A Good Friday Reflection

The Crucifixion is a tough topic for young children. When I give children’s messages around Holy Week, I’m tempted to gloss over what actually happened on Calvary. It’s easier to skip from the celebration of Palm Sunday straight to the triumph of Easter, without that scary stuff in between. 

For years, we used a Vacation Bible School curriculum from a publishing house that insisted on using Jesus’ death as the subject of the Thursday activities that week. You could feel the combination of puzzlement and upset among the 4’s and 5’s in the room, as we’d have one of the teen helpers trudging up a make-believe hill carrying a cross. Finally we switched to another company that selects more “appropriate” Bible stories. 

But I think back to my childhood, and the fact that Catholics did not do much to downplay the Good Friday story. We attended the Stations of the Cross; we said the Sorrowful Mysteries on our rosaries. Between 12 noon and 3 PM that day, we were supposed to be thinking and praying about the hours of his suffering. I don’t remember being scared, just sad for Jesus. It seemed so unfair, and I hated to think about someone so good, hurting so badly. I realized that sometimes bad things happen to wonderful people, and that people die, and I don’t think it scarred me for life. On the contrary. Easter morning, when it came, meant much more to me, because I was aware of what came before. 

We are in an almost Biblical time, with this modern-day plague spreading across the world. And because we are used to vaccines and cures, we feel nowadays more like the ancients, who had neither when tragedy struck. It has been a solemn Lenten season, extra meaningful to me even though I haven’t set foot in a church for over a month. And I yearn for Easter and what it promises more than ever: healing. New life. Joy in the morning. 

We struggle with how much to say to Aiden about coronavirus. He knows more than we think, I’m sure--or at least that a lot of people are getting very sick, and that we have to stay home to protect ourselves and other people. We want to promise him that it will all be OK by a specific date, but we can’t honestly do that. We feel like Jesus’ family and followers, watching helplessly that terrible afternoon, praying for a miracle that isn’t arriving on schedule. 

But the lesson for me, and for Aiden, is: things will get better. Not as quickly as we hope, but this dark time will not last forever. And the day it ends, we will feel greater joy because we knew sorrow. It will be a time of healing and new life. It will be Easter, whatever day it is on the calendar. 

 So today I observe The Three Hours, by writing. By praying for the sick and dying. 

And by looking forward to resurrection.