Good Friday. By this point in the annual Lenten slog, I was usually running on fumes, summoning the energy to handle one more service–the subdued Tenebrae that would end in darkness and silence– and then trying to leave the building before members of the Altar Guild ruined the mood and scurried about, prepping the nave for Easter morning.
Good Friday is not a misnomer or even a play on words. It’s a faith-filled reflection of how we came to feel about and understand what happened that day. It was, one might think, a bad Friday for Jesus. But it was a good day for those who believe, since Jesus carried the world’s sin on his shoulders all the way to the cross. As you might have heard, he died for us.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt the full impact of what that is supposed to mean. I’m not sure it ever happened. I so hope it did, but I have my doubts anymore.
For the faithful or the habitual attendees, one might think that one time through the church year would be enough to get the gist of the story. But we pastors had to always be taking closer looks, hoping for new slants and discoveries that took their time morphing into revelation that we could bend without breaking and turn into metaphors and allegories and timely stories that conveyed different ways of saying the same thing.
In other words, faithful churchgoers and even casual observers know how the story ends, but our lives tend to be a reflection of that passage from Mark 9: I do believe; help my unbelief.
The ritual doesn’t captivate the way it once did. It doesn’t even feel comfortably familiar anymore. Sadly, it feels more like a ruse, a crutch. We’re always waiting, as people suffer horribly and the world burns, and adapting to God’s timetable looks more and more like a fool’s errand.
3 Cents' 