I walk up to the Peterson farm just to hear the wind in the trees in their dooryard, the pines especially. There’s an old apple tree that has a big fat trunk, and is so misshapen it seems like it has grown out of a fairy tale. A flock of redwing blackbirds settled by the willows. I don’t know how the leftover golden rods, sticks really can hold their weight, but it does. My mind was quiet walking out. Aiden and Oma quiet as well. The sky grey? The wind cold, bitter.
But when I turn back toward home, the hurt from old rejections ached like arthritis when the storm comes. The I-wish-I-could-say script rises, from broken unfinished friendships that met abrupt silence. I wish I could say how not making the cut as a friend hurt, but I was trained that speaking up for my pain was akin to revenge, or I might add to their hurt, failing at kindness. That kind of talk can make it worse. As I walked down the hill, I hauled my thoughts into blessing them, and the question, should I even respond or just let it go? I hauled my thoughts to Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me a sinner.
My answer came in Eugene Terekhin’s “Eradicate Nothing: Why the Only Radical Act Is Not Uprooting the Other but Returning to the Root”:
“There are only two ways to address a conflict. One is horizontal — to go to the other party and try to resolve a situation in whatever way possible. The other is vertical — to step back from the problem and turn to the Source.
Horizontal approaches to conflict often overlook a deeper reality: that conflicts, contradictions, disagreements, and enmity are symptoms of our disconnection from the Source.1
A few paragraphs down he says,
When fragmented beings attempt to resolve a conflict horizontally, they end up striking and repelling each other even more. When polar opposites try to move closer on the same plane, without restoring their inner unity, the result is always more collision.Â
Harmony is a miracle. It emerges by itself when we change the plane — when, instead of “breaking through” to others horizontally, we rise vertically. We put the horizontal problem on hold and turn to the Source of inner unity.Â
Beings striving to move closer to other beings horizontally, create more strife. Beings moving closer to Being itself, will inevitably become closer to other beings.”1
The redwing blackbirds had scattered. The wind cut my hands.
Lately the cross has become a mystery to me, so much so, I feel like talking about holy week. How could the disciples not be horrified when Jesus said, “Take up your cross and follow me.” They saw the horror daily. They saw how Jesus suffered. How could I even begin to take it up?
I know the loneliness, the shame of being who I am, not quite settled in how I am made in God’s image and loved so much that Jesus rescued me from sin and death. But my shame is louder than that love. I have stood in front of a classroom of recalcitrant teenagers, with the voice, “You suck. You suck. You suck” running through my head. But this week it seems my Substack readings have answered my questions. Stephen Freeman has talked about how it was the shame of the cross, not the physical pain, that we can identify with. He says:
“I have noticed, across the years, that the texts for the services of Holy Week make far more mention of shame and envy (the “mocking and the spitting”) than they do of the specific suffering of the crucifixion itself.
St. Paul said, “I am crucified with Christ, nevertheless, I live…” Our attention is drawn to the Cross and its nails. However, if crucifixion is primarily an act of public shaming, then we have far more literal opportunities to be crucified with Christ. The mocking and the spitting, if only in their lesser forms, are likely common to us all.
Of course, there’s a very quiet crucifixion of shame endured by many: the torturous voices that haunt our lives, whispering in the dark. The insidious power of such shame makes us want to hide (hiding is in the very nature of shame). It attacks more than our actions – it goes for our very self.2
A few paragraphs later he says,
If it is true that we are “crucified with Christ,” then it is also true that Christ is crucified “with us.” The mocking and the spitting that we undergo in our own minds and lives is something that Christ has made His own. We are not alone. This is at the very heart of God’s love. In my pastoral experience through the years, I see that we doubt the love of God. We are unworthy (of course). We fail to love Him in return (of course). There is something within us, I think, that makes us give greater weight to the words and thoughts of shame than we do to the assurance of God’s love.2
This week the Daily Office took me to readings from Lamentations. Lamentations paired with holy week. Jesus cursing the fig tree. Jesus overturning the merchants’ tables. Jesus weeping because beloved Jerusalem would be destroyed. Even though they are the words of the prophet Jeremiah, Lamentations sounds Jesus’ lament for his beloved Jerusalem soon to be destroyed.
[a]How deserted lies the city,
    once so full of people!
How like a widow is she,
    who once was great among the nations!
She who was queen among the provinces
    has now become a slave.
2 Bitterly she weeps at night,
    tears are on her cheeks.
Among all her lovers
    there is no one to comfort her.
All her friends have betrayed her;
    they have become her enemies.3
But they are also our words as we see the turmoil and chaos in our country, not only that, the west in general. We have leaders who make chaos, leaders who say vindictive words with regards to the people who see things differently. We see the injustice of money we hoped would help people squandered. We were promised no new wars, but here we are, our leaders hoping our aggression will bring peace. It never does. We are destroying our farmland. We are destroying our wildland. Our culture has not been kind to children.
And yet despite the destruction, Jeremiah cries out hope:
I called on your name, Lord,
    from the depths of the pit.
56 You heard my plea: “Do not close your ears
    to my cry for relief.”
57 You came near when I called you,
    and you said, “Do not fear.”4
We too can hear can know how the Lord draws near, how he says, “Do not fear.”
But it was the black gloves that got to me when our pastors stripped the altar on Maundy Thursday. Stripped Jesus. Despising the shame, but for the joy set before him. Did he hold that joy as he was stripped of his skin and muscles, when he was scourged?
Despite the bitter loneliness, Judas’ betrayal, Peter’s denial, the rest of the men scattered, the mocking, the excruciating pain of being nailed down, with not even the ability to whisk away flies, did Jesus see the multitudes gathered that John witnessed in Revelation? Did he hold fast to the end of “My God, my God why have you forsaken me—the promise that kings would come to him?
All the ends of the earth will remember and turn to the LORD, and all the families of the nations will bow down before him, for dominion belongs to the LORD and he rules over the nations.
All the rich of the earth will feast and worship; all who go down to the dust will kneel before him— those who cannot keep themselves alive. Posterity will serve him; future generations will be told about the Lord.
 They will proclaim his righteousness, declaring to a people yet unborn: He has done it!5
The moment he died, the graves of the saints opened in Jerusalem and visited people. He lead captivity captive. He harrowed hell. In the fields across the street farmers harrow the fields, sinking chisels into the soil, softening it so plants can grow. Before chemicals they ran down crop rows to pull weeds. Jesus ran down the rows pulling people out of Sheol. The minute he died Jesus was swallowed by the monster death and burst out of it, shattering its power over creation. He descended to hell, and returned with the keys to death and hades. I need to remember that—he holds the keys, when I tremble with my own fear of death.
All week our local weather forecasters warned we’d get seriously severe weather. There were no spectacular clouds as it moved in, just darker and darker gray. I worried about the squirrel that looked up at the house. I worried about the redwing blackbirds. On TV the weather woman’s voice stating where the tornado warned storms were, just south and west of us. Then rain and wind. All of it smeared across the yard. We carried the cats and pulled the dogs downstairs. Hauled my purse and some papers, a few necklaces. When Bruce said it was fine, I climbed back up. When the storm quieted, I could see off to the south the fire of the remaining sunset. Our fields were glorious pools of water.
For the final dog walk that evening, the dogs pulled me to walk farther than I wanted around the path behind the chicken house and the shed. Aiden delighted in sloshing through the fields, but his joy was too much. I untangled myself from the leashes again and again, a little worried I’d land in the horse manure we’d recently spread. Orion was sinking to the horizon. Lightning flashed off to the east. So she could take care of her business, Oma dragged me to the south pasture, when I saw Bruce’s light walk out our driveway. He said he was worried one of the dogs had gotten away. All our trees held.
References
1 Eugene Terekhin. “Eradicate Nothing: Why the Only Radical Act Is Not Uprooting the Other but Returning to the Root” https://eugeneterekhin.substack.com/p/eradicate-nothing-why-the-only-radical
2 Stephen Freeman, “Bearing Shame with Christ.” Glory to God for All Things. https://glory2godforallthings.com/2026/03/30/bearing-shame-with-christ/
3 Jeremiah 1: 1- 2, NIV
4 Jeremiah 3: 55
5 Psalm 22: 27-31, NIV
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