University Presbyterian Church - Chapel Hill, NC

Good Friday Tenebrae Meditation

March 21, 2008

Anna Pinckney Straight

Come away, they cry.

No need to put yourself through this.

He'll understand.

But I am his mother,

and though nails pierce his body,

and a sword sunders my soul,

I must stand with him,

I must stand with him,

I must stand up in this his hour of dying.

And yet, and yet,

there’s more at stake than that.

From somewhere within

this horror of great darkness,

Gabriel-haunted still,

I dream dreams, hear voices, see visions.

I see others.

Mothers, sons, brothers, daughters,

sisters, fathers, friends, lovers,

a vast army who will not turn away;

clad in the armour of fidelity

and hollow-eyed courage,

they will stand by,

stand with,

stand up,

in those slow, dimming,

dove-grey hours of dying…[1]

It is a day when we are all out of miracles.  All out of denial.  Out of hope that Jesus might turn this around.  Sidestep the cross.  Any chance that Jesus might be able to say or sway or save his bodily, fully human, self is now gone, and the truth of what happened is right in front of us.

It is not an easy truth to confront, the cross.   It is filled with pain and hurt and loss.

Of course, this, this story, the cross, is what makes Jesus Jesus.

It is a moment of darkness for humanity, and it is a moment of profound love for Jesus.   Extreme love, for he does not turn aside or away.

He will not be the triumphant warrior.  He is a messenger of love and hope that does not give up or in.

Professor Matthew Myer Boulton writes:

“Christ crucified is not the Hero, not the strongest man.  On the contrary, he is the weakest man, the least of these.  There is his strength.  He is not the greatest sufferer, famed above all others.  He is, finally, the anonymous sufferer, in radical solidarity with every sufferer, everywhere.  There is his proper fame.  As the Son of God, he suffers and dies with sinners, forgotten and alone, disappearing into the thousands of Jews and others crucified under a brutal, violent, imperial regime.   So he continues, even today, wherever agonies are borne among the human family…  with a heart not so much brave as broken..”[2]

What do you do when you face the cross?

What do you do when the diagnosis is to call hospice?

When you get that phone call arrives at 3:00 in the morning and it isn’t a wrong number?

When the life you hoped would be become does not?

When the letter is one of rejection?

When you realize that the vows will not be until death you do part?

What do you do?  What do you do when it is you?  When it is someone you love?

When there are no words? 

More often than not, we find our answer in being there.  To be with a friend or loved one, knowing that true compassion is not about wisdom or answers, but presence and solidarity.

As much as we are people who like to be prepared, fix, and tie up loose ends, sometimes we are not called to do or say, we are called to be.   To be with.  To be with and listen to those we love, free from the responsibility of fixing or resolving.  But to be companions on this journey.  Engaged in a ministry of presence. 

Today is a day when there is nothing to do.  Nothing to say.  No place we can go that will take away the horror and shame.

We are invited to be.  To be with.  To be with Christ on this day.  Surrounded by the words that tell the story.  The images our minds would rather deny.

We will not stay here.  But here is where we are now, and there is nowhere to run.  We are here to be witness in and to the darkness.

The words of Virginia Stem Owens:

“Good Friday is the day when you can do nothing. Bewailing and lamenting your manifold sins does not in itself make up for them. Scouring your soul in a frenzy of spring cleaning only sterilizes it; it does not give it life. On Good Friday, finally, we are all, mourners and mockers alike, reduced to the same impotence. Someone else is doing the terrible work that gives life to the world. Good Friday is the day we can do nothing at all.”[3]

We can do nothing at all, but be.  Here and with.  So God can be God, and we can be his beloved children, in this moment of despair.

“O God of the Cross,

Keep us passionate through our wrestling with your ways,

And keep us humble before the mystery of your great love,

Known to us in the face of Jesus Christ,”[4]

In whose name we pray.  Amen