Gone: The Confession of the Passion

The theme of the Good Friday reading of the Passion can be summed up in single word: Gone.  He’s gone.

In his recent hit, country music singer, Montgomery Gentry sings about the certainty of loss with these words:

This ain't no temporary, typical, tearful good-bye,

This ain't no breakin' up and wakin' up and makin' up one more time

This is gone. Gone like a freight-train, gone like yesterday,

gone like a soldier in the civil war, bang, bang,

gone like a '59 Cadillac, like all the good things that ain't never coming back. 

No, no never, no never coming back.

If I were to rewrite Gentry's song to fit the events of today, it'd go something like this:

This ain't no hopin' for the best, hidin' out ‘till the coast is clear then I'll rest day,

This ain't no waitin' for the fall, runnin' down the hall, whew that was a close call.

This is gone. Gone like a ship in the perfect storm, gone like that decision that leaves ya torn, 

Gone like the trust we had in the dollar and the reverence for the collar, 

and all the other things that ain't never coming back.   

There are a lot of things in life that are final; final sales, final deadlines, final exams, and that final chance to finally set things right.  But there is a finality to death that is like no other kind of ending. There is deep lament when in our world every song ends with, "no, no never, no never coming back."   The reality of being gone, and the emptiness it translates, lies at the heart of the Christian confession of faith. Christ died. For three days he was gone. Really gone, no, no never, no never coming back kind of gone. We capture the finality of these dark days when we recite the Nicene creed, or whatever variation of a declaration of faith your tradition tenders.  In Christian unity we confess that we believe that, "For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered death and was buried."  While we know that the grave was not, in fact, the end; we confess it, nonetheless, as if we did not.  We confess it because to dismiss the finality of Jesus’ death would be to completely undermine the power of the resurrection.  And so, for today, we make our common confession: he suffered death and was buried. On this point we do not disagree. On this point there is no theological deadlock. And it is on this point that the playing ground is level. Jesus, while fully divine, was just as much fully human; he was born as one of us, and he died as one of us, and we confess it without question.  The author of Hebrews directs us to do as much.  

He, or she, as the case may be, speaking of the Passion of Christ writes: Hold fast to your confession. And so we do. Throughout the seasons we confess it; from Advent into Christmas we confess it.  Throughout Lent into Holy Week and especially on Easter day we confess it. And again on Trinity Sunday and the day of Pentecost and all through ordinary time, we confess: "For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered death and was buried."  

We who are gathered here to witness the crucifixion find ourselves at a loss of words, a loss of halleluias, a loss of all things we have perceived as holy, and are stripped of things religiously consequential. The sanctuary lies empty, without adornment. On this day there is no triumphant cross to lead us. In the sobriety of these days while yet we cannot see beyond the victory of death, we do have a rare and precious opportunity to see what remains. Because as dark and uncertain as it may appear, this time is not without grace. 

Aside from Jesus’ life, something else ended on the cross; Jesus' obedience to the Father reached its final destination. There at Golgotha, Jesus fully met his obligation. He obeyed God to the end and the strength of that obedience stands firm. While Mary and the other women wept at the cross, his obedience survived. While his lifeless body was taken from the cross, his obedience was transferred onto that empty cross. While he was placed in the tomb, his obedience persisted.  While the apostles shrank away from the scene and went into hiding, his obedience remained.   It is the constancy of Jesus’ unwavering obedience that hangs still on the cross; and it is that which today we offer our adoration as we reverence the cross.  

The Latin root word for obedience is oedire, which simply means to listen deeply. This opens a door for us as we contemplate our own obedience to God.  We perceive obedience to mean that we are to act as directed. But to be directed requires listening for a command. And so perhaps a more theologically correct way of thinking about obedience begins with simply listening. Listening deeply for God to speak.  Listening to our own inner voice as it responds to God’s call to and for us.  Listening for the voice of God in those who speak to us, or about us, or with us.  To listen is to obey.

The psalter directs us to, "Be still, and know that I am God.”  It is a call to obedience.  When we are still we can only listen.  Jesus is gone, night has fallen, and everything in the land is standing still. In the stillness, the empty vessel of these three days, listen to the steady beat of your own heart, and in your obedience you will know God.  Listen to your breath, or tend to your breathlessness, and in your obedience you will know God.  Listen, to the birds of spring that do not know and have no concern that Jesus has died, and in your obedience you will know God.  Listen to the wind, which you cannot see, but see how it sways the branches high above you, and how it pushes against you, and in your obedience you will know God. Listen to the overflowing waters of a nearby creek, filled by snow and ice and rain which carries with it the promise of a bountiful harvest, and in your obedience you will know God.  Listen to the warmth of the sun on your face, accept the assurance that surely tomorrow will follow this day, and in your obedience you will know God.  Listen deeply to all the life that surrounds you; let it fill these three empty days as we make our confession, and we wait, and the world groans, and the people cry out for God to act.