Sermonstudio

It doesn’t matter how many times I read, listen to, or watch a biography of Abraham Lincoln I am always surprised and newly saddened that he’s shot and dies. I have no idea why. I simply, for some reason, expect the biography to end differently, for the president to not be shot, or if he’s shot not to die. Yet every time he is shot and of course he dies, I feel again the absoluteness: he is gone... forever.

I stood at the open grave and buried my father; then 25 years later, at the open grave of my mother. Most recently I stood at the open single grave of my husband’s mother and father to which the cremated remains of both were committed. I felt the absoluteness again: they are gone... forever.

There is nothing good about the day Jesus was executed.
A mother sees her child suffer a torturous death.
Closest friends don’t show up; they hide in fear for their lives.
Two men must risk arrest to care for the body.
Everyone goes home.
The Son, the teacher, the new rabbi was dead... gone forever.
We do incredible injustice to Jesus in our jump to Easter Sunday while Jesus’ body is still warm in the tomb.¹

Listen closely, and you will hear echoes of the night before in the Garden of Gethsemane. Jesus was questioning the disciples, “Can you not stay awake? Can you not wait for just an hour?”

Jesus’ words rebuke us now but for a different context. “Can you not wait to celebrate? Can you not wait and grieve for me as you would one of your own? As mine grieved for me at my death? Do you think they had a sneak-peak at the happy ending, at the reversal just a few days away that softened the blow on that Friday?

When I was young, I never “got” the whole Good Friday silence my Catholic friend had to maintain all afternoon, restricted to only the long Catholic masses playing solemnly on local channels, the rule of “no playing.” I chafed at three-hour long Protestant services, even if different preachers and choirs shifted in and out. Over the years, as local church pastor and then as simply a clergywoman in academia, I’ve solemnly delivered Good Friday sermons and meditations, entered and stayed for three hour services, kept a quiet home through Good Friday evening and night. But I’ve never grieved as Jesus’ mother, the beloved disciple, Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus, and all the others who were tied directly and emotionally to Jesus grieved.

Imagine those people’s lives if Jesus actually was dead forever.

Imagine the world of his family.

Imagine the world of his disciples.

Imagine what they were experiencing after he’d breathed his last. Fear. Defeat. Gutted of hope. Flooded with disillusionment, their lives, futures, world turned upside down. Hollow, excruciating heartbreak.

Imagine your life if Jesus actually was dead... gone forever.²

Hold that thought.

Jesus of Nazareth King of the Jews is dead.

Go home and grieve; do him that honor.

Do all who knew and loved him that honor.

Light a candle.

Eat the simplest of food.

Keep a quieter home through the evening.

Filter what you watch or listen to, maybe even leave the TV off.

Power down the computer.

Put the cell phone on silent.

Read the crucifixion narratives in the gospels.

It is Friday, the day Jesus was executed.

At the moment there is nothing good about it.

The good will only come later. “Can you not wait with me?” he asked.

Today go home and grieve. Wait with him in death in the tomb.

Amen.

__________

1. Marian R. Plant, “Can Nothing Good Come out of Friday?” © June 30, 2015. Unpublished manuscript. Unpublished manuscript.

2. Ibid.