People want to move
directly from Palm Sunday to Easter. Even before the pandemic, Maundy Thursday
services were poorly attended in most churches; and Good Friday services are
virtually unheard of, except, maybe, in the Roman Catholic and some Episcopal
Churches.
The music of Good Friday is dark;
heavy with minor harmonies. It's not happy praise music. It's not Easter music;
it's about the crucifixion of our Lord; so, people want to take a shortcut from
Palm Sunday to Easter—stay in the sunlight and avoid the shadows of Holy Week:
the confrontation with the merchants who had commercialized the Temple, the
controversies with the religious leaders of the city, the open criticism and
plotting against Jesus, the betrayal of Judas...
The loud "Hosannas" of the
Triumphal Entry and the excited "He is risen!" of Easter are
separated by the cries of the rabble in the streets: "Crucify him!" Between
the Palm Branches and the lilies are the thorns. The praises and cheers of the
crowd give way to the mockery of concocted charges, and the cloaks thrown in
his pathway are replaced by the sting of the whip, the burden of the cross, nails
and a spear.
We'd rather avoid the darkness. In
fact, North American culture in general has become, not so much an Ayn Rand
seeking of pleasure as a Pollyanna avoidance of unpleasantness—not so much
moving toward Easter as going around Good Friday—looking for a shortcut.
Through Christ God offers
"LIFE"—abundant and abiding. Humans respond, "Bless the life
I've already chosen, and make my chosen path easy and fruitful and full of lasting
happiness and pleasure."
God says, "I give you
life." Humans say, "God, here's what I want from you."
God says, "I give you my
Son." Humans say, "God, give me financial security and lots of time
for recreation and travel and kids who are good athletes and good students and
popular in school."
God says, "What I offer is
infinitely better." Humans respond, "Yeah, but I don't have time;
I've got to go here and do that and take the kids there and just look at my
calendar, God. I’m stressed out and I
just don't have time."
Today’s culture wants Easter—oh, and
Christmas—but fears the cost. But without Good Friday, Easter is just a
"fairy tale"—a shallow celebration of bunnies and fuzzy chicks and
colored eggs.
Resurrection means
nothing unless someone dies.
And therein lies the
"Good News". Someone already has died. But you know that. And I keep
coming back to a verse I remember from Paul: “If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all
people most to be pitied.” (I Corinthians 15:19 NRSV)
I don’t think that’s our problem. One of the
contradictions in Christianity today is the avoidance of “this life.”
I have a good friend who’s a pastor in another denomination who won’t have
anything to do with the democratic process in our nation. “I won’t vote,” he
says. “There’s no point. None of the social problems we have are going to be
worked out until Christ returns.”
Barbara Brown Taylor writes, “But Jesus wasn’t
crucified because he preached about going to heaven when we die. He was
crucified because he called upon the wealthy to feed the hungry. He was crucified
by law and order allied with religion, which is always a deadly mix. Beware
those who claim to know the mind of God and are prepared to use force, if
necessary, to make others conform. Beware those who cannot tell God’s will from
their own. Temple police are always a bad sign. When chaplains start wearing
guns and hanging out at the sheriff’s office, watch out. Someone is about to
have no king but Caesar.”[1]
Will Willimon wrote in his blogsite, “Peculiar
Prophet,” “I remember being at a retreat once where the leader asked us to
think of someone who represented Christ in our lives. As we shared, one woman
stood up and said, “I had to think hard about that one. I kept thinking, ‘Who
is it that told me the truth about myself so clearly that I wanted to kill him
for it?’”
According to John’s gospel, Jesus died because he
told the truth to everyone he met. He was the truth, a perfect mirror in which
people saw themselves through God’s own eyes. And we humans don’t want to see
ourselves as we are. We want to see ourselves as we fantasize: superhero/super
model/super mom, and “right” about everything. We don’t want truth; we want
confirmation.
What happened then is happening now. In the
presence of Christ’s integrity, human pretense is exposed. In the presence of
his faithfulness, human self-deceit is brought to light.
And so, he must die. The world wants him dead:
Caesar wants him dead, and Caiaphas wants him dead, because he refuses to confirm
the way of life they have chosen, and they refuse to look into the mirror of
truth with which he confronts them.
Resurrection means
nothing unless someone dies. New life is costly. Its price is the rejection of
all that contradicts the abundant life Jesus preached, lived to the fullest, and
offers to all humanity. But we are limited by the clay of which we are made, and
so Paul writes, “For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but
then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I
also am known.” (I
Corinthians 13:12 NRSV) In view of these limitations, the poet writes, “The world
is too much with us.”[2]
Resurrection means
nothing unless someone dies. But Sunday’s coming!
That’s the way it
looks through the Flawed Glass that is my world view.
Together in the Walk,
Jim
