Lingering on Good Friday

We left the church last night in silence, after watching the purple vestments of the Lenten season carefully removed from the altar.  Each pastor lifted the stole from the neck of their robes and handed them over, expressing the surrender and darkness of what is unfolding. It was all taken away…the bread and cup, the vestments, the vessels, and the crucifer. 

I had a deep sense of pending loss. Of persecution or injury, perhaps, to the church that we know. A time when our practice is rejected. A season in which we are called to face the reality of what we have allowed, or not allowed.  Maybe complacency. Or perhaps enjoying the comfort and security of a religion that has largely moved us along in a direction we could all embrace. It didn’t require more than we were willing to give. 

But what is this? What is this cross that keeps showing up in the middle of our beautiful practice? What is this pain that keeps emerging? Some discomfort that says something is not quite right. What are these signs that say, “no more”? The cross is part of the redemptive story; we can’t remove it. If it is the way of redemption, why do we treat sacrifice as if it doesn’t belong in the story we are living every day? 

Is that our denial? Like Peter, “we don’t know him”, because it doesn’t match anything we expected out of life. What a disappointment it must have been for Peter. He thought he was part of God’s kingdom coming to fulfillment. Instead, the one he has known as Messiah is under arrest and all signs point to crucifixion. It’s messy. It’s awkward. There’s too much mercy in all the wrong places.  Peter took such a risk to go down this path, and it’s falling apart. “I don’t know him”.

It feels better when we can point to someone else’s failure or sin as the cause of our disruption. It makes it easier to not see the cross in my own house if I’m peering out at my neighbor’s unkept lawn. I can forget that I may be contributing to the injustice in our world if I keep my eyes focused on the way my colleague, or family, or friend, or enemy is doing life so imperfectly. Ughh…. So many voices were there on what we call “Good Friday”. 

Pilate in his role of leadership and order. High priests in their role of religious expertise and upholding the righteousness of God. Disillusioned and disappointed disciples that can’t understand why Jesus is letting this all happen. Crowds that love the drama and the chance to express their anger onto a helpless man whose sheer physical suffering makes them feel powerful. Shouts of cruelty. Physical injury. The sport of condemnation and humiliation. Women who refuse to leave and can’t hold back their tears for what the men are doing to one another and to the one they know is Christ; observers of those in charge.  Others who are ready to take advantage of the moment and get what they want out of the situation; making sure their seat in eternity is secure. 

So many voices were there. Enough that I can find myself somewhere in the scene, although it would feel much better to imagine I’d be walking through those hours more faithfully than they did.

Sitting with the text of Good Friday, I do wonder, in what ways am I ignoring the part of the gospel that teaches us that sacrifice is included in the way of redemption? The kingdom of God is fulfilled on earth, not by my comfort, but by through sacrificial suffering and living with Christ’s death and resurrection. The invitation Jesus makes is to let our selfishness die, allowing God’s spirit in us to become fully alive.  

It really does mean, “not my will, but thine”.  It does mean setting aside my pride and desire for success and taking up obedience in whatever way God asks me to be obedient in any season. Like Jonah appointed to Nineveh or Peter being instructed to eat what was once “unclean”, it means Jesus becomes Lord of my life, and I follow him.  

It means I need to stop telling myself a story that makes me feel better about the cross I’m refusing to take up to follow Jesus. 

So many voices were there at his arrest, while the humiliation and trials take place; the condemnation is secured, as the crucifixion is planned and executed. 

Lingering on Good Friday, I am struck silent in realizing how many voices are present right now, doing the same: hurling insults, inflicting injury, making fun, condemning, discounting, and shouting, “crucify!”.

I remember echoes of Jesus teaching something like: “whatever you did for the least of these you also did for me.” And “whatever you did not do for the least of these, you did not do for me.” – Matthew 25:31-46 (NIV)

Is it a misinterpretation to say, whatever I do to someone else, I am also doing to Christ? 

I hear a voice speaking through my pondering. It is clear. There is a way we are to live in all seasons. Seasons of war and peace.  Seasons of plenty and seasons of famine.  Jesus gave the disciples a new command. It has not changed over time. There is no “revised” version. It contains no trademark, logo, denomination, flag or label:  

Love one another as I have loved you. This is how they will know you are my disciples.

“A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” – John 13:34-35 (NIV)

Lord, on this Good Friday when we tell your story, help us to tell it humbly and truthfully. Lord, on this Good Friday, when we hear the story, help us to receive it fully. Lord, through this Triduum, help us to see the places in our lives where we are denying you and refusing to carry the cross that will lead us into the kingdom on earth as it is in heaven. We have no good apart from you, Lord, and we are quite helpless to save ourselves. Come quickly Lord Christ to assist. Thank you for not giving up on us. Amen.