A poem by Charles Causely as we meditate the cross ...

From a Normandy crucifix of 1632

I am the great sun

I am the great sun, but you do not see me,
I am your husband, but you turn away.
I am the captive, but you do not free me,
I am the captain but you will not obey.

I am the truth, but you will not believe me,
I am the city where you will not stay.
I am your wife, your child, but you will leave me,
I am that God to whom you will not pray.

I am your counsel, but you will not hear me,
I am your lover whom you will betray.
I am the victor, but you do not cheer me,
I am the holy dove whom you will slay.

I am your life, but if you will not name me,
Seal up your soul with tears, and never blame me.

Charles Causley

Ways of meaning on Good Friday

In German it's called Karfreitag - "Kar" it would seem is derived from an old-high-German word "chara", which means complaint, misery or mourning, so "grief Friday" or "grieving Friday". I can almost hear the keening or the lament in "chara". In English we call it Good Friday - good also has the meaning of "pious" or "holy". In Norwegian it's called Langfredag - long Friday, perhaps because of the unbearable time spent watching and waiting for death, or perhaps just the long time spent in church services in centuries gone by ... In French the day is called vendredi saint - holy Friday...
These bits and pieces of meaning and translation all contribute to my sense of this day in the Christian calendar. In addition there are the memories of other Good Fridays, of my father carrying the cross on the walk of witness into the town centre in the year that he was mayor, of my mother playing passion chorals on the violin, of preaching, of praying, of music and silence. And of Hans Ruedi Weber's book "On a Friday Noon", given to me for my 18th birthday. Christ's generous suffering and death speaks of so many other deaths, due to human violence and intolerance ... have we learnt from the passion story, have I learnt? Was I there when they crucified my Lord? ... well no, but in many ways I am still there for he is still being crucified, raped, violated, stoned, strung up today.

A poem by Elizabeth Jennings for Good Friday

It always seems to me that prose is not enough for some days, for some events, yet I've never really be able to write poetry - or not poetry I think much of or that says what I would like it to ...
On Good Friday I turn to poetry, and this year as last to Elizabeth Jennings

Friday
We nailed the hands long ago,
Wove the thorns, took up the scourge and shouted
For excitement's sake, we stood at the dusty edge
Of the pebbled path and watched the extreme of pain.

But one or two prayed, one or two
Were silent, shocked, stood back
And remembered remnants of words, a new vision.
The cross is up with its crying victim, the clouds
Cover the sun, we learn a new way to lose
What we did not know we had
Until this bleak and sacrificial day,
Until we turned from our bad
Past and knelt and cried out our dismay,
The dice still clicking, the voices dying away.

Elizabeth Jennings Collected Poems

Running away or becoming hyper active - how do you respond to Good Friday

On Good Friday I often return to Charles Elliott's reflection and challenge in his book Praying the Kingdom where he encourages the reader to practise a form of one of the Ignatian exercises where you inhabit the person of Mary at the foot of the cross contemplating the crucifixion.
A harrowing experience, watching the one you have brought in to the world dying a dreadful and seemingly pointless death.
Elliott recounts two main responses to taking part in this spiritual exercise. Many men respond to the exercise by fleeing the scene, leaving so as not to have to contemplate the unbearable. Many women respond by trying to tear Christ off the cross, be desperately trying to do something to stop this terrible travesty of all that is good.
But we are called in the midst of a political spirituality to simply be witnesses to that which is terrible and awful, to dare to live with it - not accepting it, not running away from it, not believing that we can stop it - simply surveying the cross and seeing it for all that it is, the terror, the horror, the pain, the injustice.
Sometimes though it's hard to stop running, sometimes it's hard to stop doing and just be in the terrifying space of another's pain.

Way of the Cross ~ Good Friday

This painting hangs in the parish rooms of Oullins Reformed Church in Lyon. The artist is female but no one was able to give me her name. I love the blue colours and the way the cross seems to be at once both a heavy burden and to point weightlessly backwards to a mysterious future.