John 18:1-19:42 & the Good Friday liturgy, found on page 276 of the Book of Common Prayer
The Maundy Thursday sermon at St Mark’s & Grace was given this year by our ministry intern, Kathy Maddox, a Candidate for Ordination to the Sacred Order of Deacons. If you missed worship this year, and you would like to read my sermon from last Maundy Thursday, it can be found here. Email me if you would like to request a copy of Kathy’s sermon.
It is tempting, on this day, after the vibrant drama of Jesus’s life comes to an abrupt end, to turn our faces to Sunday. It is tempting to turn the page, to hurry past the tomb where Christ’s body has been laid. We are ready for that stone to be rolled away before it has even settled into its place, threatening to engulf us in the claustrophobia of mortality. The promise that nothing separates us from the love of God is much more energizing than the hard truth that today we are separated from Jesus by more than a heavy stone. We know the end of the story, we know what comes next, and like children who grasp for the back cover of the picturebook before our reader is ready to turn to the next page, we face the temptation to keep it moving. But that is not what we are here to do today, it isn’t what the ancient traditions of Good Friday invite us to experience. This is the day of the flatline, the quiet after the last breath. Before we can feel the sunrise on our faces, we first must give our hearts and minds and bodies the time to know that death is here, that the light of the world has gone out. Jesus is dead, and we must be witnesses of this if we have any chance of witnessing what comes after.
Good Friday is a day for the bereaved, for mourners and those overcome by grief and devastated by violence and tragedy and senseless loss. In the world we live in, if any of us do not count ourselves among this number, we are not paying attention. Some of you have heard me say that grief has no respect for our schedules, it overtakes us at both expected and unexpected moments. Grief cannot be avoided or delayed without severe consequences to our health, to our bodies and our minds. Even then, it will come unbidden, breaking through our coping mechanisms and our self-medication and our strength and our positive attitude. When we love, when we hope, grief is inevitable. Jesus commanded us to love one another as he loves us, which means there is no discipleship without grief. We are commanded to a life of love, and so we are called also to be mourners.
It is utterly, entirely human to grieve and so Good Friday is a very human day. In grieving today, we join the people who knew and loved Jesus best. We sit quietly with the terrified disciples, struck silent by their shock and grief and shame. We rehearse with Peter the moment of his greatest failure, the denial of his friend and teacher, and all the events that led to it, looking for the moment when he took the first wrong turn that led to this pain. We walk with the ones who followed Jesus all the way to the cross and stood vigil over his last breaths and remembered his last words, the women who kept going when the men and boys could no longer stand. We join also those who were the last to speak to Jesus, the soldiers and the religious leaders and the Roman officials. We marvel with the servant whose ear was severed and healed in a matter of moments, and the soldiers who were so awestruck by Jesus’s willingness to face his accusers that their knees went weak. We stare into the distance with Pilate’s wife, the woman who tried to stop this tragedy but her disturbing dream about Jesus was not enough against the fomenting riot. We stare at our hands with Pilate and Caiaphas and Annas, replaying in their heads every word and silver piece exchanged, weighing the cost. And somewhere, we are with the people who loved Judas, who lost him to a moment of human weakness and two decisions that could not be undone. So much loss. The last breath has left the lungs of God, and the world has gone dark and quiet in its wake.
The Lord we get on Good Friday is not the kind of Lord we want. We want a Lord who eradicates our suffering, not one who experiences it. We want a Lord who erases our enemies, not one who allows himself to be handed over to them. We want a Lord who looks like us and not like them. One that makes us smile and not weep. We want a Lord who makes us feel big and strong, not a Lord who makes himself small and weak. We want an immortal mythology we can mold, not a dead God we must bury. I’ve heard some Christians say that worship should always be uplifting, church should be a place where we always leave feeling good and the message is always positive. All I can think when I hear that is that Jesus was lifted up, not to a throne or on the shoulders of an adoring crowd, but on the hard wood of a cross. Uplifting sometimes looks like an execution. A life of faith that makes an idol of positivity is a life of faith where grievers are not welcomed, including Jesus who wept and was deeply disturbed in his spirit when he encountered suffering and death. Good Friday is for the grieving, for the mourners and the deniers and the doubters and the betrayers. Good Friday is for Mary and for Mary Magdalene and Peter and Thomas and Judas. Good Friday is for Pilate, and Caiaphas, and Annas, and the crowds. Good Friday is for all of us, or Easter is for nothing.
Mother A Writes 