Good Friday: Passionate Amnesia

Forgive the tone of this post of which I am sure to have a rather dark spectrum. Dad, I apologize that I am likely as well to wax eloquent and philosophical, for I fear we all retreat the the donjon of our own minds wherein we have (we hope) the most chance of making sense of things. Mine is language and philosophy, yet I hope I should do neither for their own sakes; but indeed for the hope of making sense of things.

Have you ever watched a play or film which especially moved you twice only to find yourself more emotionally involved the second time around, yet in a different sort of way? You know the ending already and therefore anticipate it; the character does or says something, or does not do or say it, and we grip in our hearts the terrible anticipation of what we know to come. In such moments I must admit finding myself hoping beyond hope that by some sheer impossibility the story itself will somehow change so the father doesn't have to die, the lover doesn't believe a lie, the protagonist figures it out before all is lost. But, by and by, the very scenes themselves change in your heart - foreshadowed not by device, but by sheer, terrible knowledge of the ending.

The story of the Cross often does this for me, and as I prepare in my heart and mind to speak at a church service on Good Friday - the day on which Christ died and yet, like the film, call good due to knowledge of the ending; in reality, to the disciples at the time, it was anything but good. Yet it is not the cross itself wherein I find myself willing a different circumstance for, and perhaps selfishly, I understand (as best I can) the necessity of the cross as it frees me from Sin. No, where I experience this phenomena the greatest is during the laying of palm leaves as Jesus entered the city.

Allow me to illustrate the situation: Jesus approaches the city and supernaturally instructs his disciples to go and fetch a colt at a specific place and bring it to him. They went and did so. Then, as Jesus is entering the city its citizens go before him and lay palm branches on the ground to keep the very feet of the donkey from touching the ground - symbolizing their reverence to him as a king. Even as they placed the branches before him they cried:

Hosanna!
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the LORD!
The King of Israel!
Hosanna in the highest!

Later in time hymns were constructed of these rejoicing lyrics, and thus we sing before God in church the very words which rang throughout his ears as he entered the city which would kill him. As I read these words I find it difficult not to scowl, for I know the very same voices would soon be shouting with greater passion of animosity, "Crucify him!" before the sound of praise even had time to settle. Though I know not how or for what purpose, but at times I wish the very story itself would change here, for I know the climax. But alas it is much worse! For Christ himself knew time out of mind before the very day what was yet to come, yet he rode on just the same as to fulfill the prophesy of his Father.

I wonder what went through Christ's mind as he quietly rode through the crowd. Did he look at the faces he knew would be jeering him all too soon and imagine how they might sound? Was he in total command of his imagination, or did he find himself daydreaming the horrors he would soon face? On the other hand was he even then gracious? Did he smile as he rode with a sort of gratitude? Was he, perhaps, with a sense of sympathy for them?

"Yet while we were still sinners, Christ died for us," is what the apostle Paul would later write of the occasion. I wonder, and I hope with humility and not pessimism, if we perhaps misunderstand the cross in light of all this. Do we not encourage one another: "Christ saw something in us, even as sinners, that he wanted to save - even at the cost of his own life!" Yet, really, is this not egoism? I do not believe the cross says anything about the redeemed; I believe it says much about the redeemer. The late Bob Benson put it this way: "I like being chosen, but you won't understand it by looking at the choosee; you'll only understand by looking at the chooser." Jesus healed lepers, but I believe this says more about the healer than the healed.

Philip Yancey in his book "Where is God When it Hurts?" describes a remarkable moment in the life of St. Francis Assisi:

"One of the transforming moments of Francis Bernardone's life occurred when he was riding a horse as a young nobleman and came across a person with leprosy. Francis was bitter towards God at the time, and felt a certain revulsion at the diseased man. But something in him overcame both those reactions. He dismounted from his horse, walked over, and embraced the beggar, kissing him full on the lips."

Does this imply that the lepor was huggable and kissable? Was it that, on some level, the beggar meritted the affection of a nobleman? This is argued, but not by the testament of truth; for by such a story one does not walk away with a greater understanding of the beggar by any amount; but rather a deeper understanding and (hopefully) admiration for the giver of affection.

Who is this Christ then, that he should notice me? Not who am I that Christ should notice me. I was a lepor of heart, born with both a body and spirit bent on decay, yet by his grace I have a spirit renewed - unmarred, unscathed, uninfected; eternal.

Christ is a mystery which has consumed days of my life like a fire of glorious blue, and as I cast more time into its consumption it burns all the greater and brighter, and I want evermore to cast but a second more. As this Good Friday approaches I pray not for the passion of the moment - the intensity of emotion, the underlying guilt, or even the rejoicing of spirit - but rather to do as my Lord told of me as I commemorate him by the consumation of bread and wine; body and blood: to remember who he - the Christ - was, is and always will be, for alas, the only thing worse than nastalgia is amnesia. It is not about me; it is about Him.