Tenebrae

Judas, Peter because we are all betrayers, taking silver and eating body and blood and asking (guilty) is it I and hearing him say yes it would be simple for us all to rush out and hang ourselves but if we find grace to cry and wait after the voice of morning has crowed in our ears clearly enough to break our hearts he will be there to ask us each again do you love me

Luci Shaw If you know me, you know that I'm not much of a holiday guy. For the most part, it's because I feel they are commercialized. Holidays aren't special or sacred; they're just an excuse to sell me something. And, I admit, that's a very cynical view. I've met people that look at me with horror and pity as I tell them that I disdain Christmas. First they ask if I am an adherant to another religion: “Are you Buddhist? Are you Jewish?” Then, after finding that I am a Christian, their strategy changes. “But I love it because it's a time to spend with friends and family!” they exclaim, trying to persuade me from my grinchian point of view. “And what about the birth of Jesus! That's important! He's the reason for the season! <Insert any other clever phrase that you may have seen on a bumper sticker from a Christian book store>” And that, my friend, is why I absolutely love Good Friday. Here is a holiday whose purpose cannot be touched by commercialism. Who in their right mind what put on a “Death of Jesus” 50% off special? What kind of marketing genius would try to get people to buy crown-of-thorn shaped cards to give to one another? Or have a special “vinegar sponge” drink to commemorate the event? No, the sanctity and significance of this holy day are preserved, ironically, through it's horror and sorrow. We went to City Presbyterian Church in Denver. The minister shared a bit about his past. He was from Alabama and talked about the significance that the Martin Luther King Jr. memorial had for him. The most significant thing, though, for him was the shell of a burnt out Greyhound bus. He grew up in Anniston, Alabama and it was during the Civil Rights Movement that a group of citizens, both white and black, decided to go on a freedom ride. As they got into Anniston, they were heckled and jeered at, so they got back on the bus and continued away from the town. A group of white men followed, though, and shot the tires out of the bus. They began to burn the bus with the people still inside and barricaded the door, but as the tank threatened to explode, they retreated, allowing the people inside to escape. In looking at the blackened metal bus frame, the minister explained that this was the legacy of his hometown. Racism, hatred, shame. And those were the things that he felt attributed to him through this symbol. The connection to the cross was an easy one. I've come to realize that the cross is that symbol for me. It certainly is a symbol of hope, renewal, and joy, but it carries with it a bare, raw, unadulterated sense of shame, pain, agony. Things that are because of me. And as I thought of the feelings that flowed through the minister as he recounted the legacy of his hometown, the feelings of sorrow, pain, guilt in their stark reality, I realized that the cross should do those things for me, but oftentimes doesn't. That's why I love Good Friday. Here is a sacred day where I am reminded of the magnitude of my darkness, the magnitude of my shame, the magnitude of my sorrow, and the magnitude of his grace. It is in the solemn darkness that I can reflect upon Christ's goodness to me and that magnifies the brightness of God's love and his glory.