Good Friday - March 29, 2013
Good Friday
John 18:1 – 5
When he had finished praying, Jesus left with his disciples and crossed the Kidron Valley. On the other side there was a garden, and he and his disciples went into it.
Now Judas, who betrayed him, knew the place, because Jesus had often met there with his disciples. So Judas came to the garden, guiding a detachment of soldiers and some officials from the chief priests and the Pharisees. They were carrying torches, lanterns and weapons.
Jesus, knowing all that was going to happen to him, went out and asked them, “Who is it you want?”
“Jesus of Nazareth,” they replied.
“I am he,” Jesus said. (And Judas the traitor was standing there with them.)
The death of Jesus serves as a tangible expression of the reality that death and life are woven together as one, as inseparable in the whole rhythm of the created order. This is how God created the world.
It is spring where I live in Texas. Trees are budding. Flowers are blooming. Ducklings are being born. Grass is greening. After the cold of winter, signs of life appear. Life moves in this rhythm of death and life, so that they are not separate realities, but part of one reality. They go together.
During Holy Week, this rhythm is observable in the incarnation, death, and life of Jesus. Jesus embodies this oneness of death and life.
I am aware that my tolerance for death, though, is very small. The many small “deaths” that are a part of daily existence frustrate me. They suggest to me that I can’t always have life on my terms. I can’t live every moment in the exuberance of life without having to lay down or surrender what I think life should be like, my plans and agendas and stances. All these daily, moment-by-moment experiences of “laying down” are the small dyings of my days.
These dyings threaten me. They mean I must lay down, let go, surrender . . . when I am more likely to hold on, cling, grasp, and clutch.
Each day – really moment by moment – I, like you, am invited to a series of small deaths . . . the death of an idea, a way of doing something, a prejudice, a way of controlling others, a stereotype, a self-centered agenda.
If I have the courage to step into these small deaths, I find a greater degree of life on the other side.
This is the rhythm of life, the rhythm of transformation . . . these ongoing deaths that lead us to more and more life.
In the best known prayer of St. Ignatius of Loyola, called the Anima Christi, he prayed, “On each of my dyings, shed your light and your love.”
Perhaps that is our prayer for this Good Friday.
John 18:1 – 5
When he had finished praying, Jesus left with his disciples and crossed the Kidron Valley. On the other side there was a garden, and he and his disciples went into it.
Now Judas, who betrayed him, knew the place, because Jesus had often met there with his disciples. So Judas came to the garden, guiding a detachment of soldiers and some officials from the chief priests and the Pharisees. They were carrying torches, lanterns and weapons.
Jesus, knowing all that was going to happen to him, went out and asked them, “Who is it you want?”
“Jesus of Nazareth,” they replied.
“I am he,” Jesus said. (And Judas the traitor was standing there with them.)
The death of Jesus serves as a tangible expression of the reality that death and life are woven together as one, as inseparable in the whole rhythm of the created order. This is how God created the world.
It is spring where I live in Texas. Trees are budding. Flowers are blooming. Ducklings are being born. Grass is greening. After the cold of winter, signs of life appear. Life moves in this rhythm of death and life, so that they are not separate realities, but part of one reality. They go together.
During Holy Week, this rhythm is observable in the incarnation, death, and life of Jesus. Jesus embodies this oneness of death and life.
I am aware that my tolerance for death, though, is very small. The many small “deaths” that are a part of daily existence frustrate me. They suggest to me that I can’t always have life on my terms. I can’t live every moment in the exuberance of life without having to lay down or surrender what I think life should be like, my plans and agendas and stances. All these daily, moment-by-moment experiences of “laying down” are the small dyings of my days.
These dyings threaten me. They mean I must lay down, let go, surrender . . . when I am more likely to hold on, cling, grasp, and clutch.
Each day – really moment by moment – I, like you, am invited to a series of small deaths . . . the death of an idea, a way of doing something, a prejudice, a way of controlling others, a stereotype, a self-centered agenda.
If I have the courage to step into these small deaths, I find a greater degree of life on the other side.
This is the rhythm of life, the rhythm of transformation . . . these ongoing deaths that lead us to more and more life.
In the best known prayer of St. Ignatius of Loyola, called the Anima Christi, he prayed, “On each of my dyings, shed your light and your love.”
Perhaps that is our prayer for this Good Friday.
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