the Day in Between: Christ of the Lonely

Today is Saturday. 

The day between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. 

This has been a different sort of Easter weekend. Like none other. For you. For me. For our families. For our churches and communities. There have been no big family dinners. No Easter egg hunts at the community centre. No random stop-by hangouts with neighbours or friends. The weekend isn’t crammed with moistly conversations, social gatherings, or joy-filled family get-togethers. 

Good Friday was different, too. 

Good Friday already struggles to keep pace. Good Friday is like the overlooked cousin at the Evangelical Family reunion. Good Friday sits alone in the corner, quiet and solemn, nibbling on some crusty bread. And if we were honest, we all find Good Friday a little uncomfortable. Good Friday is heavy. It is raw. We can hardly wait for Good Friday to pass. Even when we’re with Good Friday, we’re looking over its shoulder for the bigger and cooler Easter Sunday. The saying goes: It’s Friday - but Sunday's coming! 

Good Friday is ugly. A beautiful sort of ugly. But ugly. The entire focus is on the death of someone. It’s not a funeral, full of reflection and memories of a life; it’s a graphic detailing of a horrific and violent murder. We recount Jesus’ physical suffering from start to end. We hear the rush of the whips and cracks of the rod. We visualize the nailing of His hands and feet to the cross. We put ourselves in the scene. We use props! We feel pain. We theologize on scapegoating, and the separation of the Son from the Father. All done in an effort to deepen our sense of gratitude for Jesus’ sacrifice for our sin.  

All of it is necessary. 

But this year, COVID-19 has exposed a weakness of my Evangelical expression: I have never properly celebrated Good Friday.

Interwoven within the Passion narrative there is a silent force at work. Like a shadow it floats from scene to scene, never mentioned by name, or explicitly stated by the gospel writers. It isn’t loud or obvious and it is often overlooked by stronger dramatics of aggressive dialogue and violence. 

We don’t see it because it is too familiar. Too human. Too close to the heart. 

When Jesus was betrayed and arrested in the garden his followers distanced themselves immediately at the first sign of trouble. They ran. They bolted for safety and left Jesus to fend for Himself. Jesus was then bound and cuffed. He was led like an animal to the Sanhedrin where He faced the High Priest alone. He was chained, whipped, and beaten. No comfort. No aid. They mocked him. They dressed Him as a King and propped Him up on the top steps of the Roman courtyard, isolating Him from the dissenting mob. Pilate by His side. Surrounded by people. But entirely alone. 

He was hoisted onto a cross and hung naked. His followers had scattered. His friends were gone. His own mother stood by helpless. And with His final breath Jesus cried out to His Father:

"Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani?”

"My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

“My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?”

They wrapped Jesus' body and laid Him on a cold slab. The stone rolled into place. The torch went out. Darkness filled the tomb. The frenzy was over. The grief set in. 

Jesus lay lifeless. Emptied. Distanced. Isolated. Alone. 

Good Friday isn’t just a remembrance of death and sacrifice. 

Good Friday is a celebration of the loneliness of death and sacrifice. 

And this year, I have met Good Friday for the first time. 

I have come to realize a new kind of loneliness. Half of the globe is house-bound on order to socially distance. Unthinkable. Billions of people. More, hundreds of millions of believers cannot attend Mass or service. Countless numbers are terrified and uncertain. Families are distanced from one another. The old are afraid. The young are restless. Thousands more are laid up in hospital beds. Sick and suffering. Isolated from loved ones. Unable to hear the voice of their kin, or feel the touch of their hand, or the warmth of their embrace. 

Many have died. More will die still. 

This year I haven’t just recited - but have felt the haunting tone of Jesus’ cry: ‘My God - my Father - why did you leave me?’

Jesus knew the agony of distancing and isolation.

Jesus knows the loneliness of death.  

I now understand what the writer of Hebrews was saying: ‘[Jesus] had to enter into every detail of human life… [He] experienced it all himself—all the pain, all the testing… He’s been through weakness… [He] experienced it all.’

If Good Friday is a celebration of the loneliness of death and sacrifice, then the Day in Between is a celebration of grief. Today, I will grieve the suffering and loneliness in our world. I will not rush to Easter Sunday. I will not look past the raw emotion of the moment. Emotion that Christ Himself felt. I will pray for the suffering. I will grieve for the lost. And I will reach out from my loneliness because Christ reached out from His first. 

I will celebrate with the God of the Distanced. I will grieve with the Lamb of the Isolated. I will lay in the tomb with the Christ of the Lonely. 

Resurrection is coming. But there can be no resurrection without death. 

Easter Sunday can wait one more day.

Today I celebrate the Day in Between.