DRY MARTYRDOMS

DRY MARTYRDOMS We persecute our prophets but honor our martyrs or so the old saw goes as it slips into the untapped universal subconscious. The blood of martyrs saturates the good soil where seeds grow into a forest of huge plants renting rooms to wayward birds. Yet there are dry martyrdoms: no true blood from real veins spilled like the rush of Niagara Falls, no blood splattered against the walls of dreams and hopes. There is the dry martyrdom of whirlwind perplexity as confusing as a wispy maze; of the slicing knife of self-doubt cutting through the membrane of courage; of the fear of what others think that paralyzes like a fence electrified; of the refusal to reveal our weaknesses as if we would be mocked with the artificial laughter of clowns; of ecstasy that fades with the chapel candle’s last flicker of inspiration and sinks into palaver prayer. As torturous as these dry martyrdoms can be, the problem with bloody martyrs is that they are never around to hear the glorious accolades that canonize them with ruby crowns. Our dry martyrdoms are crosses as real as the nails driven into his flesh but when we bend our crosses down and outward to contact others, we find that our crosses make the most beautiful, sturdy bridges.