A Prayer to the Christ Who Walks Amid the Suffering

Icon of Christ Pantocrator, from Egypt mid 6th century

Living Christ, you say you are always with those who suffer, with those who are crushed and terrified, with all who are drowned by sorrow and rage. And since I take you at your word, this means that you walk this very moment in Israel and Gaza, among the millions who are tear-stained and grief-stricken. You walk among the corpses in desolate kibbutzes and cratered City streets. You bend your ear toward the thunderous wails of lament.

Suffering Christ, you once shed tears on this same soil. You wept. Surely you weep again. As you make your way among the shattered children who now have no parent to sing away the fear — sing a song over them. As you walk these rubbled neighborhoods, remind us that in our terror and in our retribution, we kill our brothers and our sisters.

Risen Christ, your resurrection story seems ludicrous, naive, especially when war burns hot. How do we live your resurrection amid a conflict so ancient and entrenched, so extreme in its inhumanity, so lopsided in its disbursement of power? Teach us to seek justice in just ways. Teach us that “they” — all of us — are your beloved.

Living Christ, you teach us to pray, “on earth as in heaven.” You teach us to live “on earth as in heaven.” This death and destruction, we know, is not heaven. None of it. Give us life. Stop our killing. Protect the innocent. Give us justice. Give us mercy.

Merciful Christ, save us from ourselves.

The Good Shepherd

good-shepherd-2

Over the past year, Miska has given our bedroom a complete makeover. First, Miska pulled out the paintbrushes, and when she told me she covered our walls with a shade called Silver Fox, I smiled. I imagined the voice of Barry White: Silver Fox, Oh yeah… Next we said goodbye to heavy furniture, replaced with small, simple pieces. We cleaned out bags of clothes, magazines, books and the trinkets you collect over 18 years and find stashed in the corners of drawers awaiting such a day as this.

My favorite touch, however, was when Miska gave both of us a new bedside table. I only wanted three things on mine: a lamp for reading, prayer beads a friend made for me and a small icon of the Good Shepherd. Jesus said, “I am the good shepherd,” and the image shows Jesus carrying this weak creature with gentleness and strength. I’m drawn to the firmness in Jesus’ eyes, as if Jesus’ says, This is my sheep, just try to come and take ’em. Scripture tells us that the Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep, that the Shepherd knows all his sheep and will never forget them. The Shepherd, Scripture says, will even leave the 99 of his flock to roam into the wild night and find that one sheep that has lost her way.

Sometimes this world, though chock full of beauty and goodness, can be a disturbing, perplexing place. What will come of us? What should we do? Will we know the right decisions to make? Will the woman next to me and the two boys snoozing a few feet away be alright, and will they live well – can I protect them? What will come of us? Will we have years ahead to love and enjoy one another, or will it all crash down, as it does for so many? Will all those friends and strangers who face ruin and despair be okay? What are we to do with all of the uncertainty? What are we to do with this one life we’re given? Why does our life sometimes feel so tenuous?

Perhaps as evening ebbs, I feel the futility of trying to grip the hours, of trying to grip my life. Perhaps I feel more vulnerable here, embracing the loneliness appropriate to moons and midnights. Perhaps this is why I wanted the Good Shepherd close, watching over me and those I love in our sleep. I cannot stay awake, but the Shepherd does. I cannot hold the world on my shoulders, but the Shepherd does.

So each night now, before I put down the book and click off the light, I look into the eyes of the Good Shepherd, and I say Thank you.

Top