A Good Friday Mediation

This was a short homily Rachel gave on Good Friday, based on Luke 22:39-62.

Lisa Forkner, Unsplash

So often, when I read the scriptures, particularly gospel narratives, I am flooded with questions. I may notice something, a particular word or phrase, a particular person, and that noticing just leads me to wonder. I wonder about what’s written on the page as much as I wonder about what’s not written, what’s inferred, what’s left to my imagination. 

As I sit with this passage in Luke 22:39-62, I wonder about that 15-minute walk from the upper room to the Mount of Olives. I wonder what the disciples felt, as they walked with Jesus. Was he quiet, somber? Did the silence feel heavy? Could they sense that something was shifting? 

I wonder what it was like to return to the Mount of Olives that night, a place that Jesus had been returning to all week, a place of prayer. I wonder if they picked up on Jesus’ longing for accompaniment, for friendship, for a sense of with-ness as he prayed with such intensity.

I wonder if they understood, even in their exhaustion, that Jesus asked them to pray so that they would be strengthened and ready for what was coming. 

I wonder what it was like, to watch Jesus, the Word made flesh, crying out in such agony that he was driven to his knees, sweat pouring into the dirt as though it was blood dripping from a wound. I wonder if Jesus’ words puzzled them as much as they have puzzled theologians, scholars, and saints for centuries, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me. Yet not my will...” 

I wonder about watching as Jesus subjected himself to all the frailties and vulnerabilities of the human experience, even the crushing weight of anxiety, of desolation, and of wrestling with the will of the Father.

I wonder about the disciples, weary in body and spirit, eyelids drooping, heads nodding, until they finally succumbed to sleep. I wonder if it was witnessing Jesus’ own agony that led them to be so fatigued, so lethargic. Could they feel, even in a small way, what Jesus was feeling? And were they just too tired, too limited, too human, to stay awake with him? I wonder how I am just like them, too often asleep when I should be awake. 

I wonder about Judas. I wonder so much about Judas. What led him to his actions of scheming and betrayal? Of selling his soul for 30 pieces of silver? Was it doubt? Fear? Disappointment that Jesus wasn’t what he thought he’d be? 

I wonder if he was ashamed as he noticed the shock and sorrow on the faces of his eleven companions. 

I wonder what Judas saw in Jesus’ face as he kissed him. Grief. Pain. And, I hope, compassion, maybe even grace. I wonder if it’s possible to hold some hope for Judas, because I can see parts of myself in him, too. 

I wonder about the chief priests and their servants, who had become so fearful, so consumed with holding onto their own illusions of control and power. Rich in knowledge of the law, yet impoverished in knowledge of the Father’s love. I wonder how much of the Sanhedrin is in me.

I wonder about the disciples' confusion, as they asked if it was time to take up arms and fight. I wonder if they realized that they hadn’t yet internalized all that Jesus had been teaching and cultivating within them. They just didn’t get it, did they? That, too, feels familiar. 

I wonder what Peter was thinking as he followed behind Jesus and the temple crowd to the high priest’s home. What was it about that girl’s question that made him respond with such intense denial? And the second time, and the third time–what was he so afraid of? Would I have responded any differently, had it been me? 

I wonder about the look on Jesus’ face as the rooster crowed, because I always picture it to be one of compassion and love. I wonder if it was one that Peter had seen countless times before on Jesus’ face, if it’s one he held in his mind’s eye as he wept. I wonder if hearing a rooster crow was never quite the same for him again. 

An Invitation

The disciples had these moments when they failed to be faithful, failed to be present, when the breadth of their discipleship was yet unfulfilled. They’re so relatable in these moments. But there was hope for them, and there’s hope for us, too, as we learn not just to apprentice Jesus but to be his friends. Here tonight, we have an opportunity to do just that. Tonight, we get to accompany, to be present to, to love him in his suffering. To stay awake and keep vigil with him. To be a friend to him, broken, distracted, weary, unfaithful disciples, though we are.

What an invitation.

What a wonder. 

I’ll leave you with these words from Jan Richardson’s “Blessing for Staying Awake”:

“Even in slumber,

Even in dreaming, 

Even in sorrow,

Even in pain:

Awake, awake,

Awake my soul

To the One who keeps vigil

At all times for you.”