In the days between the crucifixion and resurrection, all seemed to be lost. What were Christ’s disciples to think now that the Messiah was dead and buried? What good could possibly have come from it? We in the modern church have the benefit of seeing the full story, and how God worked through the Passion of Christ to save the lost.
In the days that followed the “piggy bank incident,” time took on a darker tone. Days were still long and wrought with anxiety, a sense of impending doom pervaded my heart and soul. The television program I was working on, originally the source of so much hope became a black hole of time and mental energy.
One by one the perks fell away. We were castigated by the showrunner at every turn: for wanting to negotiate a contract, for wanting adequate credit for our work in lieu of a proper paycheck, and ultimately for mentioning Jesus by name. The former we could stomach, the latter was unconscionable. Numerous times we set our minds to the task of getting out of the contract we had fought so hard to secure, but for nigh on six months we labored, fighting battle after battle as we began to feel the consequences of burnout. The reason was simple: our work was ultimately speaking for itself and we were gaining ground with our creative decisions—not to mention our insistence to remain true to Christ in all aspects. We told the board of directors point blank that if they wished to cut the name of Christ from the episodes, they would need to fire us. They didn’t. And so we fought.
By the end of the season we had had enough, but were able to walk away satisfied in our labor. We had fulfilled our contract, though Netflix ultimately refused the showrunner’s insistent requests to meet. Though ultimately a failure of a project, and a frankly inefficient use of our time financially, working on that television show had taught both my business partner and I a valuable lesson: just what it meant to take up a cross and follow after Christ.
The days were still dark, my soul was still troubled, but I had carried a heavy load a great distance and grown up somewhere along the trail. The fact is that the burden was one worth carrying, no matter the cost. We had endeavored to make much from little, to glorify God by reflecting the good work He had done in the lives of the show’s numerous subjects, and to not sugar coat the truth of the Gospel. This show would be seen by children across the nation enduring their own struggles. It was our duty to ensure that they did not hear more moralistic, relativist platitudes about “boot-strapping” one’s way through the school of hard knocks, but the honest truth of beauty being brought from ashes, and the genuine heroism that comes from the humbling and sacrifice of self in the name of a greater good. They didn’t need a motivational speech, they needed Jesus.
It’s two years later, and I feel as if I’m at the end of a similar stretch of laboring. There has been much work to be done professionally and personally, long hours and late nights and more tears than I’d like to remember. It has been labor, a cross to bear, but I can’t help but recognize that across that expanse there has been dross burned from my heart and many lessons learned.
It seems counter-intuitive in the difficult moments, and no matter how many times you’ve crossed through the deserts and valleys and caught a glimpse of the next mountain-top vista, the interminable stress of the present conflict has a unique way of blinding us to the reality that our strivings after Christ are not in vain, and that the clouds will someday lift. There is much to be learned from the desert country and valleys, but perhaps none quite like the lesson that, good or bad, God does in fact work all things together for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose.
This weekend I participated in the planning and execution of an art exhibition commemorating Good Friday for a local church. We collected donations from across the congregation and community at large and arranged them in a themed display that spoke to the importance of this season. Last year we held a similar opening themed around the concept of “creation, fall, and redemption” as envisioned by three trees: the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, the Tree of the Curse (the Cross at Calvary), and the Tree of Life in the New Heaven and New Earth. This year our theme was that of “beauty in disparity,” exploring the account of Christ’s death and resurrection, and how it showcases God’s work to weave hardship and chaos into a beautiful tapestry of intent and purpose. As with many things in my life, it seemed an impossible undertaking at the outset, but came together by the grace of God. That is another story, however. In light of the Easter season and all it represents, I’d like to discuss the exhibit itself. It was entitled: Woven.
In the days between the crucifixion and resurrection, all seemed to be lost. What were Christ’s disciples to think now that the Messiah was dead and buried? What good could possibly have come from it? We in the modern church have the benefit of seeing the full story, and how God worked through the Passion of Christ to save the lost.
The exhibit begins with The Last Supper, exploring the themes of celebration and sacrifice. According to Church Tradition, the Thursday prior to Easter is called Maundy Thursday, the night of the Jewish Passover, the Festival of Unleavened Bread. The Passover is a celebration of God’s liberation of Israel from bondage. The Biblical account in Exodus describes the sacrifice of innocent lambs whose blood were to be spread on the door frames of each Israelite home. The blood was to serve as a sign that the household was set apart, so that the Angel of Death would “pass over” as it lay waste to Egypt. This episode of scripture culminates with the Israelite exodus from Egypt, the crossing of the Red Sea, and the foundation of their nation in the deserts on the other side. It is a time of remembrance and celebration for what God has done, yes, but it is tempered by the somber sacrifice of the innocent lamb whose blood upon the post and lintels marked those spared of God’s wrath—the lamb who would be ultimately fulfilled in Jesus Christ, who was betrayed that very night after founding our sacrament of Communion: the breaking of bread and drinking of bitter wine in remembrance for the events that were to follow.
The exhibit then moves to The Garden of Gethsemane to explore the themes of fear and courage. Knowing full well about his imminent betrayal and all that would follow, Jesus retired to the Garden of Gethsemane to pray alone—for his closest friends could not stay awake to keep watch with him. In fear and agony he begged to be spared the dreadful ordeal to come—the full force of God’s wrath poured out upon his entire being in exchange for the pardon of all who would profess faith in him. Repeatedly he asked if there wasn’t another way for this story to unfold, another plan for mankind’s salvation, yet all the while he set aside his preference in deference to the will of God. There was no other plan, no other road to salvation. So, despite the looming reality of cosmic annihilation, Christ laid down his will in exchange for The Father’s. In courage, then, he stood to face his captors, for courage is not the lack of fear, but merely action in the face of it. And, after they fell to the ground at his affirmation that it was him whom they sought, they lead him away towards judgment and torment.
Our next station brought us to the streets of Jerusalem and the future shores of Galilee to examine denial and affirmation. So bold was the apostle Peter, swearing to not only stand by Jesus, but to die for him. He was proven a coward that very night. He, along with the rest of the disciples, fled in terror at the sight of the Roman contingent. Later that night, Peter was confronted three times about his involvement with Christ’s ministry. Each time, he denied it, much to his shame. The culmination of this episode is not in Peter’s humbling, but in his redemption. Later, after Christ’s resurrection, on the shores of Galilee, Peter was granted the chance to affirm his commitment to Jesus. Three times he was asked whether or not he loved Jesus. Peter affirmed his love and commitment each time, his affirmation tuned to perfection by the harrowing events that came before. Later, tradition holds that Peter would eventually be confronted again for his commitment to Jesus and participation in the founding of the early church. This time, Peter did not waver, and fulfilled his original oath: to suffer and die for Christ on a cross of his own.
We did not dwell on the torture of Christ, instead focusing on its ultimate realization: the crucifixion, and the condemnation and grace it reflects. Crucifixion was a ghastly form of execution meant to humiliate and torment its victims. Tied or nailed to a cross, often stripped naked and exposed to the elements, traitors, thieves, murderers, and the vilest of society were left to suffocate to death or die from exposure—whichever came first. It was upon a criminal’s cross that the innocent Jesus was ultimately fixed following a night of brutal torture at the hands of the Romans. Hanging there, beaten, bloodied, and likely hideously deformed from his ordeal, Jesus bore the full condemnation of God’s wrath—the fair exchange for the souls of men. Even so, in the depths of despair, he extended his grace and forgiveness to a thief who was hung next to him, and to those who hammered the very nails that fixed him there even as they divided his clothing among them. I contemplate the names past, present, and future that flitted through his dying mind during those final moments. The names of those for whom he was dying, their crimes against humanity and God deeply known and felt. For how long must those moments have lasted as the full brunt of human depravity was paid for by his blood and agony? At which point must my name have crossed his mind? I thank God that the plea for forgiveness extended to the Romans, “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do,” was recorded as assurance that though I am complicit in his crucifixion, by his wounds I have been saved.
“It is finished.” His last words.
The earth shook and other natural and supernatural phenomena, including an apparent mass haunting as the dead sprang to life in the city, brought terror down upon all those in attendance. “Surely,” one present is recorded to have said, “this was the son of God,” recognition that deicide had been committed to the thunderous applause of a fallen nation. Within the temple, the curtain separating the Holy of Holies from the outside world, a curtain signifying the denial of access to God directly was torn down the middle: no longer would broken men and women be separated from God if they sought an audience.
And, as the sun began to set on Good Friday, Christ’s followers took his body from the cross to entomb it without ceremony in the grave of an aristocrat—even as Judas, his betrayer, found eternal rest in a Potter’s Field, a graveyard for the derelict and vagrants of the city.
The first day, Good Friday, ended.
The second day, Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath, passed. In what manner of spiritual anguish must those who loved Jesus have passed those quiet hours? They had had such faith. They had believed the fulfillment of their entire cultural history had come in the life and ministry of Christ. What now? If the Christ could be killed, what hope was there for Israel? What hope was there for anyone? Surely death and Hades would triumph, forever consuming the souls of all those damned to be born upon our orphaned planet. Were there those with faith still yet kindled on that bleak Sabbath? Did anyone suspect what was to come?
The second day ended.
The third day began.
Female followers of Christ set out to make good on what ceremony they could, arriving at the tomb to wash and anoint their fallen Lord. Yet, the tomb had been ransacked. The massive stone which had been lashed and fixed with a Roman seal had been cast aside by an inconceivable force. Who could have done such a mighty thing? What’s more, the corpse had vanished; only linen wrappings remained. Who could be so monstrous as to defile the corpse of an itinerant preacher by stripping it bear and carrying it off into the night?
The women sought out the gardener, pleading that they might yet still find their broken savior. But they did not find the gardener, instead they found the most wondrous sight attested to in the annals of world history: Jesus, the doomed and desecrated would-be messiah was not dead… but alive. Restored to life, recovered from his torment—save for the scars of the wounds he had suffered. Thomas Aquinas once wrote that: “It was fitting for Christ’s soul at His Resurrection to resume the body with its scars. In the first place, for Christ’s own glory. For Bede says on Luke 24:40 that He kept His scars not from inability to heal them, “but to wear them as an everlasting trophy of His victory.” Victory over sin, victory over death, victory for all who would come to know and love him forever amen.
He sent the women out from that place to evangelize to a historically patriarchal society—a further sign of Christ’s usurpation of the status quo. And evangelize they did, proclaiming that “He is risen,” the wondrous cry of victory echoed in unknown scores of foreign tongues each and every year on Easter Sunday. For he is risen indeed, and never died again.
We linger at the tomb at the end of our exhibition to contemplate that call to action. Truly, “it is finished,” Christ declared it so upon the cross at Calvary. He paid the ultimate price so that sinners like me would not have to. The saving act of mankind was done and we reflected that with one our final themes: completion. Completion in the redemption of all who would believe. But this completion is tempered by the Great Commission that followed his resurrection: the call to action for all who call him Lord to go forth and proclaim that “he is risen,” to make disciples of all nations, to embody Christ for the world, ensured of his saving work and eternal counsel. Commission. Our final theme, and the end of our exhibit.
Across these five stations, numerous pieces hung. Some were religious, but oddly enough, most were not. A cornucopia of works wrent by hands who call Christ Lord, each one affixed with twine leading to the rafters where we hung a massive snarl of ropes festooning across the gallery space, strings and ropes from all of our themes: celebration, sacrifice, fear, courage, denial, affirmation, condemnation, grace, completion, and commission, all ultimately being woven together around a humble cross bearing blood stains and nail marks in the center of it all.
And such is all of life. Thank God it is not ours to make sense of.