Where is God - response to the closed Isenheim Altarpiece

“Where is God?” murmured those plagued by ergotism, 

consumed by the burn of St. Anthony’s fire.

Meanwhile, “Where is God?” groaned those crammed into slave ships, 

their bodies ravaged by smallpox.

And years later, “Where is God?” whispered Jews in the camps 

as a rim of black smoke swallowed the blue sky.

Even now, “Where is God?” wonder 

Afghan women beneath their burqas; 

mothers whose daughters are trafficked; 

fathers whose sons are lost to war.

 “Where is God?” wonder 

Uyghur families torn apart in detention camps; 

Rohingya refugees, stranded and poor; 

Palestinians and Israelis burying their sisters.

 “Where is God?” wonder 

Ukrainians searching for their missing brothers; 

Yemeni towns starving in silence; 

Indigenous tribes watching their lands burn.

Yet God, with fingers curling under a rusty nail, 

is in every cough of the sick.

God, with a collapsing belly and bulging wounds, 

sits on an infested slave ship

and rots in a labor camp.

God, with blood dripping from his crown,

runs with those who flee, 

sits with those who weep, 

and cries with those who bleed.

God is in the shortened breath of Mary,

 as she collapses into the arms of St. John.

God is in the tears of Mary Magdalene,

as she suddenly falls to her knees.

Mothers who gaze into the eyes of their ailing daughters

look into the eyes of God.

Fathers who cradle their dead sons 

cradle the face of God.

Brothers who search for their missing sisters

search for God.

Sisters who tend to their bleeding brothers

tend to God.