Good Friday

This is the King of the Jews. The statement was meant to be an insult. How could a people be strong if their king was so weak? How many kings have been executed in the sight of their people so as to dispirit them, to make them pliable and obedient to some other authority? This was meant as an insult to him and to the Jews who were already oppressed enough. He was kingly in his lineage, in his love for his people and in his wisdom and in his courage. But he was not merely the King of the Jews as he hung on that cross. He was every person who has ever suffered.

His feet are the feet of every refugee who has been driven from his home. The roads are unkind and rocky as he struggles to take one more step away from misery and toward uncertainty. To sit down to rest his suffering feet is to risk dying in that place. All that drives each painful step is the challenge of the next one. Each step is a victory but one that feels as if nails have been driven through the feet of the refugee.

Jesus’ back, marked with the stripes of a whip is the back of every slave or prisoner. The slaves who had to consider whether the slim prospect of a successful escape was worth the lash. The lash would cut to the bone and take a long time to heal. The scars would cause his back to tighten and scream with every movement and yet he would have to carry on in spite of them, serving the one who had taken his freedom.

Jesus’ hands, screaming from the pain of the spikes through his wrists are the hands of everyone who has ever felt helpless as a loved one suffers. Our hands are so capable; we build, we hold our loved ones close, we comfort. Then when we can do nothing, our hands hang useless at our sides. When we cannot push away the evil, the sickness, the despair, what good are our hands? The hands of Jesus bleed our own helplessness.

Jesus’ eyes looked out from the haze of misery and saw his mother and Mary Magdalene and the other women. What they did not see were his closest companions, the ones who professed undying love and support. Those are the eyes of everyone who has ever been betrayed, abandoned, let down, and left alone. His are the eyes of children who wonder why their parents hurt them. His are the eyes of outcasts who cannot comprehend hatred and animosity directed at them. His are the eyes of Jews herded into ovens and Sudanese dying in refugee camps wondering if anyone knows or cares.

The heart of Jesus, perhaps more broken than the rest his body is the heart of the whole world. It seemed so clear, just love each other and yet they didn’t seem to understand. Maybe we don’t want to understand because it is hard work to let go of ancient ingrained hatreds. This is the heart of everyone who has ever known depression. That cloud that robs the world of color and joy and anticipation is not just a chemical imbalance that can be regulated with a pill; it is the lack of hope. Jesus’ heart draws in our despair and holds it on the cross.

O sacred head, sore wounded, defiled and put to scorn.

O kingly head surrounded with mocking crown of thorn;

What sorrow mars they grandeur? Can death thy bloom deflower?

O countenance whose splendor the hosts of heaven adore!

In thy most bitter passion my heart to share doth cry,

With thee for my salvation upon the cross to die.

Ah, keep my heart thus moved to stand thy cross beneath,

To mourn thee, well beloved, yet thank thee for they death.