THE GOOD FRIDAY TRADITION.

As far back as my memory will accommodate, I remember the story of Good Friday and all the things that were bad on Good Friday. First of all, I was told that Jesus was, and still is the Son of God. This God is the God that made the Universe and everything within the Universe. I was told that God is good and holy and sees everything and knows everything.

Every good Friday since that very first one, we reenact the perils of that fatal day and acknowledge our roles in the death of an innocent man, a man who we acknowledge to be the Son of God, and we promise to make all our lives matter going forward.

We sit in three hour services and relish in the brutality of the beatings that Christ suffered and we shout like crazies at a kick boxing arena; instead our shouts are in songs of sorrow. We recall every last detail of that gruesome day and at the end of the three hour vigil we leave the auditorium and go to our homes to devour copious amounts of fish, bun and cheese, ham, wine and whatever else the culture designs.

Easter Sunday is at hand. The final round of the exhibition. Christ is risen, we have a new champion. Christ is King and he will wear the crown. We leave the auditorium. We go back to our lives where we continue to build walls, make bombs, despise each other’s skin tones, break every rule of the ten commandments, we cut and slash faces, we shoot each other, and if we have extra time we kill a baby.

What was so good about that Good Friday as we reflect on this Good Friday? Are we mindless drones? Do we keep tradition as a way to make ourselves appear human and good, or is that we think that we are fooling the all-knowing God in thinking that we really are contrite? This God must be some fool to carry on with us knowing our singular intent to remain the same.

We are not contrite, we couldn’t care less, but we do need to take a break from work and all our daily activities to gather and talk about the good old days. Days when folks were poor and had dusty feet and kept the cattle in the houses. We reminisce about the politics of Rome and how it affected the politics of the Sanhedrin. We compare it with the politics of today and liken some politicians to Herod, Pilate, Salome, Herodias, we could go on. The point is that nothing is different then and today. So we have our Easter holidays and we posture.

I find this very sad, and totally boring. I want something new and hopeful that will not make me lean towards death, but rather to cling to a line of hope written by Tennyson:

“To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield”.

And then, ‘death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die’ – (Donne).