Good Friday. At the Foot of the Cross, April 3, 2026, noon, St. Mark’s.
This year, this place has experienced too much suffering and death. On Good Friday, here we bring our grief, mourning our loved ones, as well as contemplating the why of Jesus’ suffering and death. We linger at the cross for a few uncomfortable moments. It is a reality. Jesus died. It is a profoundly unjust, overwhelmingly painful death. Like millions of Christians around the world today/and at least since the 4th century, we make this pilgrimage at this hour/to the top of Golgotha to decide what Jesus’ death means to each of us. How shall we make sense of other deaths and the death of Jesus?1 / In grief, our words are a continual flight of ideas.
The stark rawness of today brings some answers.
Of all the world’s religions, our faith is the only one with a God who suffers at his death, one who has experienced our own pain firsthand. He is a suffering servant, which no one had ever heard of before. Jesus means to transform the world by loving it,/ not controlling it, which makes his life hell much of the time. But Jesus’s suffering makes him our best company/when we run into bad times. He has been there. There is nothing that hurts us that he does not know about. At our most broken, most frightened, most vulnerable, we have this companion who has been there and promises to be there with us. There he lives, beside and inside us in the lowest places in our lives. Nothing we say can shock him or make him turn away. If we say, “Where are you, God? I’m all alone here.” On Palm Sunday Matthew reported HE also says the same from the cross. Good Friday reminds us that the Christian faith does not remove our suffering. Instead, we are given a God who intimately knows our pain and suffers with us/ and for us.2 This is love that crosses all boundaries. This is the love that never dies.
As we stay on this hill and look up at the wounded crucified Jesus, we recognize he has become what we most fear: nakedness, exposure, vulnerability, and a failure.3,4 ///
We come closer to hear Jesus’ first words from the cross recorded in John./ We see his lips move, but cannot understand what he says. Jesus never observes our own suffering from a distance, so we, in turn, move nearer to him as we see his mother and the beloved disciple do. With a faint croaking sound that comes with overwhelming thirst, Jesus whispers to his mother: “Woman, here is your son.” And to the disciple, “Here is your mother.”/
Mary is only mentioned twice in John’s gospel and never by name, which may make her presence symbolic. Fleming Rutledge5 believes we are witnessing the creation, the birth and modeling of a new community which will carry Jesus’ Spirit of love into the world.
After the beloved disciple takes Mary home/ and the other disciples crawl out from under their rocks, they find themselves in the presence of two people whose connection with God’s love has now become far more intimate than theirs. While those in power in Jerusalem believe they are tearing Jesus’ family apart, Jesus lovingly quietly puts it back together with a new Spirit of caring for each other where3 “we glimpse divine love.” My experience also is that Jesus constantly does this. When our loved one is physically separated from us by death, Jesus gives us a new and different loving relationship with them/ and others if only we have eyes and ears to see/ and hear/ and accept it.////
As we stand below Jesus, we again see other courageous women from John’s story, Mary’s sister, and the woman from Magdala. They as well are symbolic of the women standing on today’s Golgotha, in the face of horrible suffering, somehow finding strength to hold each other up also in a new community.” 4//
Rutledge again reminds us how the degree of thirst suffered at a crucifixion is indescribable. As Jesus is so close to death, John’s Gospel next records that he says, “I thirst.” We remember a recent story in John when Jesus asks a Samaritan woman at the well, “Give me a drink.” Jesus then explains, “whoever drinks of the water that I shall give…will never thirst; the water I give will become a spring of water welling up to eternal life.”
All through the Hebrew Bible, God is in command of waters. He causes waters to flow and sets their boundaries. He causes it to rain for 40 days and then calls the flood back into its beds. He piles up the waters of the Red Sea so the Israelites can escape from the Egyptians. In the wilderness, he makes water gush from a rock when people are thirsty. /Remembering all this is too staggering to absorb./ The One who created the majesty of the Arkansas River and the Gulf/ and the calm waters of Lake Chicot, the One from whom flows the gift of the water of eternal life,/ is the One dying of terrible thirst.5,6
Soon, we hear the exhausted Jesus take his last gasp and cry out, “IT IS FINISHED.”// We remember hearing those same words wailed/ from exhausted women who have endured long, painful childbirth as they make that final push before delivery of a new life. It is finished!/ Briefly, for a moment, we recall Jesus’ words from last night before his arrest: “When a woman is in labor, she has pain because her hour has come. But when her child is born, she no longer remembers the anguish, only the joy of having brought new life into the world. You have pain now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you.” (John 16:21-22)///
But the scene before us offers no joy. It is unusually dark when we help lower Jesus’ torn, naked body from the cross and lay him in the dark cave that holds the truth and love we tremble to name.7 It will be the Sabbath. His time to rest. His part is over. His work is finished.8
We go home and get ready for the Sabbath. It will be hard to say our prayers.
“God, where are you? We desperately need you./ We search for hope in the darkness./ God, you have continually redeemed evil and turned it into good since the beginning of time. But this horrific event is too dark. We desperately need to be reminded what is good about this Friday?”9/
We hold onto the truth that even from the cross, you draw us closer to you, caring for and loving us, just as you did for Mary and John. We cling to your promise “to be an abiding presence with us in suffering,/ as we wait with you through the long night until the morning light. /Our Apostles’ Creed, recited at funerals and in our Baptismal Covenant, reminds us that you first descend into hell after your death. You leave us this reminder that you will always be present, even in the darkest parts of our lives, which feel like hell./ We wait in hope/ through darkness until dawn for that possible wailing /of new birth, new life/ that women have heard and seen for centuries before.”10 ///
We will finally fall asleep, but in our longing for you, God, we will return to this place near sundown tomorrow.
Joanna Seibert
1Julian DeShazier in Christian Century, March 23, 2016.
2 Barbara Brown Taylor, “The Suffering of God,” God in Pain (Abingdon, 1998) pp. 120-124.
3 Barbara Brown Taylor, “Mother of the New,” Home By Another Way, pp. 97-99.
4 Eileen D. Crowley, “Sunday’s Coming,” Christian Century April 11, 2017.
5 Fleming Rutledge, “Woman, behold thy son!... Behold thy mother,” The Seven Last Words from the Cross (William B. Eerdmans Publishing, 2005), pp. 30-34.
6 Fleming Rutledge, “Thirst,” The Seven Last Words from the Cross (William B. Eerdmans Publishing, 2005), pp. 54-57.
7 Barbara Brown Taylor, “The Silence of God,” God in Pain (Abingdon, 1998) pp. 110-114.
8 Barbara Brown Taylor, “It is Finished,” Home By Another Way (Cowley,1999) pp. 103-105.
9 Frederick Buechner in Wishful Thinking.
10 Br. David Vryhof JJSE.org.