Good Friday. And so the long circuitous week is just about over. It was called the Via Dolorosa Which means “The Way of Sorrows”. Seems like it has been a long time since that shining Sunday when they threw their cloaks on the road and shouted, over and over:”Hallelujah! Hallelujah! The King is coming.”And they were right—except they turned away that Friday because no King is nailed, naked to a cross. That was the fate of the criminals. Most of the crowd, bored that the show was over had moved away. Even the soldiers who had gambled for his garments had left. Only one soldier was left on duty. Most of the Disciples had fled. Judas had already killed himself. And so John, the beloved, Mary Jesus’ mother and a few women stood there at the foot of that terrible cross. The others? Where were they?
It is strange indeed. Through the years this King with a crown of thorns, nailed like the two criminals would move so many. And yet on that hill far away so many have found something that makes us feel maybe, maybe he stretched out those wounded hands for us.
This long and terrible year could well be the centerpiece for this Good Friday. Where grief and loneliness and injustice and cruelty and more grief is everywhere. The prophet in a hard time said, “Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.” He was in exile himself and kept speaking to his people. They thought Isaiah had lost his mind. They saw no hope hundreds of miles from their homeland and everything they held dear. What valleys had been lifted up? What hills and mountains has been low? What uneven ground and what rough place were not moved? They wanted to go home.
Now
We’ve all felt it this year. Too many deaths, too many suicides, too much rage and hatred and just too much suffering. Just a year ago all those who now were dead. lived and worked and dreamed and loved thinking they just might live forever. And those they left behind separating belongings of their now-dead loved ones. This was not supposed to happen.
Dear God, why after two thousand years do we still look up, make the sign of the cross and somehow go on? Does he still, this time bear our griefs and carry all these sorrows? Or is this merely preacher talk and wishful thinking? Who knows?
But as I think of this Good Friday I remember a story I read somewhere.
A.E. Hotchner was a good friend of Ernest Hemingway, the great writer. He followed him, through the years of triumphs and women and alcoholism and depressions. As far as Hotchner knew Hemingway had no faith. But one of the writer’s great friends was Gary Cooper. And one day Cooper and Hemingway both were slowly dying of cancer. Hotchner went to see the movie star and he talked to Cooper about Hemingway and told him some Hemingway stories and gossip. From his hospital bed Cooper, shook his head and said, “Poor Papa.” Some time before Cooper had come into the Catholic church and when Hemingway heard this he laughed and laughed. Over and over Hemingway would needle him about his faith. And this is the way Hotchner tells of that hospital visit with Gary Cooper:
“He was hit by a big pain and his face contorted as he fought it off…When the pain had passed, Cooper reached his hand over to the bed table and picked up a crucifix, which he put on a pillow beside his head. ‘Please give Papa a message. It’s important and you mustn’t forget because I’ll not be talking to him again. Tell him…that time I wondered if I had made the right decision’—he moved the crucifix a little closer so that it touched his cheek—‘tell him it was the best thing I ever did.’” Cooper died ten days later. Hemingway took a gun and killed himself days later.
And as I think about today I remembered that story. Perhaps Good Friday is true after all. For maybe, just maybe Jesus really does bear our griefs and carries our sorrows. Could this be, after all these years, why we still set this day aside and look up at his cross?
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