The Silence [Good Friday]

The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

The Silence

Not so fast. I know there are colorful eggs to hide. I know there are baskets to fill. I know there are hams to honey. I know that Easter is just around the corner and there are just so many things to do.

But before the trumpets announce the resurrection with their assertive brassy shouts, there is a rest; it is written into the music, into our song – a long indefinite pause that disrupts the frantic rhythm of our lives.

Death does that. And this death more than any other. In the shadow of the cross, there are no words to say. There is only silence, and a stunning absence of life. Historical perspective and liturgical repetition tell us that this terrible cross does not have the last word, that this death is not final, but every death before and every death since, they were final – and those who witnessed Jesus' death did not have the luxury of skipping ahead in the story.

So to all those standing by his cross or running from his cross or mocking him from the ground below his cross: they were not making Easter plans. They were watching death – yet another death, on yet another cross. But this was different. Because he was different: an innocent lamb in the slaughterhouse; he was perfect and we couldn't help ourselves – we had to destroy something so beautiful. And like a lilting melody, his whisper floated over the raging sea of humanity's violence. Their ears filled with his famous last words. Those words, whispered by this dying man, shook the mountains. They waved in the air like a horrible white flag. This was how it would end. And no one was sure: was this humanity's greatest triumph or our most profound defeat?

Maybe there was some kind of remorse inspired by the terrible scene. It seems that everyone thought there was chance – a chance that this miracle man would pull off yet another amazing feat. “Come down from the cross” they yelled. He healed the sick; he raised the dead. The stage was set for his greatest trick yet. And so the crowds cried, “Encore!” The thief hoped to be his opening act. Those who loved him, the ones who dared linger, prayed and prayed and prayed with all of the faith their broken hearts could hold.

But there would be no more; no more miracles. He shouldered so much of their hope. He embodied their dreams. He carried their salvation in his rough hands. And he gave up – he gave up his spirit. And that was it; it was finished.

His dead body at rest – held by nails, or held by love. So peaceful and yet so anguished. Tortured and still. His breath left with his spirit – so devastating that the force knocked the wind out of the crowd, out of the world, out of creation. It's a hell of a thing to watch God die.

There are no words. Nothing left to say. Nothing left to do. Nothing left but the sickening silence. The world rushed by the hanging corpse of the Savior, but it was like everything was on mute. The silence was much deeper than the absence of sound, more like the absence of life, of God – like a chill deep down in the bone, like being held under water, like the world was suffocating in white noise.

Easter is just around the corner and there are just so many things to do. But not so fast. Stay at the foot of the cross. I know it hurts. But stay and gaze upon the broken body of God. It was broken for you. Watch the precious blood pour from the shattered Cup of Salvation. It was poured out for you.

Don't rush ahead to Sunday. Not yet. Live with this silence – this devastating Good Friday silence. Let it freeze you in place; let it disrupt the frantic rhythm of your life.

It is Friday and we are holding our breath. We are stunned to silence. There are no more words – no more words, that is, until God opens the mouth of the grave and breaks the silence.