Good Friday, Year A
A parent of a young child recently shared with me that their child asked a simple, yet profound question: “Why do we call it Good Friday?” A good question to consider, indeed.
Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is betrayed by one of his disciples?
Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is handed over to authorities and arrested and treated as a criminal?
Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is abandoned by His disciples?
Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is denied by a disciple?
Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is scourged, brutally and bloodily tortured?
Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is painfully crowned, mocked and beaten?
And why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is rejected by those he came to save, and put to death by crucifixion?
In all of these sinful human acts, in what is done and what is failed to be done, there is nothing good. But there is a fundamental Good on this day in the sacrificial giving of God and the obedience of Christ, who despite the betrayal, abandonment and abuse, rejection, and torture to death, remains faithful to the Father and steadfast to us.
God the Father gives, without holding back, his only begotten Son for our sake, providing the Sacrificial Lamb, once and for all. God, who in effect says to us, “I love you so much; see how much I love you, that I give the life of my only begotten Son that you might be healed, restored, redeemed, and brought to Eternal Life with us!”
And Christ, God the Son,
willingly and obediently
accepts the rejection and suffering and sacrifice of His life: all of which is His Passion, all of which is the eternal sacrifice of the Father. He does not turn away but remains steadfast in his commitment to our salvation. It is Christ who, in effect, says to us,
“I love you so much. Even though rejected and wounded, I do not turn away from you. I will never turn away from you, and I will not abandon you. Ever. I give you my body -- my flesh, my blood -- that you might have life, and have it more abundantly. I want you to live, truly live!”
In the actions of God the Father and Jesus Christ is nothing more, and nothing less than this:
so great a Love for us that they would go to these lengths, give so deeply, endure this suffering, make this final sacrifice once and for all of time, in the face of rejection, sin, and death. To
triumph
over rejection, sin and death. Two thousand years ago and here, today, for
our
sake, that we might be restored, redeemed, made whole, one with God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, and with each other.
And
that
is why it is called Good Friday.
Growing up on the family dairy farm, there were many difficult things we experienced. Certainly, there was much hard, physical labor. But among the hardest things we experienced was caring for sick animals, and in particular, caring for cows that had been injured or lost muscle strength and were unable to get themselves up to a standing position. This typically would happen around the time of calving and might be due to a nerve injury during birth or mineral and metabolic imbalances that affected muscle strength. We called them “down cows”. What was so hard about dealing with down cows was really two things: one, the size of the animals — often 1000 lbs. or more — made it difficult, if not impossible, for us to help them physically if they had little or no muscle strength of their own. Secondly, and more profound, was the emotional burden that weighed upon us as their caregivers. We wanted them to get better and be back on their feet. We loved our animals, as all farmers do, and we wanted the best for them. Although we could help them with support therapies and medicine with help from our veterinarian and made sure they had feed and water at all times, it felt like there was only so much in our control. And the longer a cow was down, the less likely it would be that she would ever rise again. Some never did. That outcome happened frequently enough that it was a real possibility. And there is nothing that was more discouraging for us as farmers than a cow we could not help to get better. It cast a pall over our days and robbed us of hope and joy — really, robbing us of life — replacing them instead with weary discouragement. Late one Lent going into Holy Week, we had one of these down cows. It was a year not unlike this one, with the signs of spring beginning to emerge in early April. My father used to say the best thing we could do for a down cow was to get her out of the barn and out onto the earth in the fields or pasture, where there was no concrete and better footing. So we did, and we were able to get this cow out of the barn and into the hayfield behind the barn. There, day after day, we would take her food and water, administer medicine to her, and roll her over from side to side, to make sure she did not lose circulation in one hindquarter or another. If she seemed like she wanted to get up, we would try to get enough people to see if we could help her get up. Although she ate and drank, she did not get up, and as Holy Week wore on, it felt like she wasn’t going to. That discouragement set in as a constant droning undertone to everything we did throughout the day, seemingly getting louder with each passing day. Whether we were thinking about that down cow consciously or not, it seemed to affect our outlook and demeanor in everything we did. Late one night that week, my father, brother and I were finishing evening milking. It was after dark; we were at the far end of the barn, near the door going out to the hayfield. As I came out from between two cows holding the milking machine, I turned towards the open barn door and was shocked when I found myself face to face with the previously down cow, standing there, head poked in the barn door, chewing her cud! I shouted to my father, “Dad, she’s up!” We all ran over to the barn door, peering into the darkness of that night to see this risen cow. I will never forget what my father said next, turning to us and smiling: “Why do you seek the living one among the dead? He is not here, but he has been raised.” In that instant our demeanor changed. The discouragement was gone and we were filled with joy and hope. There was a lightness in our step as we finished chores that night and the following days. We knew the end of the story, and this illness was not to end in death. Everything was going to be OK! I have to imagine our Passion and Easter experience on the farm those many years ago was something of what the disciples experienced when they encountered the empty tomb, the message of the angels, and ultimately the Risen Christ. I have to imagine that joy and hope that we felt that night was some small measure of the joy and hope that filled and animated them when they encountered the Risen Christ, whom they deeply loved and who deeply loved them. They finally knew the end of the story, and came to know that it did not end with death. Brothers and sisters, we too have the benefit of knowing the end of the story. We too know that it does not end in death, but in Christ triumphing over death, not only for himself, but also for us! It is this rising to new life that we celebrate in every Mass, in every Eucharist, in every Sacrament, and especially tonight, as we celebrate with our Elect their rising to new life with Christ in the waters of Baptism. So let us be filled with Easter joy and hope, as we should be, for we know the end of the story: He has Risen, He has Truly Risen, and we with Him!
Today is BOGO Mass -- we have two gospel readings. The first came just after we blessed palms and before we processed into the church. The second came during the Liturgy of the Word and was the narrative of the passion and death of Jesus. Both have a different feel; the first tells the story of why we bless palms on this day, how Jesus arrived on a donkey and the people wave palms as he entered the city. The second gospel tells what happened after Jesus came to Jerusalem. Jerusalem is the city where he was crucified and died. As Jesus enters the city the people wave palms and shout, Hosanna to the Son of David; blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord; hosanna in the highest. (Matthew 21:9) This word Hosanna has a meaning different than what we may expect. The word may be translated as 'Save now’. This is the cry of an oppressed people, a cry for deliverance and in their day of trouble. It is an oppressed people’s cry to their savior and king. This word is taken from Psalm 118: This is the day the LORD has made; let us rejoice in it and be glad. LORD, grant salvation! LORD, grant good fortune! (Psalm 118:24-25) As with the disciples, the people were expecting a messiah who would overthrow the Romans. When they realize Jesus is not a messiah who will overthrow the Roman occupiers their cry soon turns into “Crucify him”. It is only in hindsight that we see that the action of Jesus on the cross is about salvation. This will become clear as we journey through Holy Week. On Good Friday we will venerate the torture device that has become a sign of hope for all place faith in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. When I helped with youth retreats, the lunch on Sunday was lasagna, since it could be made beforehand and heated up for lunch. As the retreat team served lunch they sang, “Lasagna in the highest.” After spending a weekend reflecting on the love of our God, we could sing with joy, “Lasagna in the highest.” On this day we sing, "Hosanna in the highest.”
And Jesus wept. These three words are a pivot point in the Gospel passage we hear today. A pivot point between Jesus prophesying about the resuscitation of Lazarus, prophesying about the promise of eternal life for His believers, and testifying to His Divine nature as the Resurrection and the Life. A pivot point between Christ’s prophecy and testimony and Christ acting in His Divine nature as God the Son, calling Lazarus out of the sleep of death, out of the tomb, resuscitating him to life. And in that pivot point, in those three words — “And Jesus wept” — is the fullness of the humanity of Christ. For we profess a God and Savior, Jesus Christ, who is fully Divine and fully human. And what could be more human than to weep? Biblical scholars note that the word “wept,” translated from the original Greek term, in this Gospel means literally that he burst into tears; he is sobbing. It is not the same Greek term used to describe the weeping of Mary and Martha, which is translated as crying and wailing aloud. Jesus’ is a more quiet grief expressed by a profuse flowing of tears. In His incarnation Jesus took on flesh to become one of us, fully human — and there may be no more profound expression of Jesus’ humanity than his sobbing at the tomb of Lazarus. Psalm 116 tells us that “Dear in the eyes of the Lord is the death of his devoted one” (Ps 116:15). What more dear, more sincere way could God express his love for us than to weep for His beloved, to weep for us? There was a very popular 1970s television war comedy-drama called M*A*S*H . Most of us here today know and remember that television series well; some of us grew up with it. For those of you who have never heard of M*A*S*H , it was a series set in the 4077th M obile A rmy S urgical H ospital — hence M*A*S*H — operating in the early 1950s in Korea during the Korean War. It was humorous, punctuated with the quick verbal wit of Drs. Hawkeye Pierce, Trapper John McIntyre, and BJ Hunnicutt — and, at the same time, it was also poignant, laying bare the suffering of humanity — physically, emotionally, and spiritually — amidst the tragedy of war. In one episode, the 4077th receives a wounded soldier with a superficial head wound who has no dog tags. When asked what his identity is, the soldier responds that he is Jesus Christ, and continues to insist so in a calm manner to all who approach and ask him in the hospital ward. The staff learn through Army intelligence that this man was a highly decorated bombardier named Captain Arnold Chandler, a farm boy from Idaho who had flown over 50 bombing missions in North Korea before his B-29 bomber was shot down. Believing this man might be deeply wounded psychologically, the 4077th doctors bring in the Army psychiatrist Major Sidney Freedman to evaluate him. In the poignant exchange between Dr. Freedman and the man, Sidney asks the man how long he has known his true identity, that of Arnold Chandler, and then goes on to give him a short synopsis of his life and military career. The man responds to a series of questions, stating that he is not Captain Chandler, that he is not from Idaho, and that he is not a bombardier and gently insists, “I am Christ the Lord.” Sidney, going along with the new identity, counters by saying, “But you died,” to which the man responds, “I rose”. Sidney replies, “That was a long time ago. Where have you been since then?” The man responds, “I live on in all [mankind].” Sidney then asks, “What are you doing here in an army hospital?” The man responds, “I’m Christ. Where should I be?” Countering the man’s question, Sidney asks further, “Should you be in the nose of a B-29, dropping bombs?” The man responds, “Bombs. On people?” At this, the expression on the man’s face becomes troubled. Sidney replies, “On the enemy,” to which the man responds, “I have no enemies. I love all men.” Sidney counters, asking “Even the North Koreans?” The man looks up, away from Sidney, tears welling in his eyes; now deeply troubled, he says, “They’re my children. Why would I hurt my children?” A tear runs down his cheek. And Jesus wept. Do you suppose Jesus Christ, our Resurrected and Ascended, fully Divine and still fully Human Lord, weeps today? Does He weep for his children who fight and destroy, who suffer, hurting and killing each other today? I suppose He does. Jesus is wounded and suffers in and through his Body, that is, all of us, through whom he lives on. All of us, made in the image and likeness of God. We, who are God’s handiwork. We, who are God’s creation. O Jesus, may your grief and weeping give us to know that the actions of humanity hurt you. May the well-spring of your tears be the living waters that extinguish our thirst for anger, animosity, revenge, and violence. May they be the waters that wash away our blindness, healing us, reviving us to life again. May the tears that well up from your eyes wash over us like the waters that flowed from your side upon the Cross. And may your tears fall upon us like the rains of the Great Flood, flow over us like the waters of baptism, and make an end of our vice and a new beginning of our virtue. And Jesus weeps.
