Good Friday

Jesus once said to a man, “Son, your sins are forgiven.” Blasphemy, they said. “Why does this fellow speak in this way? Who can forgive sins but God alone?”

They asked, “Are you then the Son of God?” He said, “You say that I am.”

He spoke of a kingdom, unlike any other kingdom, where children are welcome and the language of forgiveness is spoken everyday. He had conversation with women as if they were as important as men, and he sat at table with people usually not invited to dinner. And, to the ears of some, he spoke blasphemy. His fate was sealed.

When he was about the age of 33, he set his face toward Jerusalem. He did not go there determined to die, but he knew the truth of it, the possibility, perhaps even the certainty of his dying. As those who landed on Omaha Beach in 1944 or those who marched from Selma to Montgomery in 1965 or as Martin Luther King in 1968, when he went to Memphis, knew; they all knew they might be killed. So Jesus knew. He remembered the stories of the prophets put to death in Jerusalem, because they spoke against oppression and injustice. He was one of them. So he went to Jerusalem.

There is something about us that does not like the unconditional love of God when it is directed at those we deem unworthy, a love that welcomes the prodigal home, goes out looking for one lost sheep, or prays for one's enemies.

So we will do away with such love. We will nail him to a cross and be done with him.

But even there, on that cross, he will not be done with us. For his words embrace us, teach us, fill us with sadness, and yet with great hope.

So he prays for us: “Father, forgive them.” So he promises us: “You will be with me.” So he cares for us: “Woman, here is your son.” So he questions, as we question: “My God, why?” So he hungers and thirsts as we hunger and thirst: “I am thirsty.” So he finishes his work for us: “It is finished.” And finally, he trusts in God, as he would will us to trust in God: “Into your hands.”

And then he breathed his last, as we will . . . .

Gary