Today we had the largest crowd ever at our annual Good Friday breakfast and liturgy. Unfortunately, it was also the smallest living space we've been in for several years, so it was kind of a tight fit—but we made it work! We had 17 total, all coming from different circles of our lives: some from seminary, some from church, some friends from a local intentional community. Many of them were strangers to one another before eating together this morning.
Good Friday is perhaps the one point on the Christian calendar that does not look forwards or backwards, but just is. Following his crucifixion, death, and being placed in the tomb, Jesus—presumably—is just a corpse. Dead, rotting flesh. The gravity of this holy day rests on those caught in a static aftermath of a failed movement. What is a disciple to do now? With our messiah dead and buried, we now only have each other. So Good Friday is a time of communal interdependence. For this very reason, no one should ever be alone on this day.
I hope you all have a blessed Good Friday this year. For many years now (I think as early as 2008), I have hosted a Good Friday breakfast and liturgy, serving homemade hot cross buns and coffee/tea to anyone I happen to be in a community with when Holy Week rolls around. For the last two years (three, if you count this year), I've made an effort to post a blog or two with some reflection on the meaning of Holy Week. Below, I have compiled all of my posts dealing with topics related to Jesus' last week. For a full explanation of how our little Good Friday breakfast tradition came to be, see Everyday Revo-Lectionary 10/9.
Finally, for what it's worth, I will not be posting anything tomorrow (Saturday, March 30) in observance of Holy Saturday, the first full day Jesus spent in the tomb.
In over six years of independently observing Holy Week, I've had the opportunity to listen to a lot of Good Friday- and Easter-themed music. By far, however, the best album I've come across up to now has been Bifrost Arts' collaborative album, Come O Spirit. A solid variety of musical styles paired with a consistent solemnity throughout, it perfectly sets the tone for the week. Stream the full album below, and if you like what you hear, head over to Great Comfort Records' website and buy it (free lyrics and chord sheets included!). They're an excellent collaboration of artists worthy of your buck.
"...But Deliver Us From Unpleasantness,"
by Robert O. Hodgell
One of the most problematic issues with the Christian calendar is the regular skipping over of Holy Week, from Palm Sunday straight to Easter.
We do Advent right. We've got Christmas down (sort of). And Epiphany is a walk in the park. Even Lent, in all its misuse and abuse (I once had a friend who foreswore all music that was not "Christian"—whatever that means) seems to get an adequate amount of attention. But then we come to Holy Week. We are present with our waving palm fronds, we make lots of noise in our normally quiet churches, we shout our Hosannas and then we leave, only to return next week to find that the tomb is empty, the Lord is risen, and we never have to deal with the sticky wicket that was Golgotha.
It is because of this Sunday-by-Sunday structuring that we have finagled the crucifixion right out of our Easter story. We need to learn to take time to see the long shadow of the cross approaching by the end of our Palm Sunday services, and to allow ourselves to be immersed in the deathly chill of the Last Week. The Triumphal Entry gave those in Jerusalem hope that this stranger riding in on a donkey was somehow going to turn the political tables against the Romans and reverse the oppressive occupation that kept the Judeans exiled in their own land. Against expectations, however, he turned tables in the temple, called out the religious and political authorities alike, and was executed as one hated by all.
Don't get me wrong—I'm not advocating for a Passion of the Christ–esque observation of Holy Week that sprays blood in people's faces to "make a point" (My wife and I actually have a Maundy Thursday tradition of watching The Last Temptation of Christtogether with friends). But the cross is (or should be) nevertheless at the very center of Christian faith.
I have been reading Jürgen Moltmann's The Crucified God for Lent, and I think that he explains well the reason that the crucifixion has been swept under the ecclesial rug: the cross reveals our own ugliness, the inhumanity of humanity. The Romans themselves viewed the early Christian worship of a crucified Jesus as "unaesthetic" and vulgar (pg. 33). Despite what numerous so-called "Jesus mythicists" say, no god in the ancient world would ever be taken seriously if that god were to die at the hands of mere human beings (as the now-famous Alexamenos graffito reveals). Such a god would be impotent and frail—in other words, not a god at all. Moltmann argues that there's something more than mere aesthetics at work here:
The symbol of the cross in the church points to the God who was crucified not between two candles on an altar, but between two thieves in the place of the skull, where the outcasts belong, outside the gates of the city. It does not invite thought but a change of mind. It is a symbol which therefore leads out of the church and out of religious longing into the fellowship of the oppressed and abandoned. On the other hand, it is a symbol which calls the oppressed and godless into the church and through the church into the fellowship of the crucified God. Where this contradiction in the cross, and its revolution in religious values, is forgotten, the cross ceases to be a symbol and becomes an idol, and no longer invites a revolution in thought, but the end of thought in self-affirmation(pg. 40)
The Church has for too long substituted platitudes for sacrifice, self-involvement for the service of the poor and abased, and theological truisms for true humility. We have effectively neutered the Christian story by whitewashing the cross and placing it on the altar. A deeply moving woodcut by Robert Hodgell entitled "...But Deliver Us From Unpleasantness" hangs in a hallway of my seminary, and features a pious congregation looking on as a preacher stands before an altar with a crucified and bloody Jesus hanging in the background. The crucifix, though, has been covered with a white sheet, and a massive bouquet of flowers hides the suffering Messiah. This congregation, like so many today, is doing Holy Week (and moreover, the Cross itself) a grave disservice. Moltmann goes on:
To make the cross a present reality in our civilization means to put into practice the experience one has received of being liberated from fear for oneself; no longer to adapt oneself to this society, its idols and taboos, its imaginary enemies and fetishes; and in the name of him who was once the victim of religion, society and the state to enter into solidarity with the victims of religion, society and the state at the present day, in the same way as he who was crucified became their brother and their liberator (pg. 40).
This Holy Week, let us remember our strange liberator, our crucified God, who submitted himself to the inhumanity of human religion and by culture, and let us go and do likewise.
Perhaps not, with all of the news lately about Trayvon Martin. The media has a way of creating a feeding frenzy on one issue before losing interest and moving on to something else. Let me refresh your memory: Davis was a man from Savannah, Georgia, who was convicted of the 1989 slaying of a police officer. After 20 years on death row, and against both mounting evidence of his innocence and massive public outcry, Davis was put to death by lethal injection by the Georgia State Corrections Department in September. Near the end, support for Troy became an international phenomenon, drawing pleas from Desmond Tutu, Jimmy Carter, and even Pope Benedict XVI to halt the political gears of death. The entire world watched eagerly to see just what America would do. And we used that spotlight to spread a message of violence and inhumanity: we are in the business of denying clemency.
It is ironic, I think, that a nation—an empire, even—whose government clings so fiercely to the faith of an executed rabbi does not recognize the injustice of condemning others to death. A religion borne out of a political killing eventually became the unofficial religion of a country which seemingly takes delight at the mere thought of carrying out political killings. Texas Governor Rick Perry, who operated his presidential candidacy on a Christian base, was even applauded at a September 2011 political debate because of the record-breaking number of executions that have been carried out under his watch:
We like putting people to death so much, in fact, that a recent study ranks the United States fifth in the entire world when it comes to execution numbers. As in, fifth out of over two hundred other countries. Fifth place. Right behind Iraq, Iran, Saudi Arabia, China.
And here we are this morning, eating breakfast and drinking tea to observe the day that Jesus was nailed to a Roman cross as an insurrectionist (and tax evader?) and died as a martyr. What is wrong with us?
The only way that our rituals and traditions—even our religion as a whole—can possibly be of any use to humanity is if through them we somehow learn to love more, to forgive others, to gain an understanding of solidarity with the marginalized and oppressed. If Jesus's death means anything to us at all, it should help us realize more fully that the Reign of God is not like the empires of this world, and give us the fortitude to resist a culture of death by clinging to the hope of new life in the here-and-now. The Church is not a vehicle of Empire, and Empire is not the deputy of the Church. In fact, we are adversaries. When the Empire of this world says "condemn," the Church is (or should be) there to say "forgive."
Not long after Troy Davis's last day on earth, a transcript of his final words was made public by the Georgia Department of Corrections. There are echoes of the Jesus Way in his words:
Well, first of all I'd like to address the MacPhail family. I'd like to let you all know that despite the situation—I know all of you still are convinced that I'm the person that killed your father, your son and your brother, but I am innocent. The incidents that happened that night was not my fault. I did not have a gun that night. I did not shoot your family member.
But I am so sorry for your loss. I really am—sincerely.
All that I can ask is that each of you look deeper into this case, so that you really will finally see the truth.
I ask to my family and friends that you all continue to pray, that you all continue to forgive. Continue to fight this fight.
For those about to take my life, may God have mercy on all of your souls. God bless you all.
Growing up, I attended a tiny United Methodist church in my hometown. It was there that I developed a fascination with church liturgy and holy day observance that has continued (with the occasional lapse here and there) to this day. We hung the greens for Advent and decorated the Christmas tree with chrismon ornaments that my great-grandmother had made, we held baptisms in the river not far from our chapel, and each spring practiced a number of somber observances for Holy Week.
Every year on the morning of Good Friday, the 20 or 25 members of my church would gather together for a somber recitation of a Good Friday litany, followed by a breakfast of homemade hot cross buns, coffee, and "Russian Tea" (which I later learned was really just hot tea, orange juice, and cinnamon). For me, this simple gathering and observance of one of the holiest days on the Christian calendar has dug itself into my memory, and it has become an integral piece of my outward expression of my own faith.
Every Good Friday for the last three years, I have tried to uphold the breakfast tradition so familiar to me from my childhood. Each year I wake up at 3 a.m. to begin making the hot cross buns from scratch; I keep a silent vigil while the dough rises, and at around 7 a.m., I put on some liturgical music to listen to while I wait for people to arrive. When everyone has gathered, we participate in a litany that I have written, followed by prayer, and just being together.
However, in the last three years combined of keeping this tradition, I'm pretty sure I can count on one hand the number of people who joined me for Good Friday breakfast. This year, only one person showed up—our friend Lake. Alyssa and I were left with two enormous pans of fluffy, newly-iced hot cross buns, and no one else to eat them.
At the time, we lived in a coffee shop, and the shop was open on that day. After it was clear that no one else was going to join us, Lake, Alyssa, and I took the hot cross buns downstairs and shared them with our community of friends there. Folks that came from a variety of backgrounds—very few were religious at all, let alone Christians who observed Good Friday. Gay, straight, Pagan, art students, biology students, young folks, older folks. People who came to mean a lot to us during our time at the shop. These were people that we loved.
Perhaps not everyone grasped the gravity of the holiday—heck, we were giving out free buns! who cares about the religious tradition?—but we all certainly felt the importance of community and we all enjoyed one another's company. Though no one showed up to our planned event and we felt disappointed and under-appreciated for the briefest of moments, we were given the gift of celebrating community with food and conversation. To this day, that Good Friday has been one of the most memorable holy day observances I have ever experienced.
In our work for the Kingdom, sometimes we operate under the assumption that If you build it, they will come. And, most unfortunately, this is very often quite untrue. Sometimes people just aren't going to show, no matter how big you build it, or how well it is built. Sometimes our best ideas fall flat simply because of a lack of interest from others. Sometimes folks just don't want to get out of bed, even if for some delicious hot cross buns.
There are many possible pieces of Christ's parable of the wedding banquet to fixate upon: the seemingly over-the-top rage of the king that essentially leads to the genocide of all who are "too busy" to come to the wedding (surprisingly, not an option I have previously considered for my Good Friday gatherings); I could go into Jewish wedding customs from the time of Christ; I could analyze why the king calls the mysterious robe-less man "Friend" before proceeding to throw him into the darkness for showing up without the proper attire (seems pretty harsh—beggars shouldn't be choosers, after all).
But to me, the entire parable hinges on verse 10. Those who were welcomed to the feast initially but turned down the invitation suddenly become the subject of the king's wrath. So his servants take to the streets dragging in everyone they can find. Good and bad, all are brought to the wedding feast together. The great message here is that it doesn't take the people who are "worthy" to build the Kingdom of God. It takes everyone: good and bad alike (we might say insiders and outsiders). A wedding without guests is lousy. So is a Kingdom without people who are willing to help build it together. Perhaps, if we personally commit ourselves to building it regardless of who shows up to help us, we just might receive the unexpected surprise of unintentional community. And therein lies unexpected grace.
When the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb.They had been saying to one another, ‘Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?’When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back.As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed.But he said to them, ‘Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him.But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.’So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid. --Mark 16:1-8
Good Friday is a day unlike any other on the Christian calendar. It is perhaps the only holy day for which the proper observance is a recognition of the loss of all hope.
Think about it--Jesus is dead. In the tomb. Executed by the state.
The disciples, who have followed Jesus around for a few years now, are suddenly scattered, and those who remain together are frightened for their lives.
Finito. End of story.
In the earliest manuscripts of Mark, the first gospel written, this really was the end of the story. The final words of Mark, written around the time of the fall of Jerusalem and destruction of the Temple in 70 C.E., are literally, "They said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid." Who knew that a gospel (think: "good news") could actually end in such darkness? Fear. Separation. Not even a real, official resurrection story. Just death and a suddenly--and mysteriously--empty tomb.
We don't like to observe or commemorate grief. Often, we push it as far from us as we can; when was the last time you heard a true sermon of lament in church? How often does your family get together to have an observance on the anniversary of the death of a loved one?
I know a pastor who hates even the thought of slow, hymnic worship, preferring instead the pop-rock overtones of contemporary worship music. "Worship is a celebration!" he says, "When I go to a worship service, I don't want to feel like I'm at a funeral. Worship isn't a funeral!"
Well, on Good Friday, that's exactly what it is.
It's also about coming to the realization that we're on our own; there comes a time when every child has to leave their parents' home to live their own lives and make their own decisions. That's the reality of life.
And as for the disciples, they don't even have the guidance of the Holy Spirit with them yet. They are utterly alone.
However, the man in the tomb in this story gives the disciples directions, supposedly from Christ himself, to meet Jesus in Galilee. Obviously Jesus trusted them enough to make do on their own for a while and to follow his instructions without him hovering over their every move. Sometimes we fail to recognize that God has given us all the tools we need to be a force for good in the world. He has given us instructions, it's up to us to follow.
But for now, we rest in the quiet shadows of the tomb of our crucified Lord.
This morning, as per tradition in the church where I was raised--and for the last few years, at the Baptist Student Center--some friends of ours will join Alyssa and myself for a small breakfast of home made hot cross buns and coffee, resting and reflecting on the life and death of the man we have all devoted our lives to following. We wish you could join us. However, if you cannot, here for your own meditation is the short litany and prayer we will be reading from. I have also posted two little hymns that I have found to be very meaningful and appropriate. Grace and peace be with you, and may you find the value in giving yourself over fully to grief, even if only one day a year.
*****
A Good Friday Litany
Leader: When the tomb looms large before our eyes, remind us, Lord, who we are: People: We are the children of the resurrection; the place of death will not hold us.
Leader: We are the painters of rainbows; the shadow of death will not daunt us. People: We are the breakers of loaves and fishes; the taste of death will not defile us.
Leader: We are the raisers of the dead; the power of death will not defy us. People: We are the people of the Pentecost; the spirit of death will not destroy us. All: God is our refuge and our strength. We gather in the power and sure promise of resurrection. (source)
Prayer
Almighty God, kindle, we pray, in every heart the true love of peace, and guide with your wisdom those who take counsel for the nations of the earth, that justice and peace may increase, until the earth is filled with the knowledge of your love. Gracious God, the comfort of all who sorrow, the strength of all who suffer, hear the cry of those in misery and need. In their afflictions show them your mercy, and give us, we pray, the strength to serve them for the sake of him who suffered for us, your Son Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen. (source)
"He Never Said a Mumblin' Word," by The Welcome Wagon
"It is Finished," by Trent Dabbs, Kate York, Leigh Nash, and Kevin Bevil
