Into Darkness, Good Friday, April 14, 2017

Good Friday (Year A)

Friday, April 14, 2017

Theme: Into Darkness

Reflection:  While I am not going to write a full reflection and worship words for Good Friday this year, I wanted to share a past reflection, and a beautiful video by one of my favorite poet/artists, Jan Richardson, and her late husband, Garrison Doles.

Three years ago, I was selected to be part of a special tradition at Emmanuel Lutheran Church. Seven congregation members are chosen, and each is assigned one of Jesus’ seven last words from the cross. The service begins with normal lighting in the church. With every reflection one of seven candles on the altar is extinguished; a short hymn, verse of a hymn, or Taize chant is sung; and the sanctuary overhead lights are dimmed a bit more.

After the final reflection, the final candle is extinguished, the final verses sung, only a bit of light is left in the sanctuary – minimal front lights and the Christ candle. The altar is stripped, and as Pastor Kirk Anderson poignantly describes it: “We will watch everything we hold dear in the worship space stripped bare – momentarily leaving us in the despair of the darkness.”

Slowly, the altar guild team carries out vestments, cross, the candles, and finally, the darkened Christ candle. Our pastor picks up the large altar Bible and processes to the back of the church, and simultaneously, the “Book of Life” is loudly slammed shut and the sanctuary lights go black. The worshipers leave the sanctuary in silence.

The first time I experienced this, I had no idea what was coming. And I wept.

WOMAN, BEHOLD YOUR SON. BEHOLD YOUR MOTHER

The words I was assigned three years ago were Jesus’ third words: “Woman, behold your son. Behold your mother.” Here was my reflection:

Beaten. Broken. The final hours of a three-year journey are reaching their conclusion. Everyone knows that Jesus isn’t going to make it through this day. He’s whipped and stripped with a sharp crown forced on his head. He’s weak and dehydrated. All but a few have left him. He’s humiliated, naked, with every shred of humanity ripped away.

On the cross, the Son of God. Our Savior.

So far, Jesus had uttered just a few words. Words of forgiveness to his tormenters, and a comment to a criminal, crucified next to him. What, if anything, will this Jesus say next?

The crowds from his hillside teaching are gone. Down at the bottom of the cross, a few family members and close friends wait with him. His mother, two aunts, John – the beloved disciple, and Mary Magdalene. Jesus gazes out, as if remembering everything that led him to this place.

Maybe some noise caused him to look down. But Jesus glances at the tiny group at the foot of the cross. Then, looking at his mother, Mary, he says “Woman, behold your son.” And to John, “Behold your mother.”

Was this concern for his family? Taking care of his responsibility to honor his mother one last time?  Or something else? And what’s up with that “Woman” stuff, anyway? At this last moment, why didn’t he call her “Mother”?

Perhaps Jesus thought the crowd would single her out for more rude behavior? It could be. But this isn’t the first time Jesus called her “Woman.” Recall his first miracle back in Cana, at the wedding. There he addressed her as “Woman” also. In his time, “Woman” was a term of respect.

“Woman, behold your son.” Jesus was Mary’s first-born, but not her only son. There were other sons to take care of her. What was Jesus doing? The same for John. Jesus’ beloved disciple had other family. He didn’t need a mother. But Jesus said, “Behold your mother.”

In great pain and near death, as the greatest drama in the universe played out, as Jesus lay down his life, he made sure that his mother and his good friend would have someone to be in relationship with after he died and was resurrected. Not just “Stay in touch,” but “Take care of each other.” “Be a family.”

Jesus’ words tell us a lot about how we are to live in Christian relationship. Not just to take care of those in our immediate family, but also those who are hurting, deserted, grieving. Those in physical, emotional and spiritual pain. Widows. Seniors. Young people who have lost parents or whose parents are physically or emotionally distant. Those who are unemployed or homeless or mentally ill.

Jesus wasn’t just talking about Mary and John. He was charging all of us at the foot of his cross not only to follow his teaching, but also to put those words into action.

'LISTENING AT THE CROSS'

Combine Jan Richardson’s beautiful drawings and her late husband Garrison Doles’ tender songs, and what do you have? A video, “Listening at the Cross,” a treasure for a Good Friday service.

The video links are all available at Jan’s website, The Painted Prayerbook, along with her comments about how the video came to be. A high-resolution version is available should you wish to share it in worship. Here are the lyrics from Garrison Doles’ haunting solo guitar melody, “This Crown of Thorns”:

This crown of thorns upon your head,
All the power of the universe in humble sacrifice.
Your earthly form upon this holy cross –
The least measure of your love for me.

And here am I in my fallen world,
It’s the only world I know.
And knowing who I am,
You bring heaven’s mercy to me.

This crown of thorns that I have placed upon your head,
All the power that creates the universe, gentle beneath my hand.
Your broken form that I have placed upon this cross,
Submitting to this earthly pain out of love for me.

Here am I in my fallen world,
The only world I know.
And knowing who I am,
Even knowing who I am,
Especially knowing who I am,
You bring heaven’s mercy to me.

(You always are welcome to respond with your thoughts and reflections in the comments section at the bottom of the blog post.)