Today is Good Friday, one of the most important days of the church year. But this year, as we’ve read different versions of the same story in the gospels1, one question keeps coming to mind.
Did the disciples leave Golgotha feeling crazy?
After all of that time, investment, and relationship with Jesus, did they leave his crucifixion shrouded in shame and self doubt? We know that Peter left the courtyard, weeping bitterly2, his disappointment and shame overcoming him. Did he later walk back to the upper room to barricade himself inside of it? Were all Jesus’ followers disappointed and confused? Did they blame themselves for believing so eagerly? Were they fighting an internal battle —disillusioned, but still hanging on to a shard of faith, hoping that somehow all would be well?
As I read the story we’ve heard a million times, but that meets me differently each year, I wonder if God knew we would struggle to believe. Do the gospels contain unique details, so that we would know these stories are too particular to be fabricated? Is the story in Mark, of the man running away naked3, written so we would see our own irrational, fearful choices? To remind us that sometimes we flee from suffering too?
I wonder what it was like for the disciples to have all their hopes dashed, hung on a cross to die. But perhaps I don’t have to wonder too much, because I know shades of that feeling. Sometimes I’m like the disciples, running away from what feels like death, inwardly shaking my head, and wondering if I was a fool to believe.
When our stories are too overwhelming for us to make sense of them, we’re tempted to blame ourselves. We resort to shame and contempt, turning things over and over in our minds, like a math equation missing half its variables, trying to get the answer to come out right. When our observations don’t add up to a cohesive narrative, it’s hard to maintain faith that there is a cohesive narrative. We’re not the omniscient narrators of our life, but rather flawed protagonists, doing the best we have with the information we’re given.
I have to imagine that these days around Good Friday were the most overwhelming story the disciples had ever known. How could they possibly make anything make sense?
What I’m struck by in all these stories, is that Jesus does not fault his beloved disciples for resorting to their flawed paradigms to try to protect themselves. We’re told that the disciples locked themselves in a room, fearing for their lives4. That, even while Jesus walked alive, they cowered in a prison of their own making. They were free, but they didn’t know it yet. I wonder what they felt? Fear, yes, but perhaps also the foolishness of having invested themselves so deeply. Were they planning a quiet return to normal life, hoping to escape notice? Were they wondering if they would still have a livelihood after all their time following this man?
Luke tells us that the men’s response to news of the resurrection was to call the women who brought it crazy, saying,
“These words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them.”5
And even as Jesus walks the road to Emmaus with two disciples, putting together the pieces of the puzzle as they walk, they still can’t see him. Their disappointment is palpable, even as they talk to Jesus himself. You can hear their disillusionment in their admission of confused disappointment. Perhaps they shook their heads as they told Jesus,
“We were hoping that it was He who was going to redeem Israel and set our nation free. Indeed, besides all this, it is the third day since these things happened6.”
Later, we find Simon Peter and others, returned to their occupation of fishing, but still unable to recognize Jesus. He has already appeared to them as the risen Lord, but until they see the undeniable proof of hundreds of fish writhing in nets so full they almost capsize the boat, they still don’t know it’s him7.
Like these disciples, I have walked with Jesus while complaining about his absence. And like them, it is only after he makes it obvious, that my eyes are opened and I realize I have never been left alone. I have doubted that he cares, until I am overwhelmed by his provision.
As the reader of these old, familiar stories, it’s so easy to critique the lack of faith. How could they not know? How could they not recognize him? How could they forget all the promises he had made?
It’s so easy to say we would have done differently, until we look at our lives. I don’t know about you, but my faith is often small. When I don’t have the means or the information to make sense of my story, I tell myself I’m crazy. I discount every moment of faith that’s come before my doubt, and barricade myself away from everyone, hoping to stay safe, oblivious to the reality that the risen Lord is alive.
I have a few stories in my life that start with, “We were hoping…”, and I’ll bet you do too. I carry around the disappointment of wondering why God didn’t show up, and yet, when I read the gospels, I wonder if the truer story is that this isn’t the end. One day, everything will make sense, even if only in heaven.
In reading these stories again, I find comfort in the examples of faithless, discouraged humans, longing for closure and disappointed by God’s seeming absence. We are none of us too far gone.
As we celebrate the Resurrection this weekend, walking through the despair of Good Friday, the quiet waiting of Saturday and the joy of Sunday, I am holding on to the kindness with which Jesus handles each person’s foibles. His question to Mary Magdalene always makes me tear up,
“Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking8?”
He knows, of course, and yet he still wants to make himself known — to hear her admission of sorrow and confusion, and to answer it with nothing less than her name, called out by the one who loves her. Won’t he do the same for us?
A reader of mine shared this Litany of Trust with me towards the beginning of Lent, and I’ve been praying it often. One of the petitions strikes so close to the heart of my battle to trust, and as I walk into Easter, I have been praying:
From the fear that trusting You
will leave me more destitute
Deliver me, Jesus
Amen.
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Lately:
Reading: I devoured Tom Lake by Ann Patchett and I’m still thinking about it.
I think you shared this quote with me when you read it, but I still sent it to a friend, because these are the days…They are reminding me of the years when they were small and it was just me in the house beneath all that snow and Joe was in the barn trying to fix a tractor he didn't know how to fix, and I felt like the children would eat me. Nell was eating me, still at my breast, and the other two rushed to crawl in my lap whenever I sat down. I thought, Joe will come home and find the three of them framing out a playhouse with my bones.
I find myself in an odd position. I am approaching the age my parents were when I was a kid, while also having vivid memories of what it was like to be the age my own kids are. It makes me feel upside down sometimes, stepping in and out of everyone’s shoes. This book spoke to those questions we have about our parents, about the identities we leave behind, the lives we didn’t live, and the way they shape us. I’m still not sure what to do with the ending though.
I also picked up Lysa Terkeurst’s, Forgiving What You Can’t Forget, and while I don’t think it’s saying anything I haven’t heard before, it’s been a timely read. Deep Work by Cal Newport just showed up in my Libby holds, so we’ll see if there’s any takeaways for moms who work in 20 minute sprints 😉.
Thinking: I’ve been struggling with my lack of school motivation and the fact that right now I can often be found wandering my house staring at things, making lists about granular details, and spending too much time thinking about how the dog is going to make a 27 hour car trip. Also putting all the Tupperware in the cabinet for the 15th time in a day. Needless to say, homeschooling is going great. So, when
left a comment on a post about planning to unschool from April 1st onwards most years, it was like a lightbulb went off. We don’t have any fixed co-op requirements this semester. I am the teacher! I get to make the decisions. If we do nothing but math and piano and a lot of reading from now until the summer, I think it will be ok. The funny thing about not pushing structured work is that inevitably my kids will want to do things like “write a book” and end up working in their handwriting and other stuff anyway. But I needed a permission slip, and I got one.Planning: Our move date is officially less than eight weeks from now. We’re in that weird stage where you can’t quite start packing, but you still feel the impending chaos breathing down your neck. Obviously this is the time to shop online for new dresses. Lucky for me they all made me look like I’m going to a 90’s homeschool convention so I’ll be getting my money back. However, if you’ve got suggestions for dresses that are nursing functional, have reasonable hemlines and don’t look like prairie cosplay, I’m all ears.
The historic lectionary (I think we follow the one year, although I always get a bit confused) has you read a different account of the Passion of Christ most days of Holy Week. Palm Sunday is Matthew, Tuesday is Mark, Wednesday is Luke, and Good Friday is John.
Luke 22:62
Mark 14:51
John 20:19
Luke 24:11
Luke 24:21
John 21:7
John 20:15
"...inevitably my kids will want to do things like “write a book” and end up working in their handwriting and other stuff anyway." Truth! I remember once when, right after I had had a baby and we had not yet restarted schooling, I overheard the older kids playing school in the other room.
So...*doing* school!
Beautiful, and so many sentiments to pray through for trusting God….
Can’t help but be thankful for the laugh at prairie cosplay though… :)