[Propertalk] Good Friday

[Robert P Morrison]

Our Deacon preaches on Maundy Thursday this year. Here's the Good
Friday draft from me.
Happy Maundy Thursday!
Bob

	THE EPISCOPAL CHURCH OF ST. ALBAN, ALBANY GOOD FRIDAY

	ISAIAH 52:13 – 53:12 25th MARCH, 2016

	HEBREWS 10:16-25 PSALM 22

	JOHN 18:1 – 19:42

	 In some sense, the Gospels are a record of failure: failure of the
disciples; failure of the broader community and the visitors to their
homeland; failure of Jesus Himself, as He worked to spur the hearts,
the minds, the imaginations of all who listened to Him. But if the
Gospels are such a record, then they end up as triumphant, as they
allow each of us in our brokenness to become part of the story. The
Gospels, and, most especially, the record of this day, speak to the
way that Jesus walks through the dakest times in our lives, and never
flinches at the smells, the sounds, or the sights – or, if He does,
then He doesn’t let them stop Him. Indeed, we come to hear the
story, year after year, and we’re touched by the silences, when
nothing seems capable of being said; we’re moved by the darkness
which often seems impenetrable by light. But we sit, we stand, we
kneel, not thinking about moving away, because what we find here, what
we experience, speaks to us to the depths of our beings. Especially,
so it seems, in times of crisis, when the temptation is to despair and
to lash out.

	 It was not always so, of course. We need turn only to the accounts
to see that. People continually misunderstood Jesus. They confused
what was valuable and what was less important. They didn’t see how
all things were being made new. They saw things happening only in
their own terms. When they discovered Jesus confronting their beliefs
and their sense of security, they backed off. Indeed, often the struck
out, verbally AND physically. So Judas betrayed; Peter denied; the
group as a whole tried to isolate Jesus from contact with those with
whom they were uncomfortable. And the onlookers, especially those who
thought they were in charge; they lapped it up, believing that Jess
was playing right into their dirty hands. Above all, everyone one of
them fled from the arrest, the trial and the cross. 1

	 They couldn’t stand it because they couldn’t understand it.

	 And this is how it can be for us. For a variety of reasons, not
everyone comes to these liturgies between the two bench-mark Sundays.
Perhaps the rawness of the emotions, the bluntness and nastiness of
what is described, the starkness of the silences and the shadows cast
in the half-light; perhaps these disturb us so much. Yet we come,
because in all that we hear and see, that we taste and smell, even in
the cross itself, we find ourselves. We find our own situations
addressed by Jesus. We see Him subjected to incredible viciousness. We
see Him as people more than strip Him of His clothes but also of His
dignity, as they think they reach the core of His being. We see Jesus
ridiculed and His flesh torn. But we see Jesus submit to this for OUR
sakes. So WE come. WE sit here, and listen, and reflect, and cringe,
because what Jesus bore speaks to all the doubts, all the questions,
all the disappointments, all the failures of our own lives. We come
because Jesus draws us to embrace Him and, in turn, to be embraced by
Him. We come so that in the midst of all that we don’t understand,
we can take hope that He takes up our sufferings and becomes present
with us as we each make our own journeys.

	 No matter that it would have been easier, certainly more convenient,
nt to be here, we come because in Jesus’ cross and passion, we see
that He has redeemed the world, including everything about and within
us.

	 But at what cost?

	 Even here, though, we find that not all our questions are answered.
Just as this night is but one part of a three-day drama, and doesn’t
yet include the whole picture, so when we look, when we listen, when
we feel the mixture of emotions that are part of who we are right now,
so we find a curious ability to live with our questions all the way
through until answers come, whenever that may be.

	 This may seem to you, as it does to me, particularly relevant as the
world witnessed yet another attempt to demonstrate depraved
indifference to human life. Not that the attack on Brussels was the
only one in the past fourteen days. People scattered across multiple
continents suffered from violence and destruction whether from bombs,
bullets or barbaric starvation.

	 We still strip Jesus naked, on a daily basis, and demean Him till
all the sense of dignity is erased. There’s nothing left but hollow,
staring eyes, all in the name of religion.

	 Yet there can be something we can do, something we can offer. We ca
remind people of the cross and our longing never to have that
repeated. We can remind people of the love of Jesus, lifted high for
everypne to see. We can draw others into love in the midst of
tremendous pain. We can learn what it means to believe that Jesus
shared our life, and faced such cruelty, and offered His life for us.

	 In a few moments, a large cross will be brought through the space
where we sit, and placed where we can see it, where we can come to
touch it, and wonder at how incredible is God’s love for us.

	 Then, shortly after that, Jesus’ Body and Blood, in the Holy
Sacrament, will be brought in by the same route that the cross took,
and set in front of us. We shall pray. Then we shall eat and drink,

	 Always, Jesus is present, no matter where, no matter when. We may
ake that Presence to our comfort. And we can take that Presence to
others, to any, for the healing of the world. We are invited to bring
the sacrament into our lives – in Brussels, in Ankara, in Baghdad,
in South Sudan, in Jerusalem, in Gaza, in Yarmouk, in Madaya, in
Albany – everywhere Jesus offers His body.

	 But for now, it is enough that we are here, perhaps bearing witness
to ourselves, certainly to others, that the deepest darkness CAN be
faced.

	NOTE:

	[1] See, among others, “Short Stories by Jesus” by Amy-Jill
Levine. HarperOne, New York. © 2014. Page 2 ff.


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