Last night at Good Friday's Tennebrae service, we read Psalm 22 (a meditation on which by Wm. Stringfellow I had read earlier in the day). I couldn't help but think of Terri Schiavo as we read these lines in the darkening church:
12 Many bulls surround me;
strong bulls of Bashan encircle me.
13 Roaring lions tearing their prey
open their mouths wide against me.
14 I am poured out like water,
and all my bones are out of joint.
My heart has turned to wax;
it has melted away within me.
15 My strength is dried up like a potsherd,
and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth;
you lay me in the dust of death.
16 Dogs have surrounded me;
a band of evil men has encircled me,
they have pierced my hands and my feet.
17 I can count all my bones;
people stare and gloat over me.
18 They divide my garments among them
and cast lots for my clothing.
I thought and prayed about her dehydration, cracking lips, and Terri's body as broken potsherds. I thought and prayer about the needles and I.V.s that have pierced her hands. If you've followed my comments on this, then you know that I do not see any heros here, with the possible exception of Terri.