For the second time today, we come here together at the foot of this great oak tree that has been struck by lightning.
Oaks and thunder were once closely linked in the minds of the earliest inhabitants of Europe. They were the expression of the all-powerful. An oak that has been struck by lightning is like a powerful god that has been torn apart by his own anger.
We too can become kings and lacerated oaks within the monastery that has no walls or occupants and where our procession will continue through the night.
We have chosen this holy Friday night deliberately in order that we may be brought to that encounter with the great decapitated existence of an oak tree. But there is no lamentation on our part.
We want the image of our destiny to rise up before us from the shadows; we want sulphur’s fumes to make us breath in the near or distant faltering of death as it makes its way towards us.
But it is the dark hope of the crime, not remorse, which fills us with anguish. What our hope is searching for in this execution is the festival that heralds the coming of EMPIRE.