Why We Call This Friday GOOD

Susan Isaacs April 15th, 2010

I grew up in the Lutheran church. Easter Sunday was wonderful, but by the time we got to church, Jesus was already alive, up and at 'em. Our church did have a Maundy Thursday and Good Friday service. But when I was in high school: the holiest thing was to attend a Calvary Chapel Easter Sunrise Service. They played Keith Green, Chuck Smith preached for like five hours, and my butt froze flat on a football stadium bench. I mostly remember going to Denny's afterward for hot eggs and a warm seat cushion. As an adult I attended several non-denom and protestant churches, and while Holy Week was holy, they never urged us to attend the services that week. I woke up on Sunday with the resurrection already accomplished.

Four years ago my husband Larry and I went to a Saturday night Easter vigil at an Episcopal church. It blew us away. Two years ago we joined an Episcopal church near our home, and when Holy Week came around, we knew we didn't want to miss the action. The Anglicans know how to take you through Holy Week. It's like the Lectio Divina in 3-D. You are THERE. And if all time is present –the "eternal now"–to God, then in a way you can participate in the week as it's happening.

Throughout the week I stopped to think what Jesus was doing. Did he throw out the moneychangers on Monday and weep over Jerusalem on Tuesday? What about Wednesday? Were his disciples getting worried about Jesus' growing tension? Why should he worry? After all, he was going to throw down the government! (At least, that's what the disciples thought.)

Maundy Thursday arrived, the night of the Last Supper. Our junior pastor Sari asked us: if you knew this was your last night on earth alive, what would you say to your friends? He walked us through that meal, showing us what Jesus did and said his last night before his death. He interrupted the Passover Seder to tell his friends: this bread? This is ME. This wine, this is MY blood. You need to eat it and drink it. DO IT. And love one another. That's how the world will know you are different. That's how they'll know you belong to me." And then Jesus washed their feet. Summarily we had the Foot Washing. I was ready to wash someone's feet. I didn't realize that our pastors washed ours. Talk about humbling. Then it came time for communion. Sari gave me a swatch of that bread, pressed it firmly into my palm and said with deliberation: "Susan: this Christ's body. TAKE IT. EAT IT." I've always felt the gravity of communion. But this time I was there at that table with the disciples. I knew what it meant, that bread. And I knew what it was going to mean in less than 24 hours.

The choir sang during communion. No jaunty triumphant songs. Not yet. O Sacred Head Now Wounded, Let All Mortal Flesh keep Silent, and To Mock Your Reign. The latter is set to Thomas Tallis' Third Tune. Here's Ralph Vaughan Williams' composition based on the tune. Try playing it while you read the words.

To Mock Your Reign

To mock your reign, O dearest Lord, they made a crown of thorns;
Set you with taunts along that road from which no one returns.
They could not know as we do now, that glorious is your crown;
that thorns would flower upon your brow, your sorrows heal our own.

In mock acclaim, O gracious Lord, they snatched a purple cloak,
Your passion turned, for all they cared, into a soldier's joke.
They could not know, as we do now, that though we merit blame,
You will your robe of mercy throw around our naked shame.

A sceptered reed, O patient Lord, they thrust into your hand,
And acted out their grim charade to its appointed end.
They could not know, as we do now, though empires rise and fall,
Your Kingdom shall not cease to grow till love embraces all.

The choir sang on as the pastors stripped the altar. Episcopalians have a lot of stuff up in the front of the church. Banners, doilies, candles, flowers, and of course the cross. But they stripped all of it, washed the altar. (Pastor Anne said this signified getting that altar ready for a dead body to lie on it. Yeah, no jaunty Easter eggs just yet). And then they left. The choir vacated their place up front and sat in the pews. We sat there staring at the entire front area of the church, totally bare, barren, bereft. Jesus was off getting arrested by now.

Suddenly ALL the lights in the church went out, the heavy wooden door into the altar area was SLAMMED SHUT. It sounded like a gunshot. We sat there in the dark. Stunned. Silent. There was the sound of tears somewhere off behind me. And in front of me. And next to me. And mine.

Friday at noon I took our dog for a walk. It was fittingly murky outside: neither cold nor hot, rainy or sunny. I found myself counting my steps, praying for Jesus to have strength. Yes, in human time Christ won the victory long before I was born. But in eternal time, I could actually walk the Via Dolorosa with him. "You can do it, I found myself saying out loud. "We are standing with you." And I could weep.

We attended Good Friday services.  Pastor John gave a shortened sermon on waiting, longing and disappointment. Fitting for the dashed hopes of Jesus' followers.   But what really impacted me was the scripture reading that night: a staged reading of the events on Good Friday. They were short a reader, so Pastor Anne roped me into participating. I got off easy: I read Pilate and the chick who accused Peter of being one of Jesus' cronies.  Poor Larry had to sit in the congregation and shout, "Crucify him! Crucify him!" Try reading that and walking out clean.

Saturday I thought about what it was like for the disciples to have witnessed the previous 24 hours. They were off huddling somewhere in shock. Their leader had been assassinated. All those plans about the kingdom of God coming, arriving, it was gone. All those hopes about justice returning? Gone. And all those moments with their friend? Over. Done. He was dead. DEAD. We sit from our confident promontory in 2010 A.D., we know how it all turned out. But they didn't know. Not yet.

We attended Easter Vigil on Saturday night. We were told to bring bells. (In what church service can you actually say, "More cowbell?") This is my favorite service of Holy Week. You arrive in darkness. Jesus is still dead. The only light in the church is that of the candle you hold. We read four lessons: The Creation, the Flood, Ezekiel, and Isaiah 53. I don't know why the church chooses these passages, but I couldn't help wonder that, in the midst of this horrible tragedy, God is pausing to remind his people of all he has done for them up to this point: Remember how I made this world and called it good? Remember that even when I wanted to wipe out evil entirely, I spared Noah? Remember when you thought you were dead and all hope was gone, that I breathed life back in you? And remember your idea that the Messiah was gonna be a kick-ass rock star? Think again: it's right there in the scriptures. He's going to be led like a lamb to the slaughter. For your sins he will be chastised. And by his stripes you will be healed.

At this point the candidates were baptized, and we reaffirmed our own decision to die to Self. Then the newly baptized were presented to us: they stood in a line, in candlelight, at the front of the church.

Then, while the church was still in darkness, Pastor Anne charged out to the front and shouted, like Mary rushing back from the garden: "HE'S ALIVE! CHRIST IS RISEN!"

All the lights in the church flipped on; the organ fired up, the choir shouted and we rang our cowbells. The words of Wesley's hymn never seemed so alive to me.

Love's redeeming work is done, Alleluia!
Fought the fight, the battle won, Alleluia!
Death in vain forbids Him rise, Alleluia!
Christ hath opened paradise, Alleluia!

Soar we now where Christ hath led, Alleluia!
Following our exalted Head, Alleluia!
Made like Him, like Him we rise, Alleluia!
Ours the cross, the grave, the skies, Alleluia!

Jesus Christ is risen today, Alleluia!
Our triumphant holy day, Alleluia!
Who did once upon the cross, Alleluia!
Suffer to redeem our loss. Alleluia!

Sunday morning I went to the grocery store to pick up some items for Easter Brunch. I couldn't help but hum the tune as I was walking down the aisle. As I left the store a woman smiled and said, "Happy Easter!"
I replied, "Happy Easter, Christ has risen!"

I don't know if I shocked her. But it should have: the reality is shocking: Christ has opened paradise. Allefreakinluia!

Susan Isaacs is a writer, actor, and comedienne with TV and film credits including Planes Trains & Automobiles, Scrooged, Seinfeld, The Drew Carey Show, My Name Is Earl and more. She is an alumnus of The Groundlings Sunday Company and the author of Angry Conversations With God: A Snarky But Authentic Spiritual Memoir.