not ultimately forsaken him, and knew he would be raised again in three days, he nevertheless cried out in the depth of that brief separation, and in the process referenced the fulfillment of scripture. The rest is left, as is said, to the secrets of divine sovereignty and omnipotence.

I have no issue in deferring to theologians who make it their business to wrestle with this ineffable scene. But there is little comfort in it. Or at least in the predominant version. If Jesus was merely citing a passage to be picked up as a proof text of prophecy, while enduring (admittedly agonizing) a planned three-day separation from God, then it all reads rather false.

For me — as in good poetry — something both deeper and more obvious is happening. More obvious, because to cry out at your own lynching seems eminently natural. Deeper, because for those of us pulled (or haunted) by the mystery of the Incarnation, this moment reveals Jesus — not merely impersonating a human — but, entirely human, deepening the mystery. No other biblical account places Jesus so squarely within the loneliest of human experience: those desperate, deadly, fragile, “inhuman”, God-absent hours that can shadow our days; the suffering which touches, at some time, each of our lives.

On Sundays, Christians cite the doctrine of Christ’s divinity: fully God/fully human clicks off our tongues like clockwork. But here we see Christ in the paroxysm of hopelessness, “the light of the world” is switched off, meaning itself is on trial.

But if we recline within this event — this lament — listen carefully, we glimpse a Christ beyond doctrine, beyond any theodicy, and just here, it is possible to imagine that the walls of isolation that human suffering always erect, have been breached and shattered. And there is mercy, and something approaching justice.

There is room here for my own railing at God’s absence, my own, Why this!? my own cry at seeing my child in unrelenting pain. On this hill, in this final-first scene, I can begin, imperceptibly at first, to believe that I am heard.

Perhaps, in the struggle to understand, in the futility of the cry itself — cried over and over — are the seeds that may in time germinate and crack the hardpan of grief — bringing entrance again, to life.

As far as I can see, without this cry, there could be no crack opening toward Easter. However, I see too, as though sighting the flicker of a distant candle, that without Easter, there would be no cry.

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Heavy fog this morning, chaining down the night, and the garbage
trucks are out collecting, and I’m inside without a light on.

Dear friend, what’s it like to be given an expiration date?
That’s what I’m wondering about — while outside in the dark,
the hydraulic clang and roar of diesel digests a street of waste.

I’m trying to find a way into that moment, in that office, that sterile room,
and those razor words, the colour of cobalt, coming at you,
dropping from the lips of a bleached lab coat.

Words that grow, metastasize in your mind and in the mind of your dear one:
“I can’t breathe,” is what she said, and then hundreds of miles away,
here in the dark, I couldn’t breathe — brain shatters, fingers freeze to the keys.

Please, I pray to anything and everywhere, more time, more aliveness,
more justice, for one whose humour we can’t afford to go without;
and when I say, we, I mean this whole freaking country, weeping planet,
we can’t afford it, it’s morose enough.

Please, less pain, less grief, less absence, less dying,
and I’m thinking of his kids, and theirs, those grand-little-ones;
and his partner, who’d parted but partnered once more — a graced
second chance at joy — whose losses are ample enough,
her sorrow, sorrow enough.

Friend, please — you know we’re selfish — how will we will on?
how will we float without your depth? how will we liftoff without
your propellant? your ebullient flourish that neons the room.

How, without your quotable cynicism, your obscure playlist
of Christian disco, your library of satire, your range of parody —
your studied spoofs of preachifying fundies and blathering politicos?
Your, still, sly hope.

And me? How will I plot my week without your truth-serum talk?
How will I spew my beer, without hearing nuthatch, spotted towhee,
worked into some blithe conversation? A perfect send-up
of my interest in birds, and your inbuilt interest in wit.

The city is your natural habitat, mine, a cabin in the bush,
you’re big apple, I’m small saskatoon — “Odd,” I said,
“But not a bad dish,” you said.

Friend, we need your sauce, your irreverence, your pretense skewers.
We need your irreligion that reveals a truer faith. Your self-deprecating
manner that masks a trove of human understanding. Your testament
of unassuming generosity, your witness of unassailable love for family.

At times, if you’re lucky, somewhere along the road, a friend appears,
colours in your lines. Introduces you to your fuller self.
Stays; restores faith in that old word — fellowship — and the inescapable
upshot of something going on, beyond.

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High on a mountain, after much prayer, weighed down with sleep, the disciples hallucinate. Or perhaps dream a dream, or see a vision, or experience the thinnest place on earth, where the invisible meets the visible, and the ethereal weaves itself into the corporeal and everything looks the way it actually is — somatic, sacred, all tangled together.

And Moses and Elijah appear in glory, and Jesus is glowing — transfigured. What do they discuss? His harrowing exit? Do they advise him? Moses, presumably, died of old age; Elijah was transported straight to paradise. How do they advise him, or do they make plans to meet over a wineskin after it’s all over? We’re left guessing.

In the meantime, the disciples are terrified, and they fall down in fear. Peter, beside himself, blurts out something that entirely misses the point. We recognize this. It’s the need to do something, say something, in the midst of being knocked on your ass. Here, amidst shock and awe, almost a moment of humour.

And then, tenderness: Jesus touches them, says, “Get up, be not afraid.” Words of assurance — his merciful habit.

Jesus then instructs the disciples to keep the whole episode to themselves. Wise advise. (Should you be one who has seen a UFO, I will advise you in like manner.)

No way around it: this is a story meant to confirm the glory and divinity of Jesus, and with Moses and Elijah in the mix — a story meant to demonstrate that Jesus is the fulfillment of the covenant, the law, the utterances of all the prophets, the whole wild cabaret that came before.

And while the face of Jesus is still beaming from the radiance within, the voice of God comes through a thick, bright cloud: “This is my Son, my Chosen, the Beloved, listen to him!”

But how do I listen? What should I listen for?

There’s a story relayed by Mary Gordon in her book, Reading Jesus, about a priest who cared for a man who was cognitively impaired. The priest once asked him, “Do you pray?” “Yes,” said the man. “How do you pray?” asked the priest. He said, “Oh, I listen.” “What do you hear?” asked the priest. The man said, “I hear, ‘you are my beloved!’”

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Country Nowadays — Lyrics:

I just want to catch my fish, drive my truck, drink my beer / And not wake up to all this stuff I don’t want to hear / Like the same kind of gun I hunt with / Just killed another man / Only thing mine ever shot was / Deer from my deer stand.

“I just want to cut my grass, feed my dogs, wear my boots / Not turn the TV on, sit and watch the evening news / Be told if I tell my own daughter that little boys ain’t little girls / I’d be up the creek in hot water in this cancel-your ass-world.

Chorus:

“It ain’t easy being country / In this country nowadays / The direction the finger’s pointing / When everything goes up in flames / Saying I’m some right-wing devil / Because I was down South Jesus raised / It ain’t easy being country / In this country nowadays.”

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First of all, I’m deeply sorry if someone called you a right-wing devil. That’s not right. There’s nothing wrong with being raised in the South, hunting for your own food, or having small-town values and conservative roots — least of all being “Jesus raised.” Coming from a small prairie town in Saskatchewan, reared in a Baptist church, I’m familiar. But I won’t claim to have your experience, I’d just like to understand your grievances, I’d like to understand you.

You’re right about things going up in flames. Clearly, we stand at the threshold of chaos. I’m guessing, besides the injustice and injury you feel, you wrote the song out of a sense of losing things you hold dear, losing control of a way of life.

Well, let’s start there: we know country songs — among all the other things you’ve mentioned — like to talk about love. Love, after all, is what Jesus is about. He chose love over hatred. By the way, he would have applauded Bad Bunny’s banner, which said exactly that. And being Jesus-raised, I’m sure you’d agree.

And you’re right, Jesus (nor should those who follow him) wouldn’t have mocked you or derided you for being “country” or being raised down south. He was from Nazareth, for god’s sake, and “nothing good comes out of Nazareth” was a common refrain back then.

He wouldn’t have cancelled you, or questioned your desire for a good life, or the nostalgia, even romance, for a certain understanding of country. (Although, if you were comfortable, he may have wanted to get around to that.) He would have, however, asked you about your motive for appearing at an alternative, separate, segregating, “All-American” Halftime show (P.S. Puerto Rico has been a part of America for 127 years, and Puerto Ricans have had U.S. citizenship since 1917), and he’d have asked you about your lyrics. Not so much what they said, but what they implied, what they left out — being Jesus-raised, you’d have an inkling about why.

Without condemning any of your home-grown loves, he’d have counselled: Yes, catch your fish, and then, why not share them (multiply them); by all means, drive your truck, then, maybe go on a food drive; drink your beer, no worries, but drink also the “new wine” of gospel humility, charity; cut your grass, for sure, then help tend a community garden; feed your dog, absolutely, and feed the poor. I need to pause here, because I’m sure you’re not without charity; I’m sure you do some of the foregoing. I’m only going by your public song; it has discordant notes.

I’ll go on. Try on empathy. Despite the late Charlie Kirk’s (founder of Turning Point) distaste for that word, it is a Jesus-raised virtue. So wear your boots, but also, wear the bare feet of a Palestinian boy, the sandals of a black girl in inner-city Camden, New Jersey, the shoes of a Puerto Rican, maligned then ignored by a President, and the tear-stained slippers of the spouse of Renee Good.

As a parent, you have the responsibility to care for your children and teach them values and virtue — well, you know that — but what if your daughter came to you and said, “I don’t fit in, I don’t feel at all like other girls, I’ve felt for as long as I can recall, like a boy.” (I have firsthand experience here.) I know you wouldn’t shut her down; you’d want to have a loving, understanding conversation. And I guess that’s all I’m asking.

Do write your country songs, be blessed by your gift, but go back and brush up on being Jesus-raised. And don’t be too surprised at a bit of push-back by those who view your song as just another privileged claim of victimhood.

Me? I’m nothing much, just a Canadian watching, wanting and trying to love the people of my neighbouring country and trying dearly to honour the heart of my own Jesus-raised legacy. And not have it be someone’s justification for materialism, atheism, which frankly, in view of “God-fearing” nationalist Christian-ism, I wouldn’t blame anyone for considering.