I remember how she said, in Auschwitz,
That Jesus was completely naked.
Artists honor him with a white rag, or even a gold swathe.
But the truth is,
They stripped him.
Clothed Him in sarcastic red. Stripped Him again.
Re-clothed Him in His own robe. Like some doll to be changed
On a whim, or
Left naked on the floor.
He died. They stripped Him again, and quartered His clothes.
There is no shame of ours He did not know.
I remember how humbled I felt just wearing a hospital gown.
Helpless, acquiescent.
How did God feel to be seen in full humanity? Not some chiseled hero,
But a sweating, bleeding, quivering man. Weak and incontinent.
He must have died by degrees.
His mother must have felt their violent disrespect. She was pierced as well.
How feeble and small His disciples must have thought Him,
In spite of themselves. He had knelt half-dressed for them only hours before,
To wash their feet. Now
They could barely look at Him.
He wore only the woman’s nard. A beautiful thing.
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