Whenever I visit Jerusalem, I enjoy spending time in a lovely garden just outside the Old City. In this garden, there is a beautiful rolling stone tomb—a tomb! Exciting! Archaeologists love tombs—tombs full of stuff . . . but this tomb is empty. It is believed by many to be the burial place of Joseph of Arimathea, and therefore a possible site of the resurrection of Jesus.
Eli, Eli lama sabachthani? My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
The reality of the Good Friday is deeply disturbing—or it ought to be, yet we have learned to live with it. It is as if we have grown accustomed to the sour shock of vinegar. Looking at the news, we don’t have to wonder what time we are living in. It is Friday afternoon.
“Great!” Kristine said and grabbed what I could only describe at the time as a weird, flat pot. She bounced downstairs, and I followed wide-eyed. “Would you like me to go first?” She asked. I didn’t know what this meant. What did going first mean?
In this prayer, Jesus addresses the Heavenly Parent with tender concern for his disciples. “I have kept them safe. None of them were lost except the one destined for destruction, so the scripture might be fulfilled.” I don’t know about you, but I’d like to see a little grieving over the loss of Judas, one from the inside circle.
I wanted nothing to do with this fight. It was messy, and it was dramatic, and I didn’t feel like being called in as a witness to what happened. My life was not messy. It was not dramatic. It was simple and organized and untainted with these sorts of dirty streaks.