Friday, March 29, 2013

Good Friday


Good Friday. It never really was that great. It was always overshadowed by expectations of Easter, expectations of family, food, fellowship. None of these expectations were really in the right place either. Only in the most recent years have I begun to understand and appreciate Easter. And only this week have I begun to understand Good Friday. So, let’s write on Good Friday then.

My plan for this weekend’s writings is as follows: one post each day for Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday. Today, on Good Friday, I want you to feel the brokenness of the crucifixion. Tomorrow, I hope you will feel the hopelessness and emptiness that  haunted this day that is so rarely mentioned. On Easter, I pray that you will see the incredibly beautiful picture that comes from all three together.

But today comes brokenness.

Throughout this day, especially toward the end, imagine the characters of the biblical narrative, each with their own respective sorrows and heartbreaks.

My heart breaks for Matthew. A tax collector, he was despised and rejected by his own people. He was a lowlife, a nothing even among his kinsmen. He was considered to be one of the foremost on the lists of greatest sinners. Then one day, Jesus chooses him. Jesus chooses to take this tax collector and make him a disciple, a fisher of men, a highly influential servant in the early church. Things are looking up! Can  you imagine his joy during the Triumphal Entry? Walking at the side of his Master! Overwhelmed with his glorious purpose of aiding the Messiah of his nation! And in a cruel twist lasting only a few hours, his Master is tried, condemned, and hung on a tree, humiliated. The one Person who saw past Matthew’s sin and decided to use him was dying, and dying the death of a common criminal. Matthew’s hopes of a future were gone. His purpose was gone like that, like a swift blow knocks the wind from the lungs. He was purposeless once more, and his friends had scattered. He was in anguish. He was crushed.

My heart breaks for Peter. A zealot, Peter doubtless expected Jesus to lead his nation in overthrowing their oppressors. He saw Jesus as the conqueror. Jesus was going to save them all, winning victory after victory for His beloved nation of Israel. At the Triumphal Entry, Peter must have thought, “Things are happening! Perhaps soon, we will begin to throw off these Roman dogs!” As with Matthew, Peter’s hopes were dashed, and beyond dashed. His Messiah was mortally wounded. Even if He were to be removed from the cross, He would have bled to death. And Peter had denied Him! Three times he did so. He had doubtless broken the relationship between himself and Jesus beyond repair. Betrayal.  That pain that comes with the incapacity to right a wrong. And Peter was stranded as well. He had no life aside from Jesus.

John, called the beloved disciple, was at the foot of the cross of Jesus. He loved Jesus so dearly, followed him so faithfully. He was there to witness the nails being driven. He witnessed the cruel soldiers’ mockery! He saw the thief on one side spit hate and heap slander upon Jesus, even while this thief’s own lifeblood seeped out! A dying man decided that with his last words he would hurl as much insult as he could upon this so-called “king”. How could they?! HOW COULD THEY?!  How John must have cried at the sight of these arrogant soldiers and this insolent, insolent thief insulting and taunting The King?!! This was Jesus Christ, the Christ, the Son of God, the God-man!!! Why? Oh, why?

Mary, Jesus’ mother. She raised Him from birth, loved Him as only a mother could. She doubtless watched with pride and joy as He grew into the role of teacher and rabbi, as He flourished in the eyes of God and man.  She was there also. She saw her baby boy, her child, her son whom she loved dearly being nailed to a tree! Being pinned like an insect. His emaciated and bloody body put through more and more anguish. She saw His final cry, and perhaps she even had an idea of what was going on. Far, far, far beyond any of the physical pain was the intense and searing wrath of God, burning hot upon Jesus’ spirit. Complete aloneness! Overwhelming and incomprehensible! Torment, anguish, WRATH! Every bit of sin from every man at every point in history! So much, so much blackness, so much dirtiness, so much WRATH to take in, so much sin to amend for! How Mary must have wept.

So much sorrow, so much sorrow! So much pain, so much grief. It makes me cry just thinking of it. The utter brokenness of that day. The fear that arose from the city as the darkness took the sky. The pain of every disciple and every follower, the feelings of isolation and lostness.

That was Good Friday. Jesus died on the cross, and His soul left His body. He left a broken world. He left a world FILLED, DRENCHED, SATURATED with sorrow.

 . . . . .

 . . . . .

 . . .but Sunday was coming . . .

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