Preparing my heart for the Mass of Good Friday. Sadness descends on my spirit as I try to spend this day each year contemplating what it must have been like to have awakened and learned of Jesus' arrest. To rush to the temple, to see Him scourged. Would I have walked the Way of the Cross with Him? Would I have turned back, run home and hidden out fear that I would be next? Would I have been counted in the number of believers or would I so prone to fighting for my beliefs to the last have defended the Jewish Law? Would I have been a Roman, confused and amused by all the uproar, or lost and forgotten as a Samaritan?
There is not much point to trying to figure out who I would have been, but doing so causes me consider who I am, now, as His Crucifixion is remembered. Am I believer, so joined with Him in suffering that all else falls away. Am I afraid to stand up for my faith, or am I someone who beats down others who do not believe as I do? Am I lost, am I His persecutor.
Good Friday gives me another opportunity to work out my commitment, my love and devotion to Christ by walking this every year by contemplating and assessing my life.
I try to experience Good Friday as the early Christians would have, I try through prayer to sit with the belief that Jesus is dead. Painful and lonely all hope leaves my heart. If Jesus is dead, nothing matters. All we do will be dust. All those I love, dust. I will never see my children, my husband in heaven, there is nothing but death. It's a most sorrowful place.
I go there because I never want to forget what life is like without Jesus. It is dead, lifeless, hopeless.
By the end of the Mass though I leave with a secret smile in my heart because as much I as try experience