good gothic friday

Two days until Easter, and I seem surrounded by death. Not the usual way to greet a holiday known by pastel colors and chocolate. But... it is Good Friday.

The church I attend had a very unique, almost Gothic service. In the soft sunset, the doors opened to an empty, dark platform. The usually colorful piano was covered in dark mourning cloth with a rough-hewned cross just behind the prayer rail. Standing on the communion table were white candles in silver holders, and the only color in the space came from the stained glass windows.

As the service progressed, the candles were snuffed out, one by one. Softly, in a mournfully subtle way, the space seemed to grey and shrink. One song was sung by our music leader. Her usually rock sensibilities flavored the air with a weighty longing. Then, two songs were sung by a handful of congregants, accompanied by a cello or guitar.

It felt like a particular kind of memorial service, as if we weren't mourning the loss of just one wise teacher, a single man, but the loss of all light in the world. Sitting there, as more color bled to foggy grey, it was easy to imagine a night where a small band of followers, left leaderless and alone, scattered in fear. 

Why is this day called "Good"?! What is good about it?!

Ok, I get that we couldn't have Easter without Good Friday. And there's a stark beauty to Christ's willingness to suffer through one of the most horrendous ways to die.

But that choice was made in the Garden of Gethsemane. The wonder of Easter for me has always shimmered in that moment, in that Garden, when Christ sees what will happen, knows the cost, and who will betray him, and just bluntly states, I don't want to do this... but if it's the only way to save those who matter most to Me, I will.

After that point, though, there's a lot I don't understand. Did He really have to be arrested after that? Did He have to be flogged, then die of a broken (or ruptured) heart? And while He's bleeding profusely, beaten up and bruised, did the Romans have to offer Him vinegar to drink? I mean... that's just... MEAN.

How is any of that.... good?

How does any of that make this day worth remembering?

I don't mean to sound ungrateful; I'm honored and humbled God would go to such lengths - for anyone. Ever. The fact that He did it for me, as scarred and stubborn as I am, is... staggering.

But I wouldn't wish my worst enemy to be crucified. Then, though, to be mocked and maligned, purposefully hung up naked in front of His mother while crude, rough soldiers gamble for the clothing they just took from Him...?

Just... Really?!

I sat in a beautifully aged building while the sun set in East Dallas. A service was prepared to make me think and ponder and wonder the height and the depth and the breadth of God. Pretty white candles in shiny silver holders were snuffed out, one by one.

The pastor asked that we leave in silence, but that was fine, since I had no words. I couldn't wait to leave, to escape the weight of such... presence.

Two days until Easter, and I am haunted by a choice made in a garden, by a Man and a Tree.