Good Friday

Jesus is crucified. 

“Everyone was quiet, wanting to hear if Jesus did indeed have anything he wanted to say. Jesus slowly raised his head and looked right at Simon. He held his gaze for a minute in a way that I had seen many times. He actually looked like himself for a moment. He pulled himself up, took in a long breath of air, and slowly said, “I want you to know that I forgive you. You’re lost. You have no idea what you are doing.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I walked away from that hill, away from the holy city, and headed north. I felt like I was the one that was lost, and I certainly had no idea what I was doing. (The Samaritan’s Friend, page 68)

I stepped out of the psych ward and into the hall after visiting—we’ll call her Suzy. She was a preteen; a basketball playing, honest yet sneaky, beautiful, hilarious little girl. When she laughed, her crystal blue eyes sparkled like sun on a dew drop.

She hadn’t been laughing lately. On this day, her eyes were dull, and the self-inflicted wounds on her arm were fresh. 

When the door clicked shut, she began to wail. It was loud. It was feral. It was heart-rending. She cried from a hurt that was going to require a good deal more than a trip to the ice cream shop for a cone.

I couldn’t walk. I had to find a chair. I sat listening, unwilling to walk away while she wailed. I wanted to wail with her. I wanted to wail loudly. I wanted to paint the air blue with curse words. I wanted to beat on heaven’s door and demand an answer to my boiling “why?” Instead, I sat and silently cried with her until I couldn’t hear her anymore.

The day after tomorrow is Good Friday, and I can’t remember why they call it “good.” A beautiful human was crucified. He wasn’t assassinated like Abraham, John, Malcolm, Martin, and Bobby. He was legally arrested, tortured, and nailed to some erected lumber while religious folks stood around and waited for him to die. It’s hard to look, but if we are brave enough to truly look, we see the truth. Terrible happens. A magical rabbit leaving us a basket full of candy won’t make this right. 

Like the narrator in The Samaritan’s Friend, I want to walk away, but I intend to sit. 

I intend to sit because walking off and saying, “I’ll see you Sunday” seems disrespectful. It feels like I’d be making it less than what it is. Sure, Sunday’s coming, but it ain’t here yet.

Right now, children are crying, innocents are suffering, and the powerful are legally treating folks like they are a commodity. 

Of course we ask why, and it feels like we get no answer. But I do know that somehow the one on the cross does speak and is saying something to us in all this. I am not entirely sure what it is. I just know it’s something like, “I hear you. I know it feels like it, but this is not the end. Stay with me. I am certainly going to stay with you.”