It’s “Good Friday.” For those of
you who may not be familiar with the Christian story, let me explain. This is
the day that some Christians use to mark the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth,
near Jerusalem. Much harder to explain why the day is called “GOOD Friday.” I
won’t even try to do that. If you want to know, you could send me a
question…or, more simply, “Google it!”
Worship on Good Friday always
sends my mind into reflections on crucifixion in our world; who gets crucified,
and by whom. This morning, the Pastor (my spouse), mentioned Syria in this
context. The country, and its people are being crucified. Thousands of women
and children who are not combatants. We cluck over the situation, but we appear
to be unable or unwilling to do anything about it. Some people say, “Why would
God allow such a thing to happen?” To which I would say, “Really? Is it God who
is allowing this? Or is it us, our country and others who stand by and watch
without looking for a way to intervene and put an end to it?” It’s so convenient
to blame God for the existence of atrocious events, rather than owning up to
the human causes of such travesties.
So, this morning, I found myself
reflecting on the world I live in. It’s so comfortable for me and those like
me. And it’s possible to keep all my attention on myself and my “recovery” from
illness, and forget that millions have no such luxury. Life, the world, their
enemies fall on them like a load of bricks, which shatters their lives. That does not make a Friday “Good.” Friday,
the Holy Day for Muslims, so many of which are Syrians.
I notice that some commentators
fulminate over the slaughter of Syrian Christians – which is happening. We seem
to be able to care about those we can claim as “our own” than for those who are
“other.” In Canada we find it easy to set to one side the hundreds of
Aboriginal women who are missing or have been murdered because they are “them,”
rather than our sisters, daughters and mothers.
This afternoon, the mainline
churches of our little town participated in an event called “The Walk of the
Cross.” A large women cross, constructed 20 years ago from a farmer’s tree, is
walked through the centre of town, carried by this person, and then that
person. We stop fourteen times (the tradition is that there are fourteen
stations of the cross in Catholic faith). We stopped at the MP’s office (I’m
biting my cheek here…), at a bank, the courthouse, the cenotaph in a park, etc.
Short scripture and meditation, a moment of contemplation, and then we move on.
It didn’t snow or rain today, and it was just above freezing, so it was, at
worst, uncomfortable.
I got to read and meditate at the
courthouse. I shared with people that “courthouse” reminds of two words:
“judgment”…and “”conviction.” Each word has two meanings. A judgment can be
made against you…or you can exercise
good judgment in your living. A “conviction” can be given you, which demands
that you pay, or a “conviction” can be something that guides your living. I’m
glad I went. There were a lot of young people there, some of them new Filipino
immigrants. Three early-teen girls carried the cross for block or two,
housewives did the same, as well as many of the men, two or three after each
station. I hadn’t planned on going, but Beatrix needed some help, so I “volunteered.”
I’m glad I went. More on Easter Sunday.
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