What makes Good Friday, good?
Good Friday? What on earth makes such a day good?
Celebrating the hideous death of a good man, and the craven flight of his supposedly loyal followers?
Or the fact that we at the other side of the story know the ending?
Imagine how that day must have been for those involved. The disciples scattered, all their dreams and hopes in tatters, fearing for their own lives. Only a few, like Jesus’ mother, and John(according to some) daring to stay and watch, weeping as someone they loved died a slow and excruciating death; the rest hiding and quivering at every footfall that came near their door.
The veil in the temple was torn as Jesus died, torn in two against the weave of the cloth, and the sky became dark, if you believe the Gospels. It must have seemed that the world was ending, or was close to the end, to the friends and family who had seen the rise and the promise of Jesus’ ministry. Their own deaths would follow soon, hunted down by the authorities and exterminated as subversive vermin.
I’ve often thought about what Jesus himself felt, whether he knew the ending of the story, or whether, like his friends, he had no idea how things would pan out. I’m never sure how much accretion the Gospels contain, of things attributed after the event. But whatever the case, to go through death, and the cruel death by Roman-style crucifixion……the agony is beyond imagining. Few people will ever experience such pain, such anguish.
My own experience of pain and of internal anguish are tiny in comparison and yet, they give me a slight insight into the experience, which is the most anyone can hope for. My struggles with despair, depression and anxiety, are nothing and yet, they bring me the gifts of compassion and empathy. When I suffer my Good Fridays, as I do periodically, I never know for sure that there will be, this time, an Easter morning, that I will rise again. Experience and knowledge tell me there will be and yet, I doubt it. Each crisis is like the first, the only crisis, as I live through it. I try to record my passage through times like these in poetry and in prose in the hopes that I can remind myself of the promise of resurrection, and that others too might find hope in it.
Good Friday
(me to Jesus/Jesus to me)
Nail me to that cross again
Why don’t you?
You’ve done it before
And you’ll do it again.
Here, I’ll even hold
My hands out for you,
Pass the hammer,
Hold the nail steady.
Bang! It’s done,
All over, bar the shouting.
Long day, arms outstretched,
Breath ragged, pain white hot.
Sky darkens, night begins.
Death, a relief, a release,
The cool of the tomb
A simple comfort, unexpected
After the heat of the day.
Comfort too in acceptance
Of the inevitable, peace even.
Sleep now: the worst is over.
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