The Last Moment
John 18-19
Friends, what do we do with a day like today? Do we allow the dark discomfort in, acknowledging the truth of death and reality of final breaths? Or do we avoid such heavy sadness and bleak lament? It feels like too much, doesn’t it? This wilderness has brought more loss than your spirit can handle—wilderness lack fused to your weary feet. It feels like trudging with a ball and chain dragging behind. Oh, where is the key for sweet relief from such a heavy burden of loss and lack? Must we sit in the tragic lament of today or can we please skip past it, bouncing from the traditional high of Palm Sunday to the high of Resurrection like an Easter Bunny?
My church experiences have long been ones of celebration and joy. Every Sunday is full of praise and victory, where God is good all the time and all the time, God is good. Protestant Christians have long swept out the lament and sadness, wiping every tear from every eye. We’ve removed Christ from the cross so our eyes never see suffering and our hearts never need to break. Icons with brokenhearted expressions have no place on our church walls or stained glass. Only white and blonde Jesus, exalted and lifted up in glory, eyes towards heavenly bliss, levitating above corruption and removed from suffering.
But this is a false and idolatrous view of Christ. We’ll get to resurrection, yes, but we must sit in the suffering of right now. We must turn our gaze on Christ whose eyes are not lifted up towards heavenly bliss but intensely focused downwards, on you and me. Christ’s wounded and bloodied body hanging on the torturous cross, not looking up but looking down and still lovingly whispering, “Father, forgive them. They don’t know what they’re doing.”
Oh Good Friday, you are not so good, are you? But you are honest—probably the most honest. You tell the truth about my desire for revenge and my quest for power and the contempt I feel when things don’t go my way. You reveal the blame I place on others—blame that stunts my own growth and shackles me in excuses. Good Friday, you leave me raw and exposed and exhausted by my desire be perceived in a certain way. You hold a mirror up to my finger pointing with disgusted blame towards those who crucified Beauty and I can see that finger pointing back at me.
When I look to the cross on this Good Friday, my heart breaks open in my own denials, in my own betrayals, in my own wounding of Christ, myself, others, and this planet. And in the cross, I see a God not insecure, power hungry, greedy, or vengeful but broken, suffering, willing, and still full of love. In the cross, I see a God who looks nothing like me but gently beckons me to come closer. I’m not afraid or disturbed by death as I move closer to Christ. I can smell the blood and flesh. I can hear his ragged breathing as I reach my hand towards his callused feet—one crossed over the other with a train spike nailed through them, binding him to the cross. He never breaks his gaze from my own and I can sense it is taking every bit of effort for him not to come down and comfort me as my body wracks in sobs.
“It is finished.”
His blood drained out.
A life given for a life received.
A trade I didn’t deserve.
Oh Good Friday, maybe you are good.