I did not grow up in a religious culture that recognized and observed Lent. I didn’t know about Ash Wednesday. I vaguely remember palms being passed out on Palm Sunday, and somebody bringing a donkey to church for the Sunday School kids, but the concept of “Holy Week” was foreign to me. Easter was about The Resurrection and the Risen Christ. There was an Easter Egg Hunt, and an Easter Pageant, and good old-fashioned hymns like “Up From the Grave He Arose, Like a Mighty Triump O’er His Foes.” But I wasn’t real clear about Good Friday.
I am now.
In my little town, we have something called “Three Hours at the Cross” on Good Friday. Several churches come together and set aside three hours for half-hourly reflections and meditation. Folks can quietly come and go. I’ve been sneaking in late for the last 15 years. But for a variety of reasons, this year I’m right here, deep in thought, keyboard in hand.
I mentioned that today has something to do with why I wear a crucifix … my well-intentioned Protestant friends often make pointed comments about the crucifix I wear. “Why don’t you wear a cross? Don’t you know that our Jesus is a Risen Savior? Cindy, He’s no longer on that tree!” I’ve lived much of my life as a Protestant, so I understand why they don’t understand me. And while I frequently use humor when I refer to my rigid upbringing (hence the tongue-in-cheek-self-description “recovering pentecostal”), I am truly thankful for my pew-jumpin’ Pentecostal roots, and for the care and nurturing I received along the way from the Quakers, the Nazarenes, the Lutherans, the Episcopalians, and the Free Methodists. I love the rich diversity that comprises the foundation of my faith and my spiritual life. And I unconditionally love the many, many people who have contributed to it. But today, Good Friday, this Catholic Girl is especially mindful of why I choose to wear a tangible and visible representation of Christ’s crucifixion, every day of the year.
. . . because I have been physically broken.
. . . because I have suffered.
. . . because I have known fear so desolate and deep that it defies description.
And so has He.
That’s it, folks. It doesn’t mean I don’t believe in the Risen Christ, and it doesn’t mean I won’t be celebrating come Easter Sunday. It means that the road I have traveled has given me an understanding and definition of Grace that runs deeper and wider than an empty cross. It means that I have learned there is something unspeakably exquisite about the comfort and steadfast companionship of a friend who has been where you have been, and who has walked where you are walking. It means that there is strength in brokenness, and beauty in suffering. It means that there is hope in the darkness.
And it means that I need more than three hours to say thank you.