Good Friday.
Today was “Good Friday,” and yes, a good Friday it was indeed. I’m not sure who decided to use that specific (rather neutral) adjective to describe today, of all the other Fridays of the year, but it was certainly a euphemistic ploy given its context. Any Catholics in the house care to explain? In any case, speaking of Catholics, I have a confession to make:
I’m a pretty poor excuse for a Christian. My day started off not in gentle contemplation of my Savior, but in contemplation of how I was ever going to drag myself off the couch. My day continued not in reverence of His sacrifice, but in self-servitude and consecutive task completion: Get dressed. Go to class. Meet with person 1. Meet with person 2. Fill belly. Take a nap. You get the point. In fact, with the exception of an hour-long Bible study, my mind was hardly where it should always be: on Christ.
This is precisely why I have no idea what prompted my desire to attend a late good Friday service. Really late. Like 11:30 pm late. But I went. I didn’t know who was going to be there, I didn’t know where it was, I just knew that somehow I had to go. The neighborhood was dark, and when we pulled up to the curb, there was a conspicuous man crouched on the concrete beside the passenger’s door (yes, mine), wearing a grey hoodie and shuffling something into a box of “Corona”. He saw our headlights and shifted his eyes, like a jolt of lightning he skedaddled away. This was when I memo-ed to self, “buy pepper spray.” We cautiously exited the car after shifty-man had cleared, and examined our surroundings. The church was beautiful. Dimly lit, the bricks shone a deep red-orange, and the stained glass windows seemed faintly illuminated from within, with a tinge of gold. The problem: all the doors were locked, no one was around, and all was still.
When we finally figured out (with the help of a fortunate passerby) that the entrance was in the back, we entered. I don’t know what it is about a church at night that makes everything seem so much more intimate. The ceilings were high, the organ — magnificent in its grandeur. In contrast, the stage was modestly set with 4 people sitting in metal chairs, and a fifth, at the piano. They were reciting the story of Jesus’s crucifixion.
We sat down… rather loudly. Chicco even dropped his Bible. It sounded like he dropped a freaking anvil. I’m sure we were like the loathed tardy people at movie theaters — you know, the type that drop popcorn everywhere and flash their cell phones to find a place to sit, stepping on peoples’ toes to get to what always seems to be the only empty seat at the VERY CENTER of the row.
In-between the sectioned recitation of the story of His crucifixion, there would be prayer and a short hymn sung. I have to admit that initially my heart was hard, even though we had gone through so much trouble to get there — imagine that. I thought, “I’ve heard this all already, yeah, Jesus died, yada yada.” But slowly, as I listened, no, I mean, really listened, it was though I was hearing each word for the first time. It was as though I was five years old again, captivated by a bedtime story. And my heart broke. Into a million pieces. I was reminded (probably more convicted) of what someone said to me once.
“The gospel should never become old.”
I began to cry. An old prayer was read. The author was using a bunch of “Thee’s” and “thys” and “yonders” and words like “inequity,” but I wish that I could remember what he/she said, because I agreed with it verbatim. It was as though it was a fancy prayer composed especially for me. My heart heaved with every statement, and my mouth uttered a thousand “amens.” The next hymn we sang was, “How Deep the Father’s Love For Us.” More tears.
“It was my sin that held Him there until it was accomplished. His dying breath has brought me life. I know that it is finished.”
I don’t even know how to adequately articulate how this feels, how this felt. The feeling of truth. “What is truth?” Pilate asked Jesus, while prosecuting him.
Truth is simply “knowing.” Truth is hearing the Word of God and being moved to tears. Truth is realizing the state of your humanness, the depths of your sin, the ineptitude of your self-redemption. The truth is, you are nothing without Jesus. I am nothing without Him.
I realize that worse than “being a bad Christian” is being numb. Wandering the Christian sphere, but never really “knowing.”
The story was almost over. The last verse they read was the one when Joseph asks to bury Jesus. Then they dismissed everyone. But my heart sunk. “No!” It shouted. “No! It’s not over! He lives! He lives! He lives! Tell them the rest! What are you doing?!”
It doesn’t end with His death. It begins again with His resurrection. I found myself wanting them to read more, to tell the entire story. Because if it ended there, then we would be lost. But… then my heart filled with joy — because I knew that Truth is ultimately His resurrection. Jesus rises because He’s not like the false Messiahs of His day, but He is THE Messiah. There is hope.
I’m sorry I don’t come to you offering a crazy praise report or a miracle. Rather, I just gave you a long, and kind of pointless description of my mundane night. But that’s what I liked about it. The service was simple. No flashy re-enactments, no powerpoint presentation, no preacher with his own message. It was quite simply, the story of Truth. His story. And that’s all we ever need to remind us.
Tiffany
