It's Thursday, But Friday's Comin'

Force rules the world still,

Has ruled it, shall rule it;

Meekness is weakness,

Strength is triumphant,

Over the whole earth

Still is it Thor's-Day!

--H. W. Longfellow--

Thursday was a day of getting things done. It was a day when plans were being made; when orders were being given, when traps were being set. In the house below the upper room, food was being cooked. In the house of Annas, pros and cons were being weighed. In the armory, soldiers were sharpening their swords, and outside the city, woodsmen were felling trees. It was a brisk day, an efficient day.

Thursday was a day of splendor. Caiaphas, resplendent in his priestly garb, shone with good humor like a fallen star. In the yard behind the temple, a lamb was strutting in a coat of spotless white, too proud of its own perfection to care about the coming slaughter. The captain of the temple guards had polished his armor till it glowed with the reflected light of his self-importance. Judas was studying his reflection on the gleaming surface of a silver coin. It was a day of brightness, of glory.

Thursday was a day of strength. The people who had power were using their power. Annas was pulling strings and all of Jerusalem was jumping. Caiaphas was playing his harp and all the Sanhedrin was dancing to his tune. The silence of the garden was broken by the ordered cadence of soldiers' feet. The blacksmith was hammering out some nails. All those who had swords had drawn their swords. It was a day of violence, of vigor.

Thursday was a day of judgment. In the upper room, the Passover was being celebrated. The angel of death was flying low, as once it had in Egypt on the day of death. A traitor was sealing his pact with Satan. The threads of the temple veil were slowly beginning to unravel. Cowards were running into the darkness pursued only by their fears. The dead leaves of a stricken fig tree blew unsettled in the wind. And a dark cloud was forming above Jerusalem. It was a day of wrath, a day of gathering justice.

Thursday was the self-evident day; the day of stark and obvious things, as brutal as the thunder and as plain as lightning. What could be more natural than to trade a failed rabbi for cold, hard cash? What could be more obvious than to take a trouble-making teacher with sword and spear? What could be more simple than for those who have power to crush those who do not? What could be more expedient than for one man to die for the people? All that is just common sense, as clear as the flickering of torches and as unanswerable as the glistening of swords.

That was Thursday. But then Friday came...

Friday was a day of ugly and imperfect things. A day of ripped cloth and ripped skin; of flowing tears and flowing blood. Friday was a day broken flesh and broken hearts, as strange and uncertain as the clouds which hung above the cross, as mysterious as the secret heart of God from which 'water and blood flow mingled down.' Friday was a day of weakness, of unavailing grief and unanswered question. Friday was a day of quiet, the day when the Word of God became silent.

Thursday was a day for the strong, the confident, the glorious. But Friday is the day for us; the day for the broken, the confused, the lost. Impure and imperfect as we are, we could never walk through the unbroken pillars of the temple. We are broken and we come to the table where is the bread which was broken for us. Poor and helpless as we are, we could find no hope in the gems which glistened on the robe of the priests. Our priest's lasts garments were lost in the uneven clattering of a pair of dice. We come not halls of gold and silver, but the temple of muddy ground and splintered wood. We are too defiled to touch the golden fleece of the spotless lamb. Our sacrifice was scarred and bruised and bloodied. As sinners, we could have had no hope on the day of justice. Our hope lies on the day of injustice.

If this were Thursday, there would be no hope. But today is Friday. It is our day. It is the day for the scarred and the dirty. It is the day for lost and the hopeless. It is the day for the bruised and the broken. It is the day for sinners and misfits. All the days of man are marshaled and ordered to honor that which is honorable. This day honors all that is dishonorable. This is the day when a deserter was given charge of the mother of the son of God. This is the day when the gates of heaven opened to admit a dirty thief and his convict King.

The proud will take pride in their days. The glorious will glory in their days of glory. But for the rest of us our pride, our boast, our glory, and our joy is in the day of sorrow and pain, a date which has lived in infamy. And our creed is simply this:

Thank God it's Friday.