I would have killed Him.

It is Good Friday. I do not usually talk in very personal terms about my spirituality, although I have been trying to on this blog occasionally. For whatever reason, I am compelled to discuss it today. It is hard for me because a good many people that I respect very, very much are not Christian. I do not want to open myself up to their disdain. Also, a good many people that I respect very, very much are Christian. I do not wish to open myself up to their disdain either. Nonetheless, it is Good Friday. That's the day when we put are cards on the table, spiritually speaking. So, the truth. I would have killed Him. Or at the very least, I wouldn't have tried to defend Him. The thought inevitably occurs to me during the passion on Palm Sunday. How could it not? I'm in the pew, crying out "Crucify Him!" with the rest of the congregation. That, I think, is the whole point of the passion. We are the mob. We are the people who upon hearing the Word, chose a thief instead. When I put myself on the street that day, when I consider who I am and where my weakness lies, I know that I would have been shouting too. Some years, some years when I am feeling either very virtuous or very delusional, I think that maybe I wouldn't shout out. But how good is thinking that I might have just kept my mouth shut? I would still be complicit, although less involved in the process. This sort of quiet complicity is evident in my daily life. I don't actively hurt people. I don't personally kill people. Instead, I stay home and keep my mouth shut. I don't shout out. On Good Friday, I feel the weight of my inaction. This year, too, I know the truth. And then on Easter, I'll pick myself up and try again. Maybe next year will be the year that I can say "I would not have killed Him."