The ‘Good’ in Good Friday

I often hear it said that Good Friday is easier than Easter Sunday. Something about Jesus’ torture, crucifixion, abandonment and death seems to resonate for us in a world where there is torture, crucifixion, abandonment and death all around us. At its best, Good Friday can be a kind of compassionate catharsis, an acknowledgment of the ways we suffer, cause harm to one another and how we all will someday die. It’s comforting to know the God of all creation has subjected God’s self to the weight of what it means to be human and can even use the most heinous human experience and heal our darkness and our sins.
In other words, the shepherd becomes a lamb.
But at its worst, we stay in Good Friday. We forget that Good Friday is only ‘Good’ because of Easter Sunday. And we can slip so easily into a world that spins our fear, dismay and distress. We become controlled by our triggered and overstimulated reptilian brains, finding our body in a state of fight or flight. And, over time, this becomes our new normal.
I found this particularly true when I went camping recently. As there was no place to charge my phone, I didn’t—and began to breathe more deeply than I had in a long time. Eventually I found myself exploring the most radical thing we can do as modern people: nothing. It was only a couple of days, but when I came back to Melbourne and finally charged my phone, I realized not only how stuck into the news I was but how much of the news was stuck in Good Friday.
This disaster. That death. This disillusioned world leader. Whatever Karl Barth meant when he said, “Preach the gospel with the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other,” he didn’t anticipate headline bait that pings and buzzes on billboards and screens all around us—and within our own pockets.
But lucky for us, we’re given six weeks to sit in the mystery of resurrection. And perhaps it’s because of how hard it is to stomach. After all, it did take the disciples a few showings to grapple with the unbelievability of such an event. And we need the time, ourselves, to let resurrection become our reality too—to let it overtake us moment by moment, membrane by membrane, so that we might have the audacity to embody this good news and bring it into the world. But not just into the world around us, but within us: into our minds, our hearts, our souls, and our strength. Because as much as modern history has obsessed about the question of whether or not the resurrection ‘actually’ happened, a far more interesting question—a question that will actually lead us deeper into the heart of God—is this one: what does the resurrection do in you?
Which leads us to our scripture today in the Book of Revelation. A book good progressive Protestants tend to avoid—or at least, dance very carefully around. The imagery it holds, the amount of ecstatic experiences John describes, and the gobsmacking and often grotesque signs and symbols would simply do anyone’s head in. And we have good reason to be cautious—there have been plenty of people who have used this radical book to bring fear and doom into an already fear-filled and doom-filled world. But this doesn’t mean we avoid it altogether. It belongs within the realm of this Easter period—and it shows us, or rather, shouts and sings at us, what resurrection not only does to our minds, but what it does to our whole beings and our whole lives.
Our scripture begins with “After this I looked…” which often implies a new scene—or rather, a scene that is expanding in width, depth, and dimension. God’s kingdom is not finite, it would seem, and is perhaps more synonymous with the never-ending expansion that takes place in our galaxies. And then there is a multitude. Not a multitude of uniformity but a multitude of diversity, equity and inclusion—the ultimate DEI hire. For there is an uncountable amount of people from all nations, tribes, and languages all standing before the Lamb, robed in white with palm branches in their hands. A scene synonymous with Jesus’ triumphal entry. And they cry in a loud voice, “Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne and to the Lamb.”
But it’s not just people—angels and elders and creatures stand around this throne who fall to their faces in worship, singing: “Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honour and power and might be to our God forever and ever! Amen.” Then we’re given the phrase, “They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb,” which, to be clear, is not about purity culture but rather about a great reversal: what once was considered unclean and unacceptable, foolish and embarrassing, is the means by which the multitude experience resurrection, a transformed life, new possibilities and new hope. In other words, it’s not wealth or power or anything else that is leading them into springs of the water of life where every tear is wiped away—it is through this lowly one, this Lamb, and (what should be) the foolishness, the embarrassment and the horror of what humans have done to this one on the cross.
And so what we see in Revelation 7 is not some superfluous, warm and fuzzy scene—rather, we are given a revolution that is radically inclusive, politically motivated and utterly cosmic. For it is not Caesar who is seated on the throne, nor is it any elected politician, president, prime minister or pope—it is this humble Lamb who is our true leader, our true Lord and our true shepherd. For this Lamb has brought and is bringing a resurrection that collapses any sense of human-made construction of time and space, any human-made construction of division in difference, any human grasping for power and control—and is remaking and resurrecting all of this world, all of who we are, all our bodies, even our bruises and broken bones.
A scripture, in other words, that doesn’t concern itself with the question of whether the resurrection happened or not, but rather concerns itself with what Christ’s resurrection is doing. And it is remaking this earth, overturning every tomb, bringing the diversity of the whole world before the throne of this Leader, this Lord, this Shepherd who became a Lamb like us for our sake. And the multitude’s response? A political proclamation that Caesar is not God. A cosmic worship that not only joins with the multitude of all peoples and all creation across time and space, but a worship that transcends every ounce of their own bodies in shouting, singing and bowing their whole lives down at this throne.
But what does the resurrection do in you?
Jesus’ resurrection isn’t just a one-time event that happened two thousand some years ago that we are meant to sit here and debate whether it happened or not. Resurrection is not a hypothesis in need of means-testing. Resurrection is an overturning. Christ’s was the first fruit—the first tomb that was overturned to overturn all tombs that precede it. Including the tombs of all nations, all tribes, all languages, all genders and all sexualities. This includes my tomb. And yes, this includes yours. This is the basis of our faith—why we have churches, schools and hospitals. And, even though we may have forgotten, this is why we wake up on a Sunday morning and come together to sing, to pray, to provide for one another and to proclaim who our true Lord is—because Christ is risen, Christ is risen indeed.
But we often forget the magnitude of this truth. We carry on in our humdrum lives as if resurrection is something to think about on our deathbeds or to discuss as a cerebral exercise in church but not something we are invited to embody ourselves here and now. In other words, we feel more comfortable living in the reality of Good Friday but have lost what is good about it.
And this is not to deny the real torture, crucifixion, abandonment and death that our world faces and that we hear about day in and day out. But as Christians and as the multitude professes, we live in the truth that this is not the end. That one day hunger and thirst will be no more. That one day every tear from every eye will be wiped dry. And because the resurrection collapses any human-made notion of time and space, division and dualities, this day is not only in the future, after we have died, but has also come amongst us and within us here and now.
And we do see it. Every time sustenance is given through the Food Bank. Every time safe housing is given to women fleeing domestic violence. And every time we remember that right now, all around this country and all around the world, there are millions of people of every nation, tribe, language, gender and sexuality who are shouting, singing and bowing down to this risen one who is overturning all of our tombs. Because you see, resurrection is not about trying to convince ourselves whether it happened or not—it’s about how we are meant to see the world through. A truth meant to filter through our eyes and our ears, our hopes and our fears, so that all our hearts, minds, souls and strength embody this reality here and now and forevermore.
For this is what is often missing in our churches—why, I believe with all my heart, there are no longer multitudes in churches in the West. Because we have not let Good Friday—that is, the torture, the crucifixion, the abandonment and the death of our world, our church and our lives—become the means by which Christ is bringing resurrection even here and even now. For if there is anything that Christ always does, it’s this: remaking, renewing and resurrecting all our Good Fridays—on deathbeds, in divisive politics and despairing catastrophes—into Easter Sunday, not just after we die but amongst us and within us here and now.
So what does the resurrection do in you? May it shout within you. May it sing through you. And may it bring you to your knees as you join the multitude of all God’s creation, proclaiming, pronouncing and professing that death has lost its power and new life is coming for us all—and, indeed, already has.