The Last Laugh on Good Friday

Out of the corner of my eye I saw an older woman quickly stand to reach up and touch the cross as it came crowd-surfing overhead. Everyone wanted a piece of it. To touch it. To do our part, if even for a moment, to keep it lifted, and then pass it forward to the worshippers who stood directly in front of us.  It was the least we could do—dare we say, for Jesus?—who 2000 years ago had carried a much rougher and heavier tree-like cross all the way through the crowd-lined streets of Jerusalem, for heaven’s sake. 

None of us wanted to let the others down.  So we each stood tall, reached up and grabbed the cross as it came surfing overhead, and did our part to keep it surfing on ahead.  I couldn’t help but notice the old woman again, now that I had turned around to receive the cross as it swiftly advanced from the back. I didn’t think she would make it before the cross had passed us by.  But she twisted and strained to quickly move a body that clearly preferred slower movements. And in one last burst of desperation she helped to carry one of the cross-arms for a split second on the tips of her three longest fingers.  Success! 

I stood in awe as I turned back around and watched the cross continue to sail overhead all the way to the front, held up and passed on only by the hands of ordinary people.  People for whom the Jesus who had carried it originally had been later put to death.  For their sake.  To give them a 2^nd chance, and a new lease on life.

The cross was gently laid to rest upon pillows, placed carefully on the marble stone steps of the altar area as if the cross was the body of Jesus himself.  The last three candles were extinguished, except for one.  Then even that one soon disappeared with its bearer down the aisle with the great hall growing darker with each step.  An “earthquake” quickly filled the whole cathedral with a loud, chaotic roar, punctuated by timpani and cymbals.  On and on it rumbled and roared and thundered and crashed until those assembled just wished it would stop!

When the candle was finally returned, the air was filled with the feel of death.  Stuffy.  Quiet.  Dark.  Like the funeral home where I went at age five to visit my grandmother, the first dead person I had ever seen.

We all stood, hesitating… waiting for the next movement in this world drama.  Yes—there would be one final scene.  A subtle moment of joy, and perhaps… humor.  At least I interpreted it that way.  Out of the heavens, above where the cross had been gently laid, tumbled down a waterfall of bright red rose petals.  Dozens of them.  Hundreds of them.  Fluttering down like red butterflies.  A sight to behold!  Like one “last smile” out of  the corner of the Father’s mouth, as a Final Statement to the scene that had just unfolded. A Final Statement that was revealing the deeper truth about what we had just witnessed.  A  foreshadowing of the magnanimous love that was about to awaken the world.  A Final Word by the One who really had the Final Word about this whole ignominy.  In another three days time. 

Renewed at Noon

I made an exception on Ash Wednesday this year because two of my dear Chinese kids invited me to a basketball game as their guests. But I felt strange on the morning of—. Something in my Spirit hungered for the familiar but unsettling words when the ashes are drawn across my forehead, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Is that weird or what?

 

So I searched for a noon service.  Of course--who better to turn to than my Catholic brothers and sisters?  I jumped in my truck and took off for the Basilica, downtown.

 

Already streams of people were flowing in from everywhere—just like going to a game at Target Field.  Lots of young people.  For the next hour I sat among hundreds—at noon!  In a Church.  On a Wednesday.  In the middle of downtown Minneapolis.  Surrounded by rich smells of incense and monastic-like music, dawdling along in an un-hurried pace, in an other-worldly setting.  It was a “perfect storm” that recharged my spiritual batteries.

 

The enormous heights of the ceiling kept drawing my eyes and mind... up.  And there, all around us, were brothers and sisters from centuries gone by looking down on us from their painted faces in the stained glassed windows perched high above our earthly worship. The sweet haunting verses that were chanted from somewhere unseen floated out upon the Assembly and imbued our collective spirit with a touch of the heavenly realm.  Sweet.

 

Words were spoken and read and preached and sung and prayed. Words were used to confess wrongs… things that we wish we could have back to do over again, but can’t.  But then, sweet life – giving words were issued to wash clean those areas where the enemy had once again infiltrated our spirit and stained the spiritual garment in which we had been “clothed with Christ.”

 

Something in my body and spirit becomes aligned when I kneel for prayer and confession rather than sitting or standing. Kneelers invite that posture before God. It’s really something to behold, when you look out and see hundreds of people kneeling in a posture of humility, even in our Madison Avenue 21^st century world of suits and skirts and jeans and sweatshirts. No matter what your stature in the world, all are the same before Christ.  Hmmm.  If only….

 

I remember the young woman who could not kneel on her left leg – a sports injury?  She sat on the aisle so that when it was time, she could kneel on her right leg with her left leg extended out into the aisle.  No excuses I guess.  This was important to her.

 

I faded into one of the human rivers that streamed out of all eight doors in all directions back into the world, feeling full and fed with the Word and the Word-made-flesh that was given up in death—even for my sake.  Amazing… that the God of the ever-expanding, 9 – billion – year – old universe would notice me, hear me when I speak, speak into my life when I hurt or am lost, and even die for me in my place.  Really?  

 

It’s still hard to grasp the reality of that Act on the cross. But … now I’m getting ahead of myself. That Act is still ahead, on Good Friday, still another 39 days ahead on this year’s 40 day journey.

Good Friday at a quarter past seven

An old man stumbled into the Good Friday service that I was attending, 15 minutes after the start of the service, prompting me to write this poem. I remember that the air was thick inside the worship room that night and laced with threats to suffocate my spirit the longer I stayed. The heavy pace of the Requiem wouldn't quit. Just like Peter, Jesus' disciple, I was glad when it was time to leave and go back out into the world. I could hardly bear to watch.

Good Friday at a quarter past seven...
An old man in a nylon jacket stumbles in and takes a seat.
Heads turn with scowls and frowns to welcome...
(…oops: “Now, what to do with his cane?”)

The heavy dirge pounds on from the platform, taking no notice,
Pulsating to the beat of a far away drum.
Waves of darkness roil across the room
Led by notes of music imprisoned in a Victory March of another’s choosing.
Death steals across the guilty with ruthless abandon,
Unyielding--giddy, without remorse.
The air throbs thick with relentless brutality.

The old man comes to worship the Crucified One too.
Better late than not at all, I guess.
He comes to pay his respects.
To the Dying One.
To this dying Jesus.
To his Lord.
Who hangs there, after all, in place of him.
On this Good Friday.
Like every other.