A Good Friday Homily
For the Jewish people, Friday evening is a special time; a time of preparation for the Sabbath, which in turn is a sacred time of rest and dedication to the Lord. This particular Friday when Jesus was arrested and killed was not only Preparation Day, but also part of a Holy Week of celebration of the Passover — one of the most sacred Jewish festivals when Jews from all over would come to Jerusalem and celebrate God’s deliverance of the Hebrew people from Egypt.
The week that was reserved for worship, joy and celebration became a week full of sorrow for Jesus’ followers, who watched their Messiah, their Savior, die.
This Holy Week we might feel a little closer to the first followers of Jesus. In a week that is reserved for the joy and celebration and preparation for Easter, is the week that the US Surgeon General warned would be the “hardest and saddest week” in the lives of most Americans living today. On a day when Christians are usually making preparations to come together to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection with their church and families, we are behind closed doors participating in services on the internet.
This is a hard week, but our suffering does not make it any less of a Holy Week. On the contrary, our suffering bids us to come closer — to come closer to Jesus; to come closer to the cross.
Today — Good Friday — is a day set apart to come to the foot of the cross.
Some of us come to the scene of the cross like Peter — with an urge to run and hide from the suffering and danger. Some of us come like Judas — full of regret and shame for our acts of selfishness and greed. Some of us come like Mary — keeping watch and weeping with grief.
We all come today to the scene of the cross. We come, feeling powerless in the face of destruction, in the face of horror, in the face of death. We come in this sorrowful week made even more sorrowful by the losses and deaths that surround us, even by the threat of death and desolation all around us. We come broken and empty and fragile, as though grief will cut us in half or swallow us whole.
We come anyway. For today, just for a moment, we come and sit at the foot of the cross together and lament.
We let our grief rise up in defiance of evil. We lament all the ways in which goodness and beauty and gentleness are overshadowed by evil and greed and violence.
And as we grieve and lament together, we look to Jesus. We look to Jesus as he leads us in a corporate lament with the words of the psalm, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” — expressing what we all feel, as psalms are prone to do.
We look not at the soldiers who mocked him and struck him. We look not at the swords and thorns meant to hurt him. We look not at those who pierced his hands and feet or who hurled insults at him. We look not at the authorities who condemned him and arranged for his death. We look not at the crowd, hungry for violence and shouting for the Savior’s death.
We look to Jesus. We look at the hands that performed healings and acts of compassion. We look at his eyes of mercy and grace. We look at the way he so freely extends forgiveness even now, in his suffering. How he is quick to welcome the sinner and stranger into God’s kingdom, even in his darkest hour. How he loves his disciples until the very end.
We look not at the symbols of violence but at our Prince of Peace, our Alpha and Omega, our Lord of Lords.
And we wait.
We wait for the movement of God, who is living and working even in the shadows. The God who is suffering with us. The God who is sovereign in the darkness, sovereign even in death.
We wait for the resolution of the psalm recited by Jesus at the cross, which ends with assurance and hope for the future: “For the Lord has not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; Nor has He hidden His face from him; But when he cried to Him for help, He heard”, and all the earth “will come and will declare God’s righteousness to a people yet unborn.” (Psalm 22: 24, 31). And the Psalm which immediately follows it, and which Jesus was sure to know, “Even though I walk through The Valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.” (Psalm 23:4)
So, we wait. We wait for the sure signs of resurrection happening all around us, reminding of God’s presence and love. We wait with hopeful hearts at the God who makes all things new — at the One whose deliverance is stronger than death; whose love is bigger than life. We wait until the day dawns bright with the light of God, filling our hearts with joy.
