Friday, April 09, 2004
Good Friday Thoughts
John Elefante, in his song "Not Just Any Other Day", reflects:
"Just another early morning as the sun began to rise, like a million other mornings just the same. The people of the town began their ordinary lives, unsuspecting of a world about to change. This is not just any other day...But little did they know that on the other side of town, the sin of all humanity would bleed beneath the ground...it was not just any other day."
Today is the only day out of the year that Nietzsche is right. God is dead. Us Christians have to live through this day each year before we can come to the glory of Easter, that day that defies all reason, all logic, all assumptions. But before we get there, we must nail our Savior to the cross. Just last Sunday we were shouting, "Hosanna!" Now, some of us are scattered, fleeing. Some of us are weeping in hiding. Some of us are driving the nails, twisting the crown of thorns, and thrusting the spear into His side, even as He whispers, "Father, forgive them. For they know not what they do."
The sanctuary is empty. The altar, stripped. It is difficult not to see in the starkness of the empty, stone room (somehow no longer our Seabury chapel and yet still a holy place) a connection to the tomb. At my home church of St. Hilary's, the altar is also stripped, the wood of the walls laid bare and the cold, black iron and marble of the altar lying naked. The tabernacle door, hanging open, as if looted.
In my cassock, I joined the Northwestern community, along with several of my classmates and professors, this morning to walk the Way of the Cross. There was a group of about 50 gathered, each taking turns carrying a large wooden cross, as we traversed the Northwestern campus, stopping in 14 different locations to meditate on the respective Station. As we crossed Sheridan Road, that street which never stops, I stepped out into the middle on one side and a colleague on the other, stopping traffic. The power of our witness was such that no one honked their horn, for once in their life in this city, and waited patiently for us to cross. We finished the last station on the East Garth of Seabury, and the Good Friday liturgy began at 12:10pm. It was a beautiful, solemn, sad service. I went, for the first time, to venerate the cross, prostrating myself before it and praying. Then I sat before it in silence for some time, got up, kissed it and prayed, "Keep me safe," before returning to my seat. I decided not to receive communion from the Reserve Sacrament, also a first for me. I wanted to truly experience the loss to the fullest. Then I came home and listened to that John Elefante song, as I do every year on this day, and wondered with him, "This is not just any other day..."
-R
John Elefante, in his song "Not Just Any Other Day", reflects:
"Just another early morning as the sun began to rise, like a million other mornings just the same. The people of the town began their ordinary lives, unsuspecting of a world about to change. This is not just any other day...But little did they know that on the other side of town, the sin of all humanity would bleed beneath the ground...it was not just any other day."
Today is the only day out of the year that Nietzsche is right. God is dead. Us Christians have to live through this day each year before we can come to the glory of Easter, that day that defies all reason, all logic, all assumptions. But before we get there, we must nail our Savior to the cross. Just last Sunday we were shouting, "Hosanna!" Now, some of us are scattered, fleeing. Some of us are weeping in hiding. Some of us are driving the nails, twisting the crown of thorns, and thrusting the spear into His side, even as He whispers, "Father, forgive them. For they know not what they do."
The sanctuary is empty. The altar, stripped. It is difficult not to see in the starkness of the empty, stone room (somehow no longer our Seabury chapel and yet still a holy place) a connection to the tomb. At my home church of St. Hilary's, the altar is also stripped, the wood of the walls laid bare and the cold, black iron and marble of the altar lying naked. The tabernacle door, hanging open, as if looted.
In my cassock, I joined the Northwestern community, along with several of my classmates and professors, this morning to walk the Way of the Cross. There was a group of about 50 gathered, each taking turns carrying a large wooden cross, as we traversed the Northwestern campus, stopping in 14 different locations to meditate on the respective Station. As we crossed Sheridan Road, that street which never stops, I stepped out into the middle on one side and a colleague on the other, stopping traffic. The power of our witness was such that no one honked their horn, for once in their life in this city, and waited patiently for us to cross. We finished the last station on the East Garth of Seabury, and the Good Friday liturgy began at 12:10pm. It was a beautiful, solemn, sad service. I went, for the first time, to venerate the cross, prostrating myself before it and praying. Then I sat before it in silence for some time, got up, kissed it and prayed, "Keep me safe," before returning to my seat. I decided not to receive communion from the Reserve Sacrament, also a first for me. I wanted to truly experience the loss to the fullest. Then I came home and listened to that John Elefante song, as I do every year on this day, and wondered with him, "This is not just any other day..."
-R
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