Good Friday 2009 Reflection

Friday, April 10, 2009
St. Clement's Church; Saratoga Springs, NY

Isaiah 52: 13 -- 53:12
Psalm 31: 2, 6, 12 -- 13, 15 -- 17, 25
Hebrews 4: 14 -- 16, 5: 7 -- 9
John 18:1 -- 19: 42

What a strange day it's been. Or should I say what a strange week it's been. Up to Jerusalem we come to celebrate the Passover and as we come into town the people were calling Jesus a King. Now today they crucified him and I guess they'll come looking for me soon. This has not exactly been a good week.

My name's Peter. I'm a disciple of the Rabbi Jesus Christ from Nazareth. Rather, I used to be a disciple of his. I watched him get crucified today; not from up close but from a distance. I hid a long way off, close enough where I could see what was happening but far away enough so they wouldn't see me. I'm afraid that if they find me they'll crucify me also. Not only because I was a disciple of his but also because I chopped off the ear of one of those who came to arrest Jesus last night. Funny, here I was already to fight for Jesus and he tells me to put my sword away.

It's been a strange twenty four hours. There we were having a pleasant Passover meal and while we were praying a group came to arrest Jesus. I followed to see what would happen. For a while I even thought that had found out who I was. Those nosy people in the High Priest's courtyard knew who I was but I managed to convince them otherwise. I was afraid for my life. I didn't want the same thing that was happening to Jesus to happen to me. I had to lie to them to save myself. I'm sure he would understand that I had to say I didn't know him. Wait a minute, didn't Jesus say last night that I would deny knowing him three times before the night was out. I remember now that after the last time I said I didn't know him he looked over at me. He seemed sad. He was sad because of all the questioning and accusations that were going on but he looked at me as if he knew what I had done. Why did I deny him?

Why did I deny him when he needed me the most? The night before I was ready to fight to the death for him; I even used my sword then but when I was alone in the courtyard I said I didn't know who he was. I'm sorry Jesus. I'm sorry for denying you.

It was a strange night. It was a long night and I was tired but I wanted to see what would happen to Jesus. I managed to get to Pilate's house and stand outside in his courtyard. They brought Jesus out and this time I hardly recognized him. I hardly knew him, not because I was afraid but because of what they had done to him. As I stood in the back of the crowd I saw the bruises, the whip marks, and the spit still hanging from his beard. Even from the back of the crowd I saw that they had placed a crown of thorns on his head, they had pushed it down deep and he was covered with blood. They were mocking him; laughing at him, and they wanted to crucify him.
There I was at the edge of the crowd but I heard all around me cries of "Crucify him! Crucify him!" Why, I wanted to cry back? What has he done to any of you? Why didn't Jesus himself do something to get himself out of this mess? Instead he stood there calmly, meekly, and received all the abuse that they hurled at him. I wanted to ask the people around me not to shout out: "Crucify him!" any more. Then Pilate gave us the chance. He asked the crowd who we wanted to be freed: Barabbas, a common criminal, or Jesus. This would free Jesus, he was no criminal and the people would shout for his freedom. But all I heard the crowd scream was: "We want Barabbas, not this one!" I wanted to scream for Jesus but the crowd was so large and was out for blood. If I shouted for Jesus they would have probably killed me. I kept quiet and drifted away from the crowd.

I followed the death march of Jesus from a distance. They made him carry this huge cross and I thought he was going to die on the way to Calvary. They seemed exceptionally cruel to him. Whenever he fell they kicked and beat him. When he finally made it up the long, dusty road to Calvary he looked worse than when I had seen him at Pilate's. His lips were cracked from being so parched. The blood that was flowing had caked all over his body and the dust from the road covered him completely. Why didn't anyone take pity on him? Why didn't anyone stop this from happening? But it only got worse.

They used long nails to place him on the cross, normally they tie you on the cross with ropes but they were treating Jesus like he was the worse criminal that ever walked the face of the earth. He hung there and with each breath I saw him take I thought it would be his last. I wanted to go right up to the cross and be with him in his final minutes but I just could not find the courage. Finally I heard him say: "Now it is finished." With that he breathed no more.

I could not bear to look at him any longer. I walked back into town in a daze. What had Jesus done to have deserved to be treated like a common criminal? I remembered the three years I had spent with him, listening to him, seeing him with the people. His message was one of love and peace and non-violence yet his life ended in the midst of hatred and anger and violence. He had always cared for people, he never thought of himself once during his entire life. I remembered when he feed all those people with bread on the mountainside, and yet his life ended with him parched from thirst.

I thought about those three years we had spent together. Talking about how God cared and loved for each and every one of us--yet his life ended as if there was no God to be found. His death was the exact opposite of the way we had lived together. Together. That was the way it always was. Jesus and the twelve of us always together. Yet in the end he died alone. Why did I abandon him? Why did I deny him when he needed me the most?

Sure it was easy to say I was a follower of Jesus when all was going well. It was great to say I was a friend of Jesus after he gave sight to a blind person or made the cripple walk or heal the deaf. The people loved us, they adored us, and they treated us like gods and kings. When everything was going well it was no problem to say I knew Jesus. Yes, I was his disciple. Yes, I certainly was one of his followers. But in the end, when things got tough I ran. I feel very sorry and ashamed right now. I could just cry. I remember the last time he looked at me while I was in the high priest's courtyard. He seemed sad but his look was also one that I remembered from his life. It was a look of love and forgiveness. He knew I had denied him and yet he still loved me. He knew I was staying in the background yet he still cared for me.

I wondered if this is the end. I wonder where the other disciples are right now. We all ran. We all denied Jesus, yet he loved us all right to the very end--of that I'm sure as sure as I am that I'm standing here with you now. I'll never understand why he died. I'll never understand why all those people he talked to and who he cured turned their back on him. I'll never understand why I turned my back on him.

I'm sorry for standing away in a distance when Jesus needed me the most. I'm sorry for turning my back on him when he needed me. I'm sorry for denying him. I've got to find the others and we have to do something. They'll probably kill me in the end but Jesus' death must not be the end of it. We have to continue to preach what he did. We have to continue to live as he did. We have to stick together and live the way he asked us to. He died alone, in pain and sadness. I have this feeling right now that he died for me. He said last night that the greatest love one could have for his friends was to lay down their life. I have this strange feeling that he died so that I could begin to live anew.

He also mentioned something about rising on the third day--perhaps he knew what has going to happen to him. Perhaps this is not the end of the story. I have to find the others and we have to do something. It's been a strange week, a strange twenty four hours but I have this strange feeling that it will get even stranger in the days ahead. He preached love and he died in hatred. He showed compassion but he died pitiless. He died so that I might begin to live. I will keep his message alive. I will never forget this day when he died.

I'm not sure how well each one of you knew Jesus but even if you knew him a little bit I'm sure this day has to be a shock to you also. Maybe you feel the same way that I do now. Sorry that I abandoned him. But I think we should learn from what he did. He died to show us how to live. He never thought of himself, even at the very end. I think he died to show us how to live. I think we should learn from what has taken place today. I can't speak for you but only for myself. Starting today I will try to live as he asked me to and I ask you to do the same. His death must not have been in vain; we must carry on his message.

Something else is bound to happen soon. When it does I'm not going to be off in the distance. I've done that enough last night and today. I'm going to be right up front and know that his message is still alive. What a strange day it's been and I think it’s going to get even stranger in the days ahead. I just don't think this is the end of the story.