Good Friday

I just read this post from Cherry Tree Lane. It’s too rich not to repost.

Why I'll wake up sick, on Friday

I remember when "The Passion of the Christ" came to theaters.

When it hit the box office, my husband and I, along with a group of friends, purchased our tickets and took our place in the red, velvet chairs.

Wept.

Even my husband and the grown men who were with us.

I had never seen my husband cry during a movie before.

And I haven't since.

We walked outside in complete silence and went to our respective cars without saying a word.

I have never left a movie so impacted.

When I shared my experience with others I felt like I was met with absolute avoidance, from so many people.

"I don't need to see that to know how much Jesus suffered"

"I can't stomach blood and guts, really."

"I feel like it's marginalizing the importance of the cross."

"It's too Hollywood and I hate Hollywood."

"It's sensationalizing the crucifixion."

Of course anyone can argue anything and I'm not here to start a firestorm if you share one of those aforementioned opinions.

But I would encourage one thing, as it pertains to Good Friday.

I would encourage each of us to

GET UNCOMFORTABLE.

I truly believe that people are afraid of what they will discover when they confront the ugliness and brutality of the cross. I think that fear propels people to come up with reasons to not face what really happened.

If you face it you might have to cry {the ugly cry}, be vulnerable, look silly being emotional or

face your own mortality.

I don't necessarily believe that you have to run out and see "The Passion" to fully grasp Good Friday and Easter. People have been taking time to reflect and fully immerse themselves in this special week for years, without the aid of a film. It's by no means a "must".

I simply think that we need to pause, this Friday. We must take time. We MUST reflect on the impact.

I wake on Good Friday, each year, with a pit in my stomach. I literally feel sick.

Even though I know that the crucifixion is done. The price is paid. The blood is shed.

Even still, I wake up nervous, silent, remorseful, in reverence. As if I'm waiting for the ball to drop and the Earth to breath a sigh of relief. I'm waiting.

I hear the laughter of my child, the sounds of lawnmowers outside, breakfast crackling in the castiron skillet. I see the news on the television and watch the mailman go about his route. The phone rings and the dog barks.

Everything is moving like normal but I feel like I'm standing still. I feel sick. I feel fake. I feel like a Pharisee who stands and acts holy, but knows nothing of what it means to be authentic.

And at noon, on beautiful Friday, as I sit in church,

I will let tears roll down my face, uncomfortably.

Sick of myself. My selfish and black heart.

And I weep and thank the Lord for loving me and my ugliness.

My wicked and contrite spirit.

And feel His wide-reaching arms reach down, pick me up and embrace the sinner.

I will wake with uneasiness, but slumber that night with rest assurance.

I have been saved.