a wall of crosses

La Catedral in Little Village, Chicago

There’s a small cafe in the Chicago neighborhood of Little Village called La Catedral. I haven't been there since last July, but a certain image from the cafe continues to stick with me: one wall is covered with roughly twenty small crosses. Some are wide, and some are stick thin. Some are colorful, and some are neutral. Some are empty, and some depict a crucified Jesus.

The past three days, I've been trying to process the news about Josh Duggar and his family. And I don't really know how. But as I've sat in my mind and tried to write something to express my thoughts, I've found myself taken back to that neighborhood, to that cafe, to those crosses. 

I look at that wall of crosses, each carved and crafted by hands, by someone with a story. Twenty crosses made by twenty people with twenty stories that I’ll never know. Each maker undoubtedly has a crucifixion in their past, some imprint of pain and death and silence followed by an unexplained resurrection.

In these crucified Christs I see the stories I do know. I see youth of color told they are less than their white peers implicitly and explicitly. I see LGBTQ individuals cut off from their families and churches, driven to self degradation, self harm, and suicide. And I see the too-often silent victims of sexual abuse, like the girls who have been once again cast aside by the Duggars in the media coverage of Josh Duggar’s crimes.

And I wonder what these crucified Jesuses have to say to them.

I wonder what my faith has to say to them.

I wonder why we dance with angels in pinhead Heavens instead of claiming Christ crucified here on Earth. We argue about the meaning of Genesis 1 and who Jesus was referring to when he said “the least of these,” finding ways to be divided while the enemy is hunting. Molecular angels can dance without us; the Kingdom needs us here. To quote Reconciling All Things by Emmanuel Katongole and Chris Rice, “The fire is out there raging. What we need is water to put it out, not empty and distracting theological discussions.”

I say that. But right now, I’m not sure where the water is.

So I just look and let the story of Passion play over and over. I watch confused at Jesus’ silence, horrified at his beating, disgusted at their mocking. I am angered as he cries out with all of the forgotten, “my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” and I am incredulous at his final request: “forgive them, father, for they know not what they do.” I wonder what he could mean when he says “It is finished” as he dies. And I wonder where in Hell that leaves us as they lower his body from the cross and place it in a tomb. And although the story goes on, right now Good Friday is on repeat.

I don’t know what I can do for this crucified King just as I don’t know what I can do for the oppressed and abused. But I do know that the ways I am complicit with Caesar and the Pharisees and the other gatekeepers of truth and power nail them to their crosses. I know that for all of us. We cannot place all of the blame on the obvious criminals. We all are involved. We all exist in a world with patriarchy and purity culture and reality television. Those are our hammers behind the nails. These are our crosses to bear.

No, I don’t hate Josh Duggar. I don’t know him. But I also can’t say I forgive him, because that forgiveness isn’t mine to extend. His victims—and all victims of abuse—have their own grace to give. No one can tellthem how or when that is to happen. Forgiveness is not a choice that can be made in a moment, like a lightswitch. It’s a process, a renewal, a work of God that can’t be rushed, just as we can’t rush the resurrection.

It’s understandable why we would want to. Hope is hard to find if we face the reality of lingering pain and silence. But the response to a silent soul is not to silence it further. We cannot heal something we lock in the shadows. As John Green puts it, “pain demands to be felt.” We must hear those stories that reflect the crucifixion. They must be told, in their time.

So I don’t turn away from these crosses. I don’t cease to visit the tomb. I don’t celebrate that resurrection has come when the stone is firmly in place. I walk in these stories as they unfold, allowing God to move in his time. This doesn’t mean I cease to question. This doesn’t mean I don’t seek to deconstruct the powers that crucify. It means I don’t expect answers or freedom or grace to come quickly. But by being open to the stories that are told and by honoring the timing of God's movement within them, I can maybe be there when resurrection comes.