This is for the people who need to embrace the tears of Good Friday.
“It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming,” they say. And I can understand the sentiment. It’s hard to live entirely without hope, even for one day. It’s a true statement, but there are other, more broken truths that may need to rise to the surface.
The house is shaking in the wind, and I wonder if the earth itself remembers. Questions surface with the tears, and I am not ready to brush them away.
Can we not just sit with this grief for one day?
Can we not just feel the weight of the world, the weight of our betrayal, the weight of our whitewashed hypocrisy?
Can we not just experience the crushing, and our pain, and our part in it?
Can we not just sit and weep with each other, weep for all the deaths we cannot reverse, soak our shoulders in shared lament?
Can we not just acknowledge our blindness, our stubbornness, our failure to love, our failure to prevent our worst nightmares from coming true?
Can we not just stop in stunned silence and acknowledge the paralysis of our isolation?
Can we not just mourn the extinguishing of light, wilt beneath the darkened sun, and realize the depths of our God-forsaken despair?
Can we not just pause and remember what the world is like when Jesus is not with us?
When we push the way of love aside?
When we pound the truth into an iron prison?
When we pierce the life-giver of the world right into the grave?
This is Friday.
This is us, without him.
And there is comfort, yes, not from what is yet to come, but what is in this moment true:
Surely, he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.