I wonder if Jesus ever said, “if you call this “Good” Friday, I can only hope that I never live to see “Bad Friday.”
For how could any day be worse for Jesus than Good Friday, the day he was nailed to a cross for “our sins”. The day he realized his only purpose was to teach us undeserving people the lessons of sacrifice. To teach us lowly creatures that even if your Dad is God, not just any god, but the God, well….fathers and sons are always a complicated relationship.
Especially when your Dad is God.
Growing up, Good Friday’s always seemed to be dark cloudy dismal days. It was a holiday, but such a dark somber holiday, how could we celebrate? Conversely, Easter was always a sunny morning, blue skies, nary a cloud to be seen, so many colours, white and yellow, green and blue, my mother making new matching dresses with Easter bonnets (yes bonnets) for my sisters. I don’t recall receiving any new Easter tie or hat bought or made for me, but there were baskets with painted eggs and chocolate bunnies.
Alas, the poor chocolate bunny, whose ears and then entire heads, were eaten first. This is my body, eat me. This is my blood, drink me.
And there was always a man in white robes who said, “May we who share Christ's body live his risen life; we who drink his cup bring life to others; we whom the Spirit lights give light to the world. Keep us firm in the hope you have set before us so we and all your children shall be free and the whole earth live to praise your name, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
But where in the Bible do the bunnies come in? Memories start to melt into each other, paint running into blood, turning into chocolate, melts in your mouth not in your hands, blood on our hands turning into chocolate, as Jesus himself is transfigured into a rabbit, and we are all Alice, and the Holy Land is paved over, and becomes Disneyland.
“Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table: she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words `EAT ME' were beautifully marked in currants.”
Of course, the story of Good Friday is also a story of betrayal. The kiss of Judas, betraying his Lord for a pocketful of coins. Gold coins in our Easter baskets, opening up only to reveal more milk chocolate.
I grew up in the sixties, in the days of the folk mass, when acoustic guitars were introduced into the weekly service. A time when Jesus was a patch sewn on your ratty jeans. A time when Jesus became a Superstar.
“ I don't know how to take this
He's a man, he's just a man
And I've had so many men before
In very many ways
He's just one more
Should I scream and shout?
Should I speak of love?
Let my feelings out”
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