O God, Friday

There are lots of things that occurred when I was younger that I took for granted, but I never questioned them.  I just assumed that my parents knew best and I went with the flow. 

For instance:

During the wintertime, my parents' house stood bleakly on top of a hill surrounded by trees that had shed their leaves like extraneous hair for a summertime dog.  At four o'clock in the afternoon, the sun would be almost below the horizon and, as we came home from school on the big yellow bus, the driver would open the door and the arctic blast would hit us.  I'm sure there were many times when the shock of the cold took our breath away, but whether we knew it or not, the cold also took hostage of our immune systems at times.  It wasn't really the cold, I guess, but the exhaustion our bodies faced trying to keep warm that caused germs to multiply inside of our guts.

I can remember a time when, after the yellow bus had dropped us off at home and I'd opened the porch door, stamped my feet to shed the accumulated mud and slush, then upon opening the kitchen door, I thought to myself, You know what, my stomach doesn't actually feel that good.  As kids, we know that feeling; that sickening churning, almost a sugary feel in the stomach of the virus doing high dives from our uvulas into our stomach acid.

I didn't eat much for supper and Mom put me to bed early and then, knowing that my stomach was 'upset', I'd call it down right grouchy, Mom would head to the bathroom.  I knew what she was getting: 

The Towel.

The Towel was  mottled green and it used to be made out of soft terry cloth, but after years of washing, drying and neglect, it felt more like a burlap sack.  The Towel was then brought into my room and as it entered the room, I knew that I must be sick because for some reason, when I didn't feel good at night, Mom would put The Towel on top of my pillow. 

As I look back now, I have no idea why she would do this.  If I was really going to be sick, is The Towel really going to protect my seventeen year old pillow?  It's not as if I'm going to barf and when the vomit reaches the edge of The Towel it is going to make a U-turn and stop.  It's not as if my stomach says to itself, "I've got to shut down the pukelear reactor now because we reached the Boundary of The Towel."  There are times when she put The Towel on my pillow and I really questioned the necessity because in all of my years, I never stayed put in my bed if I was throwing up.  It's a natural instinct to try and run to a receptacle made for vomit.  Usually I'd end up leaving a trail of the evening meal on the yellow carpet and my mother (not my father - because he would add to the collection plate) would be scrubbing up for a couple hours afterwards until I did it again.

Oh, to be a parent.

So, as I'm older, I question the legitimacy and the usefulness of The Towel.  Wouldn't you know, though, it's universal, a worldwide thing.  When I married Christine and we had children, sure enough when one of them felt sick at night for the first time it wasn't I who reached for The Towel, but the Australian.  Surely the Baby Boomers must have learned about The Towel from someone before them, the Great Generation, and so on and so on.  Lots of things are passed on without us consciously thinking about them until we are able.

Recently, I've been thinking about this with regards to faith, especially on Good Friday.  I've never really asked the question of why it was 'good.'  Certainly, it seems like every negative thing that could happen to a person occurs to Jesus on this night.  From his perspective, there is nothing good about it, not even close to decent, not even bordering on passable.  This should be Bad Friday from Jesus' perspective; he's nailed to a cross; his friends ditch him; his cross is on top of the Place of the Skull; and the last people he talks to are common criminals who just happen to be suffering the same fate as an accused seditionist.  Talk about bad luck.

Have you ever wondered why the three crucified people are even having a conversation on the cross?  Have you ever really questioned how three people suffocating to death can even begin to have a conversation, even if it is about salvation?

It was not something one did when one was growing up.  One did not question the tradition and/or the pastor of the service on Good Friday.  One did not ask why it was called 'Good Friday' or, for that fact, what in the world does the word 'Maundy' mean?  Why can't we just call it 'Last Supper and Foot Cleaning Night?'  Then there's the blooming Saturday when nothing happens except some basketball games on TV.  Sunday comes, it's dark out, we go to church and celebrate the resurrection again.

It happens every year and yet this year, I'm stuck on this Good Friday thing.  In my opinion, it should be O God, Friday.  Same letters, just a different meaning.

I have questions for God that will be answered someday, but the first and foremost from this day is, "Where were you, God, when your Son was dying on the cross?  Didn't you care?  How could you stand by and watch while we, insignificant pieces of breathing dust, spit on him, pierce his wrists and ankles, shove a crown of thorns and then hang him up in shame?  How could you?  Where were you God?  Can I trust you in my deepest desperation in life?"

Where were you when the terrorists blew up bombs in Belgium?  In France? In Africa?  In Asia? In North America? 

Where were you, God, when the earthquakes/tornadoes/tsunamis ended life and livelihood? 

Where are you, God, when the children who have suffered unconscionable abuse attempt to live life?

And then God speaks out of the storm to me as he did to Job with the same human questions of thousands of years ago: 

Who is this that obscures my plans with words without knowledge?  Brace yourself like a man; I will question you and you will answer me.  Where were you when I laid the earth's foundation?  Tell me if you understand.  Who marked off its dimensions?  Surely you know!  Who stretched a measuring line across it?  On what were its footings set, or who laid its cornerstone - while the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy?

God goes on for two more chapters questioning Job's credentials about understanding suffering, but in the end we, as Job was, are left in silence and shame.  Job says, I am unworthy - how can I reply to you?  I put my hand over my mouth.  I spoke once, but I have no answer, twice but I will say no more.

We have no answer because we don't understand how all the pieces fit together.  We see a complete debacle on Good Friday and proclaim judgment on God that somehow, if He were all powerful, he would have already set an end to suffering rather than allowing the greatest display of injustice to occur.  Somehow we believe that because God did not act on Good Friday, that he is either unwilling or unable to stop pain and suffering.

And yet those words bellow, echoing in the place of my skull and my own selfishness and arrogant thoughts are crucified by God.

I'll tell you where I was.  I was grieving as only a father knows how, but for life to be brought back to all people, for peace and goodwill to truly come about, I allowed this to happen.  I felt it.  I heard it.  I sensed it just like you do.  And because of that, you can know

That I truly love you.  It is God Friday.  It is all about God's strength, not my own.

God Friday.  It is 'good' because he suffers with us, so that in the end, there will be no suffering, sorrow, pain or death.

Thank you, God, for Good Friday.