Twenty-one heads hit the dirt. Twenty-one martyrs for Christ, made the ultimate sacrifice, and I stayed home from Divine Liturgy because of a sore throat. I’ll grant you that my throat was mighty sore, but these twenty-one men had their throats cut. Twenty-one families lost husbands, sons, brothers, fathers, and my attention? It’s on the storm raging outside my window, though there is a bigger storm going on throughout the world. The People of the Book are waging war against the People of the Cross. I need that cross written in blood across my heart. I need that cross weighing on my hands, my back…
While I sit here, safe and warm, my concerns seem so trivial, my pleasures so trite. There us a deeper and truer place to walk, it seems, though the road appears to be the same. It’s like The Matrix, what seems real and beautiful and enjoyable are simply keeping us quiescent in the face of our own destruction.
I recently watched part of the Grammy Awards. The opening number boldly proclaimed that we are on a highway to Hell. The crowd danced and clapped, and sang along, sporting devils horns on their heads. I could have wept. I probably should have. Proudly they proclaimed something so dreadful, so awful. All in fun, of course.
The evening continued on, but I couldn’t help but think that our national past time seems to be to laugh at the very idea that we could be on the highway to hell. But I believe most fervently that these 21 latest martyrs are welcomed into the arms of our Savior. I have to wonder if there is enough evidence to convict me of being a Person of the Cross.