Good Friday

As I sit at my desk, the marine layer is creeping in, uncurling foggy tendrils of gray mist. As the gray blanket settles, my brain begins to switch gears from mentally checking off the items on my to do list to preparing for the service this evening. I will get up from this desk soon, and change out of my blue jeans and put on a dress, a black one, because isn't it proper to wear a black dress to a funeral?

O dearest Jesus, what law hast thou broken,
that such sharp sentence should on thee be spoken?
Of what great crime hast thou to make confession?
What dark transgression?

As I sit at my desk, I think about why Good Friday has always held special meaning for me, and how it has become more dear to me the as the years have passed. Christmas, a birth and a promise of life. Easter, a rebirth and a promise of life everlasting. Good Friday, though, is all about death. The death of Jesus. The death of God. The death of my sins, all taken away by one man's willing sacrifice, a lamb without blemish or defect. God knows the creation in his image are visual learners, and what greater sacrifice can be shown, what more dear object lesson can be summed, than to point to the cross and echo John, "Look, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world!" But I know that more often than I would care to admit, I am not a believer pointing at the cross, echoing the man who ate locusts and wild honey, I am a Peter; I am a Pilate; I am a Pharisee. My god is no longer a lamb, but a golden calf: worldly posessions, a pet sin, guilt, hatred, anger, discord.

Whence come these sorrows, whence this mortal anguish?
It is my sins for which Thou, Lord, must languish;
Yea all the wrath, the woe, Thou dost inherit,
This I do merit.

At this desk I think back to a Good Friday nearly twenty years ago and I remember my father being moved to tears at the evening service. I remember sitting in the backseat of my parent's car, waiting for my father to finish locking up the church and my mom commenting, "Your father really loves his Lord, you know." It was dark and I couldn't see her face, but it was a comment that she just said, and it hung there with some gravity before my father came back and drove us home. I had faith, but I had no appreciation for it. My parents had both been through enough in their lifetimes to have an appreciation for their's.

What punishment so strange is suffered yonder!
The shepherd dies for sheep that loved to wander;
The Master pays the debt His servants owe him,
Who would not know him.

At my desk I can look out the window and see a rose bush. It is loaded with yellow flowers, some at full maturity, petals dropping with the onset of early death, but there are hundreds of buds, promising a season of showy glory. The Rev. pruned it to a nub last fall, and I was sure he had killed the plant, but lo and behold, I was wrong. Good Friday is about death, but I am thankful it does not end there. I am thankful for the showy glory of the angel on Easter morning and for the subtle presence of Christ at the tomb, so subtle that even his own followers did not recognize him. I can only imagine the joy leaping from their hearts into their faces as they realize what they are witnessing, and as I drive to church tonight, I will think and ponder about the coming weeks and how I too can show that joy and love and excitement.

Whate'er of earthly good this life may grant me,
I'll risk for thee; no shame, no cross, shall daunt me.
I shall not fear what man can do to harm me
Nor death alarm me.

And when, dear Lord, before Thy throne in heaven
To me the crown of joy at last is given,
Where sweetest hymns Thy saints forever raise Thee,
I, too, shall praise Thee.