Now we wait… Look, See, Pray

It is all over, they think. The Romans, who are VERY good at killing. And the religious authorities- they found their traitor, rigged a trial, and persuaded Governor Pilate to do their dirty work.

Those in the crowds believed it is a “fait accompli”– some with sadness, others with patriotic pride. Rabbi Jesus is past tense.

Scattered to the four winds to hide, most of his special friends and followers are grieved, despairing that the cryptic words Jesus had spoken now have a HUGE cross-shaped full stop ending the sentence. Even the ones who actually buried Jesus were thinking of doing a “proper” anointing of the corpse after the Sabbath. A final farewell, instead of the rushed job of the Friday evening.

Now we wait.

Today WE wait in impatient expectation, ‘cos WE have read the ending of the Gospels. THEY wait in grief (or satisfaction) for the world to be “normal” again.

Perhaps Lazarus, raised from death by Jesus, had a tiny seed of hope? Perhaps also fearing the mob will come for him too…

We have no clue what the Hosts of Heaven thought or knew. Had they seen the plan? Do angels wait with bated breath?

Saturday will be weird as we wait.

And about 2,000 years forward from THEIR day of sorrows, a bright preacher is saying “It’s Friday- but Sunday’s coming!”

Laugh, or You’d Cry- Look, See, Pray

There’s always a clown. Drama needs clowns- and the circus requires clowns of all shapes. Including the sad faced ones.

The drama of Good Friday is about to begin. In a darkened Garden, a man and a few friends face their midnight of the soul. Which is the clown?

Is it Judas, who sold a friend as a job lot? S.W.A.L.K. = Sold With A Lousy Kiss.

Or James and John, who can’t keep their eyes open to pray.

Peter‘s up for the role- too sleepy, then too violent, then too chicken as the rooster crowed.

Caiaphas and Annas– a pair who can’t even fix their crooked trial efficiently!

Herod gets a mention, quickly passed over, more midget than clown.

Pilate, the man with a wiser wife and a cynical streak- “What IS Truth, anyway?” Not funny.

Jesus? His tears will spoil the face paint, and the sound of a heart breaking is no smiling matter. Who casts the hero as a clown? The most prominent colour is blood-red and overpowering… Oh…

It’s a rough night for clowns, but a Good Friday for the human race. It would make a grown man cry if he wasn’t laughing so loud. Clowns can say and do things that aren’t the done thing. Tragedy, comedy, pathos, and searing honesty: but it’s “safe” ‘cos its “only the clowns” and you laugh when they fall down. But there’s not much laughing tonight- and none in heaven.

Script writers and Ringmasters love their clowns! They legitimise “silly” violence, make tragedy funny, and hold the focus of the crowd. “I know, let’s make Jesus “King for a Day” with a big parade; and a spot of scandal when he upsets the money men; a man whose Love becomes so dangerous we can kill him off.”

Little did they know… the real plan, the Deeper Mystery, had been formed in the Beginning of Beginnings by the Beginner of Everything. And all the lesser clowns perform as the “warm up act” for the Death of Death and the Saviour’s Resurrection. Who is laughing now? Mock the clown at your peril!

There will be shining robes in place of motley and harlequin: an Ageless Face with scars and wounds who leads the procession of the Kingdom Eternal- and a broken heart bringing wholeness to all who will let Him. The Lamb who is a Lion; the One who drains the Cup of Sorrows to start the biggest party this universe will ever see.

There will be tears today- and joy and laughter for ever after. God sent in The Clown. This One wears a Crown.

^{© Richard Starling, 2024.}

Good Friday? Look, See, Pray

Even the elements of Creation paused in horror. How could this be happening? What measure of Love accepts crucifixion to redeem a lost world? What kind of people smash rough nails through ankles and hands, offer vinegar and insults, and mock the dying Man?

Darkness came upon the Land. Earth quaked. The dead, disturbed, disturbed the city.

A hardened executioner, expert in Death, trembled and murmured “Surely this was the Son of God.” So the skies grieved and the angels recoiled and the laughter of Hell reached a crescendo- then stopped, dead.

This corpse is like no other. Hell has no power; Greatest of Accusers, Satan, falls silent, dreading the next Battle. Already the smoky deceit of the Liar is being challenged, confronted by Christ. “Send guards to the tomb! Seal the stone, the biggest of Stones, over a gaping grave…” Jesus is dead… yet He refuses to bow down to the Deathmaster.

Let Caiaphas sweat, and Pilate dream nightmares of an Innocent, let Herod the Fox hear the Hounds of Heaven scenting the quarry. Even an Emperor, far off in Rome, cannot command the Christ. Though Jesus gave up his spirit, his story does not finish on the Hill of the Skull.

“For on the Third Day…” said Jesus, “I will Rise.”

Bleak hill- Look, See, Pray

Only a hill. What more can be said?

But this bleak hill could tell a story…
Uncounted years of sunshine and rain,
stone cracking, wind blowing,
history made and forgotten, footprints lost,
memories murmured by melancholic men
thinking of one hill,
three crosses,
and one Saviour.

God painted a canvas of mercy weaved into pain.
Red blood, black flies, darkest sky
and a crown with sharpest spikes
on the head of the gentlest of Men,
on the Hill they called the Place of the Skull.
How apt indeed, place for solving
inconvenient truth and inconvenient men!

Three victims there, and two deserved to die-
the Other, here for a reason greater
than the spite of conspiracies, jealousies,
and fear.

We call it Good Friday, this saddest of days,
when Death bit the bullet
and swallowed itself.
Hate did its worst- He breathed his last,
the cry resounding from heaven to hell
as Jesus tore open a doorway to Life.

The longest Friday.
A few heroes, a broken hearted mother,
rough soldiers, cruelly efficient,
with onlookers weeping or carping-
then gentle, sorrowful hands
a cool palace of bedrock
for the King of all Kings.

All hope seems suspended.
The planet on pause-
so much in the balance,
who weighted the scales?
Poets and prophets speak pictures
and the critics complain,
veiled hints and becomings
unclear to their minds.

One hill,
three crosses,
and one Saviour.

And Sunday is coming.