"Donkeys-for-Jesus." That's what I would have entitled the pastor's homily. AND it was good, it was brief, and I remembered it. He didn't give it that title, I did (of course). It was Palm Sunday, when Christians celebrate the humble entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, riding on a donkey. As the story goes, He told His disciples there would be a young donkey tied up at a certain gate and to bring it to Him. If anyone asked where they were taking it (ie: Hey, why are you guys stealing my donkey?!) tell them, "The Master has need of it." And so the story goes. The point of Father's homily was that we all should be available for God to use, no matter how humble we feel our gifts are. His point was well made... except for me, the Real Homily was happening in the row behind me.
A middle-aged dad sat in church with his young adult son who has special needs. The young man was heartily singing along to the church songs and participating in the prayers. And then we came to the reading of the Passion of Christ. This is arguably the single longest reading in our entire liturgical year. The priest was kind enough to invite the congregation to sit for the reading instead of stand, as we typically do. (Priests of a different era would want us to tough-it-out and stand for the 20-30 minutes of that reading, which is very hard on the elderly, parents with children, and middle aged people, and, well, pretty much everyone.) This particular reading is divided into roles: the Narrator, who reads much of the story, the priest celebrant who reads the parts of Jesus, another reader who reads the other miscellaneous pieces, and the Congregation that gets to read parts assigned to "The Crowd."
I have always not enjoyed the Congregation's part because it involves statements like: "Crucify Him! Crucify Him!" and the like. But it is history, and this is how it happened. We are reading something that was a mob scene. Except every year I keep thinking that we have to be kind of psychologically disengaged to read this and not be emotionally moved by it. It is, in a word, disturbing.
So we read through pretty much 80% of the text and I became aware that the young man behind me had begun openly weeping. Out of the corner of my left eye, I saw his father put an arm around him, and attempt to comfort him. But what could he say, really, "This is just a story..." - no - because it is NOT just a story, it really happened. He said, "the story is not over. It will be okay in three days." And that in effect is the essence of the Christian message: when the State and Religious leaders colluded to put an end to this Jesus, they did not have the last word ... He did. And it is primarily this thing, this resurrection event of three days later, that sets Jesus up and apart from every other religious figure on the stage of life.
It is not true that Jesus was just a prophet. He did not claim to be a prophet. He said He was the Son of God. He was not just a nice guy. Nice guys, last time I checked, were not able to heal the sick, cure the lame, make the blind see, and say: "Lazarus, come forth from the tomb!" and have Lazarus raise from the dead. Nice guys just can't do that. So you, in effect, come down to one last option: He was a liar. And yet when all the events, teachings, sayings - the witness of His Life - are stacked up, He couldn't have been labeled a liar... and that leads you to you-know-where. Logic has a way of taking us to the path heretofore unthinkable. And there you have it staring you in the face. You get to make the choice to respond to the data ... or walk away because it may cost you too much... a job, a friend, a business opportunity, etc.
So while I was pondering all of the events leading up to the death of Christ, and my younger brother in the faith was weeping behind me in church, and his father was unsuccessful in putting a lid on it, I was kind of glad. I was glad at least one person in church gave Christ the gift-of-tears and grieving that was His due for what He went through. The pastor wrapped up his "Donkeys for Jesus" homily, and I felt bad that he couldn't hear the homily behind me because, by golly, that would preach!
And I thought that was it for the deep moment of the year. Then there was yesterday.
I went to Good Friday service at 3:00 p.m. at a little parish in the country that I had not attended before. The parking lot was packed. The church was packed. People of all ages were there. Two young women in their 30's were sitting in the back row great-with-child and looking kind of like they could make a bee-line to the door to go to the hospital at any moment. The music was subtle and beautiful - a young man cantoring, a woman singing with him, a keyboard player, and a violinist.
There is a part in the Good Friday service where we perform the Veneration of the Holy Cross. A life-sized cross is processed into church with due ceremony and positioned at the front of the church. Then the people get up, row by row, and file to the front. Some bend forward and kiss the wood of the cross. Others kneel momentarily and touch the wood of the cross. Whatever way you choose to honor the moment is what you do. The music is being sung - two or three songs, back-to-back. And in the row behind me a grandmother ushers a little guy, probably about four years old, into the center aisle. She said to him, "okay, wait. Okay now get into line behind this lady (me)." And that little guy began to sing:
"Take up your cross. Take up your cross. Take up your cross and follow Me."
He had a voice sweeter than a choir of angels. And if I wasn't afraid of tripping over my own two feet, I would have just closed my eyes and soaked it in as I walked down the aisle. The little voice kept piping up, "Take up your cross. Take up your cross. Take up your cross and follow Me." It was the loveliest thing I've heard in a whole bunch of years worth of ugly stuff I have to listen to every single day. It put every piece of suffering I've gone through in perspective:
Losing a job. Losing a friend. Losing my sense of security. Losing money. So much loss, so much suffering in the past few years... and all of it horrible at the time. And then on Good Friday, a powerful reminder from the Voice of Sweetness: "Take up your cross. Take up your cross. Take up your cross and follow Me." And when I went through all of those losses, I knew that I was not alone. I had beautiful friends and family who stood with me, who consoled me, who encouraged me, who were Christ for me. It was the thing that kept me going when all looked so bleak.
So if you are wondering why Christians call it "Good Friday," that's pretty much it in a nutshell: that Christ entered into the human condition, suffered and died so that we could never shout back at Him, "You don't KNOW my pain! You don't KNOW how I feel!" Yes. He did. He took up His cross and followed ... you.
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