Good Friday

I'll never forget my first Good Friday as an Episcopalian. I had grown up in a "free church" tradition, which, while faithfully preaching the centrality of Easter, was a bit thin on any sort of experiential way of engaging the average congregant. In the church of my childhood, it almost seemed that having packed pews on Easter was more important than contemplating the Empty Tomb. So, to actually live into the events of Holy Week liturgically was a novelty I had never experienced.

So, on a bright spring Good Friday in northeast Florida, I entered the church building.  My emotions were still reeling from the gritty pageantry of the night before -- washing feet, participating in the Eucharist, witnessing the stripping of the altar and the removal of all the liturgical furnishing that gave the worship space its particular character. We had gone out into the previous night with the real sense that Jesus was in the Garden once again, praying for the cup to pass from him. 

In the light of the midday, the starkness was gut-wrenching. A large, rough hewn cross occupied the top of the Chancel steps -- literally blocking any entrance to the altar rail. I had already been instructed that there would be no Eucharist celebrated or Communion distributed -- a way of calling our attention to the somberness of Good Friday -- THE day of penance and fasting. I sat through the readings, and though they were familiar, I heard them in a way I had never heard them before. The story of Jesus' Passion as told by the Gospel of John was gripping. The Solemn Collects confronted me with an awareness of the myopic nature of my usual prayers. We sang a hymn: Sing my tongue, the glorious battle; of the mighty conflict sing: tell the triumph of the victim, to his cross thy tribute bring. Jesus Christ, the world's Redeemer from that cross now reigns as King.

And then it was over. In silence we left the church building. My eyes blinked against the strong afternoon sun. My mind was racing with thoughts about the experience -- the connection between what had happened so long ago and what I had just witnessed. I knew I was centuries removed from the events. I knew there was no way I could claim an identification with any of the characters on that first Good Friday. I knew they were all safely in the recesses of history. But they were also part of me. The events had been made "present" for me...and I was made "present" to those events.

I'll never forget my shock of seeing folks strolling the sidewalks with their dogs or loved ones. Laughing. Chatting. Listening to music. Shopping. Going about their lives as if nothing at all important was going on around them. I wanted to scream, "Don't you know? Jesus is dead!" 

Today, is my 20th Good Friday as Episcopalian. I stepped out of church again today -- on an unseasonably warm spring day in Wisconsin. People were out in force. After a long winter of being indoors, who could blame them? Laughing. Chatting. Listening to music. Shopping. Going about their lives as if nothing at all important was going on around them. I still wanted to scream, "Don't you know? Jesus is dead!"

Then it dawned on me. Things haven't changed much. On the day Jesus died, people were busy living their lives too. Laughing. Chatting. Making music. Bartering in the market. In spite of the Gospel versions of the Crucifixion, my guess is, on the whole, Jerusalem didn't even miss a beat. What's one more dead, would-be prophet? What's one more country rabbi with messianic aspirations? What's one more misguided fool talking about the end of the world? 

Today is Good Friday. A few people paused long enough to remember the death of Jesus. A few people lingered at the foot of the cross. The vast majority of folks in this world (including those who have been marked with the sign of the cross in their own baptisms!) went about their business, unhindered by the old, well-worn story of  an innocent Man's demise -- unaware that, in a mystery known only to God, this singular death is a sign of God's undying commitment to gift all of humankind with life. 

Jesus is dead. The Church waits. And so do I.