Mtr Mary Trainor

Dear friend,

Here we are, the day after that bloody day, that brutal murder.

Were you there? someone asked.

Yes, I was there, standing in the middle of the violent mob that was yelling, "Crucify him!” I am not sure why I was there. I didn’t seem to belong, and I didn’t seem to be able to leave. Just carried along with the crowd, I guess.

Then I caught a glimpse of him, the one they said was guilty. Oh, my God, his back was reddened with blood and ribbons of flesh from the whipping; and rivulets of blood steaming down from the crown of thorns. He struggled to stand straight, to walk.

I recognized him as the one who not so long ago helped a blind man to see. I was so moved by that healing and the gentleness of the stranger who brought it about. I inquired about this man, and everyone who spoke to me said the same, “He has helped so many. I heard just the other day that crowds follow wherever he goes, wanting his touch, his look, his love.”

Surely, I thought, the officials must have the wrong man. And how could I be so unwise as to get myself caught up in this group as an onlooker? I was worried about how it would end, because I could tell it wasn’t going well. I wanted to get out of there, but was sandwiched in, Plus, I thought maybe he could use a friend in the crowd, that maybe they wouldn’t do this awful thing if there were witnesses.

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

We finally arrived at the place that was prepared for three crucifixions. I stood among the others, mute with shock and disbelief. When I awoke that morning I had no idea that I would end up witnessing a murder.

I did nothing to stop it. Not that one such as I could have stopped the inevitable. Make no mistake, it was going to happen. Even Pilate, he knew the truth about Jesus. He went as far as he could to change the mob’s mind. But he had to consider the powerful forces to which he answers--and he gave in.

As for me, I did nothing to stop it, either, to protest the abuse and execution of this man I am now certain to be the Son of God. The painful truth that I have to live with is—by doing nothing, saying nothing—I was complicit with that mob, with torturers and killers.

Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.

What I saw of him, what I heard about, I believed. I believe he is the Messiah I’ve been awaiting. Perhaps you think me foolish, placing my trust in that itinerant preacher, giving what little money I had to further the Kingdom he talked about. Sometimes I wonder about myself. Who can care about me now, not so much for what I have done, but for what I didn’t do?

I heard that some of those who followed him regularly are now hiding out of fear.

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

Indeed, I was there. Afterward, as I waited, I learned some men were coming to claim Jesus’ body for burial. I felt compelled to follow. Yes, I was there.

Mtr Mary

Inspired by Were You There, an African American spiritual harmonized by Charles Winfred Douglas, an Episcopal priest. You may find this selection in “The Hymnal 1982,” No.172