Easter

Good Friday . . .

I can’t sleep. I toss and turn, upset. Thinking about how I hadn’t honored this day. I slide out bed and grab a bible and a blanket. In my office, I click on the light and settle into a chaise, trying to fix what is broken.

Matthew.
Mark.
Luke.
John.

I read all four accounts of the day Jesus was killed.

The passages are dark and sad and terrible: Jesus, alone in the garden, weeping (knowing what’s to come). The disciples, terrified for their lives, abandon their master and flee. Peter, engulfed in sorrow over his denial, also weeping. And Judas, watching his betrayal unfold, is suicidal. After the trial, the mob of people stripped Jesus. They clothed him in purple, except it was joke. The put a “crown” on his head and a reed in his hand and bowed down to “worship” him, calling him “king” while they spit on him and struck his face.

It’s the mocking that gets me, even more than the nails.

The Third Day . . .

In church this morning, it’s a full choir and all the people singing. Words of hope of joy and rebirth. And up in the front there is a wooden cross. A purple cloth draped around the cross’s arms and a crown of thorns placed at the top. Lilies planted at the foot.

It’s the cross that gets me, even more than the songs.

The one who was mocked is the one we honor. The one we celebrate. The king we serve.

The Lord is risen.
He is risen indeed.