Today is the middle of what the Church calls Holy Week, an odd name if you give it much thought; so many of the events are so very unholy. On Sunday Jesus entered Jerusalem to worshiping crowds shouting “our king has come at last,” “blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.” By Friday the same crowds that cheered him as a king will be jeering him as criminal flinging curses at him, spitting on him, and demanding that he be tortured and executed, and then he was.
Holy week.
“Good” Friday, we mark the death, the tearing, the darkness. How morbid. Really, it seems almost twisted, to intentionally sit in, to think about, to even try to relate to the evil that was poured out on someone – especially someone so undeserving of punishment as the one who came to bring life and light to a world that chose darkness instead. And it would be twisted; it would be morbid, except for one very important thing. The story did not end there, not by a long shot.
The story did not end on Friday, the story continued, began again, exploded in life and power on Sunday, Easter. As we come to the close of Lent, the completion of our journey with Jesus to Jerusalem, to the cross and then to the empty tomb, there is no more fitting way to do so than to enter into Good Friday, to sit and ponder the evil of a broken world, of broken systems of a broken you and a broken me; to try to comprehend the miracle and the mystery of the love that drove Jesus to take all of that brokenness and sin upon himself, to suffer, to be separated from God and then to die in disgrace. To enter into that reality and then to celebrate with even greater enthusiasm the even greater reality that Sunday is coming, that the story is not over, that it is not too late, because he has risen.
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