Good morning, friends.
Today is the day we call Good Friday, the day we commemorate the death of Christ. What a profound mystery, for the "author of life" to die. For the one who promised eternal life to stop breathing. For heart of the one who called himself the resurrection and the life to stop beating. What a mystery, that God would condescend to pave a way for our salvation, and that it would come in such a form.
Today it's making me think of John Donne's poem "Good-Friday, 1613, Riding Westward." Here's a snippet for you:
Who sees God's face, that is self-life, must die;
What a death were it then to see God die?
It made His own lieutenant, Nature, shrink,
It made His footstool crack, and the sun wink.
Could I behold those hands, which span the poles
And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes?
Could I behold that endless height, which is
Zenith to us and our antipodes,
Humbled below us? or that blood, which is
The seat of all our souls, if not of His,
Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn
By God for His apparel, ragg'd and torn?
This "spectacle of too much weight," as Donne calls it, is the beautiful mystery that stands at the core of our faith. Because of the grace poured out for us on the Cross, we can look at this moment of cataclysmic tragedy as a place of hope. This is why we call this day of blood and sorrow "good."
As we mark this somber day - and as we look forward to Easter on Sunday - may we remember that behind each pang of agony was a Love that would stop at nothing to work out redemption. May we remember this mystery of Love - and be thankful.