The wind howled around the church last
night, beating in desperate fury against walls which will not yield. In Friday’s
darkness we knelt in prayer before a plain wooden cross, which stood in turn
before a bare altar, stripped of its coverings the night before. The candles,
the coverings, and the sacrament are hidden from view, and only the cross
remains.
Only the cross remains. We gaze transfixed,
unable this time to hide from the suffering. Creatures of dust and air, all we
do is run, but here the distractions are gone and there is nowhere to run.
Here we are, you and I, dwelling
day to day beneath a gray and unforgiving sky. Here we are, where friends
betray and fathers leave and mothers weep and children die before they open their
eyes. Here we are, where broken brains refuse to release endorphins, where
cells divide and divide until they destroy, where light passes us at a rate too
fast to see. In this quietly desperate universe, we must end the story at exactly
the right moment, because if we let it last too long, the marriage will end and
the gunfire will resume and the kingdom will fall. Here we are, where nights
are long and breathing hurts and hearts break and break and break. Here we are,
and here is the cross, and here is the rage we have felt for thousands of years.
My
God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
David wept, I’m sure, when he asked
the question buried within the soul of every man since the beginning of time. I
know, oh Father, that I am a worm and no man, that I am poured out like water,
that my bones break and my heart melts and I cry by day, and you do not answer.
Dear God,
why don’t you answer?
The church
is silent. The only answer is the crying vengeance of the storm outside. All I
see is a cross.
The cross
is carried out of the church, and Christ is laid in the tomb. His disciples hide.
We hide too. Saturday is here, and the earth is still. Beating rain has joined
the howling wind, and the grief remains. Why do you, too, hide your face?
The wind
beats more wildly, whirling with the power of every exploding star, the force
of every darkened ocean, and the light of every rising sun.
O my people, O my Church,
what
have I done to you, or in what have I offended you?
We kneel
again. The words are silenced. Our complaint is empty.
I
led you forth from the land of Egypt
and
delivered you by the waters of baptism,
but
you have prepared a cross for your Savior.
The God of Heaven demands an
answer, and we have none. It is still Saturday, the cross is ours, and we know
that He did not deserve to die. We nailed Him to a tree in our rage, and we
laid Him in the earth with our tears. We slew the Son of God and we are angry
at Him for dying.
O my people, what have I done to
you?
How
have I wearied you? Answer me!
There is
only one answer, and that is to kneel. We speak with trembling voices the only
words left to us. Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, have mercy on
us and on the whole world.
Don’t
forget. It’s still Saturday. There’s still time.
And I know
it sounds impossible. I know you’re afraid, and the rain hasn’t stopped, and
the grief of Good Friday lingers on your tongue like sour wine. But Easter is
tomorrow. Easter is coming.
It’s good
to weep on Friday and Saturday. There is no shame in tears of grief when the
world is dark and the Light of the world has been slain. But don’t forget. Don’t
forget.
You whose life
is filled with toil and labor, who work 12-hour days and never see your family,
who fear for your marriage, who have forgotten what it means to rest: Easter is
coming.
You who
fear the future, whose finances are failing, who don’t know who you are meant
to be, who fight through tests and papers and endless deadlines: Easter is
coming.
You who
battle illness, whose body is slowly breaking down, who work so hard to
breathe, who take every step in pain: Easter is coming.
You who see
the world painted in gray, whose brain has stopped making the right chemicals,
who keep a knife and a bottle of pills on your bedside table: Easter is coming.
You who
keep secrets, who bear the memory of sin alone, who believe that God could
never embrace a sinner like you, who want to return home but are too afraid:
Easter is coming.
Easter is
coming. The clouds will disperse and the sun will rise on Sunday morning to
reveal an empty tomb. The promise holds fast. The alleluia always returns. The bells ring the sound of Love that never
fails.
So hold on.
He hasn’t forgotten. Easter is coming, and God will answer at last with the
voice you have longed to hear. “Why are you weeping?” your Savior will ask you.
“Whom are you seeking?”
Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal
One, have mercy on us and on the whole world.
