Good Friday, April 22, 2011
Rev. Lynn Michie
Sometimes there are no words. To speak at all would only muddy the waters or cheapen the cost. To try to explain would look like a clumsy cover up. To try to console would only bring more grief. Sometimes only silence carries enough power.
Surely Good Friday is one of these times. How can we put words to the violence and evil closing in on every side? How can we speak of the horror bearing down on Jesus? What can we say about the cowardice and betrayal of his friends? What language can capture the disappointment that thickens the air, the despair that sickens the soul? How can we bear to witness, much less address, the intolerable silence of God?
We fumble for words because it is what people do when we want to understand, to connect, to give meaning, to share our grief or outrage. We speak, we touch, we cry, we embrace, we try to say something that will help it all make sense. But Jesus, on this dark night, has none of these small comforts or communions. He is utterly alone.
It is curious to me that the masters of the lectionary have chosen to have us read the gospel of John every year on Good Friday, rather than mixing it up with the other gospels. Each year on this dark night we hear only the softened version of the story, the one with the least agony, the one in which Jesus goes willingly and philosophically to his own death. It makes it all a little easier for us when Jesus is so stoic.
John’s version of the story uses a tone of detachment, leaving out the emotion, desperation even, of the other gospels. John underplays the disciples’ desertion of Jesus and minimizes Peter’s denial. This gospel skips the agony of Gethsemane, where in Matthew Jesus throws himself on the ground, throws himself on the mercy of God, and begs, “Is there not some other way?”
It seems to me that is the question of Good Friday. Did it really have to come to this? When Jesus cries out to God and asks if there is some other way, don’t’ we still hope that God will propose a different plan? We do not know what kind of response Jesus got to his question, but we know it wasn’t what he was hoping for. Did he get a response at all? Or did his cries meet a stony silence?
I asked my chaplain colleague at the prison if she thought it was ever appropriate, even during Holy Week, to preach a sermon without any good news. She said, “Well, I know I don’t want to hear it.” We’d probably all agree with that—we want, we desperately need to hear good news these days. And yet, for today, can we discipline ourselves to walk into the courtyard of the high priest, along with Peter, and sit down with him and with the guards and wait to see how this will end. Peter doesn’t know the end of the story. Caiaphas doesn’t know how this will turn out, though he’s desperate to find some convincing lies about Jesus.
Even Jesus, does he really know how this is going to end? We are able to lighten some of the darkness of this night trial because we know Jesus will be vindicated in the end. It’s why we can call this Friday good. But they did not know. The disciples must think it’s all over, that all their dreams are a dead man walking.
When Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey, the people thought this was the beginning of a whole new world, a warrior king come to put things right. But now Jesus has allowed himself to be arrested by the religious authorities without even putting up a fight. Jesus is not turning out to be the Messiah they thought he would be. The disciples are confused, everything’s happening so fast and going so badly. What’s wrong with Jesus? Why won’t he save himself? Why won’t he save us?
Have you ever asked these questions? Has Jesus turned out to be not what you expected? Has Jesus ever disappointed you? In the wee hours of the morning when you needed a savior, has he ever left you there, utterly alone?
Barbara Brown Taylor quotes a preacher friend who tells her about a recurring nightmare. She says, “I had it again last night. In the dream I die and find myself standing before the house of God. When I knock, the door blows open and it is clear no one has lived there for a very long time. The place is vacant. There are dust balls everywhere.” The woman, swamped with grief, says, “All I want is to hear God call me by name. I would give anything just to hear God say my name.”
Why is it that God sometimes seems to go into hiding just when we need God most? We are like Peter, sitting in the dark—scared, confused, weak, watching life tumble out of our control, not knowing how the story will end but knowing it doesn’t look good. It appears that all is lost and there is no one to save us.
About a year ago Jeff Bridges won an Academy Award for his role as Bad Blake in the movie Crazy Heart. Bad is a broken down, alcoholic, has-been country music star who’s reduced to playing gigs in bowling alleys. Bad Blake makes some very bad choices and as one reviewer puts it, “He smokes and drinks as if trying to settle a long-ago bet between his liver and his lungs about which he would destroy first.”
At Bad’s lowest point, he is passed out drunk from the shame and guilt of almost ruining two people he loves. He wakes up just enough to pick up the phone, call a friend and say, “Wayne, I wanna get sober.” In the end, he doesn’t even come close to getting everything he wants, but he does get sober and he does clean his kitchen. It’s a realistic story of redemption, powerfully captured in the title song that says, “Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try.” Are we not suckers for a good redemption story? We cling to the hope they offer. We are a people who walk in hope because we know how Jesus’ story ends. That’s the Easter message. But before we get to Easter, on this dark Friday night, are we willing to ask ourselves the question none of us really wants to think about: what about all the people who don’t live to see redemption, all the people who never make it to Easter, at least not on this side of glory.
—What about the old man who waited too long to make amends with his son and now is dying, wasted and alone?
—What about the woman who works three jobs to feed her family but never climbs out of poverty?
—What about the little girl who is raped repeatedly by her father and never, her whole life, never recovers?
—What about the innocent baby boy who dies in the crossfire of a very grown up war?
—What about the woman who’s been in and out of rehab but dies in a cheap motel when her addiction finally wins?
—What about the guy next door whose life is fine, he has everything he needs, but his heart is closed and he’s resigned himself to a lesser life?
The cries of despair go out to God, but there is no response. Just for tonight, can we watch and wait with all those people who wonder where God has gone?
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? How do we reckon with a God so silent?