Reflection on Good Friday, Year A
Textual Focus: Psalm 22; John 18:1-19:42
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When I was a boy in a small town
40 miles northwest of Detroit
I asked my Dad, “Why are stores closing at noon today?”
He told me it was because Jesus was killed.
I loved Jesus.
We went to church and cried together.
Not so many stores close today, even then
the South Side Grocery on the wrong side of town
did not close. Years later, as a teen,
at noon on the day Jesus died,
I helped Dad clean out an apartment
when the tenant left unexpectedly;
new renters were due later that day.
I felt ashamed—we were on Main Street
with our truck loading trash for the dump
while Jesus was dying, and good people
were with him (a few people drove by,
they were not with Jesus either,
and did not seem bothered to see us).
Were we like disciples who disappeared—
maybe they had work to do at home
or needed to fix their nets and boats?
A body will be struck down as I write
and as you read this meditation.
What if we sat in church, or even home or a park,
by ourselves or with others,
three hours every time someone in our town,
or Jerusalem and the West Bank, Chicago or Ferguson,
Syria or South Sudan, dies
a violent, avoidable, death, every time a child
dies of malnutrition, starvation, in a world
with enough food for all,
every time a refugee is shot
struggling to get to a land where they can breathe?
We don’t have to wear church clothes,
just sit, and ask forgiveness.
Nothing else would get done. We’d be sitting all the time
no sleep, no reading, no eating, nothing but sitting,
praying, mourning the dead,
and our failure to stop the killing.
What have we learned
since Jesus and two others
were hung out to die?
About this poem . . . I will sit quietly in this space today.
©Robin Gorsline 2017 FaithfulPoetics.net