Good Friday 2024

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 29, 2024 (Good Friday)

Three crosses. You see them on hillsides, sticking up in farmlands along desolate stretches of highway, on bad religious clipart. You’ve seen the symbol of the three crosses, but maybe haven’t given them much real thought.

The middle one we know. The one that stands a bit taller than the ones on either side. The cross of Christ. The implement of torture that killed our savior. The Roman Empire’s preferred form of execution. A painful and humiliating death reserved for those to be made an example of. Like a man claiming to be a king. A prophet who upset the political status quo. A teacher who exposed the hypocrisy of the religious authorities. Jesus was all of these things. And he was strung up on the hard wood of the cross.

Jesus was put to death because he held up a mirror to the world, and the powers and principalities of the world didn’t like what he reflected back to them. That God’s way is not about power and control, but love and service. As we hear in the prologue to John’s gospel, “He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not. He came unto his own, and his own received him not.” 

When you preach love in a world bent on hate, you end up on a cross. When you teach compassion in a world bent on cruelty, you end up on a cross. When you encourage love of neighbor in a world bent on love of self, you end up on a cross. 

But Jesus also chooses death. Because toning down God’s message, compromising on God’s message of love, was never an option. Jesus can only love wholly and without exception. He simply cannot love with conditions. And he knew that in the end, divine love would overcome death. And so he enters Jerusalem, knowing full well how this would all go down. Knowing full well that he would drink the bitter cup of crucifixion. To prove to us, to demonstrate through his broken body, that love is indeed stronger than death.

But Scripture tells us that Jesus didn’t die alone. In Matthew, Mark, and Luke, we hear that there were two other crosses, that two criminals were crucified, one on either side of him. Hence the image of the three crosses. In Luke’s gospel we hear about the interaction between Jesus and these two men, as life slowly and painfully drains out of their bodies. And the difference between how they approach death is striking. One of them continues to mock Jesus. “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” There’s no remorse for the crimes he committed. With his dying breath, he spews hate and derision. He is literally next to the Messiah, but his heart is hardened. His eyes cannot see, his ears cannot hear, the message of love and peace radiating from Jesus’ very being, even as his breath becomes labored and pain sears his body.

But the other criminal has noticed Jesus. Perhaps he saw something in his eyes. A sense of peace. Perhaps he saw him looking with compassion upon those who mocked him and spat at him. Perhaps he saw the forgiveness he reserved for the soldiers tasked with nailing his hands and feet to the wood of the cross. Perhaps he heard the love in his voice as Jesus quietly prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

And suddenly this man who has lived a life of immorality and crime, feeding off of and exploiting the weakness of others, is transformed. He doesn’t join in the insults of the other criminal. He, who would have nothing to do with Jesus or his teachings as he bullied his way through life, looks over at his fellow criminal and asks, “Do you not fear God? We have been condemned justly, but this man has done nothing wrong.” As the life begins to drain from his body, he defends Jesus. He testifies to his innocence. Despite living a life worthy of condemnation, he turns to Jesus at the very end. He believes in him. He puts his soul into his hands. 

In the end, this man is the only one who speaks up for Jesus. The disciples have fled. Peter, the rock upon whom Christ has built his church, has denied him three times. Fear has overtaken his closest friends. Their silence is deafening. But one man speaks up. One man testifies to the truth. One man, the last person anyone would expect, stands up for Jesus. He is known to us as the penitent thief, by tradition he died to the cross at Jesus’ right side. His last words are, “Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom.”

We have two choices when it comes to to our response to the cross. Like the first criminal we can deride it or minimize it or trivialize it. We can ignore its power, its triumph, its pain, and its glory. We can live our lives never experiencing the true peace and joy that only comes from knowing at the very core of our being that we are loved and forgiven.

Or we can make it the defining statement of our lives. We can experience Jesus’ death as an act of love. One that banishes the fear of death that so often defines our interactions with ourselves and others. We can allow our souls to be filled with the peace of God that passes all understanding. That’s what Jesus wants for you. That’s why Jesus was willing to be betrayed into the hands of sinners and put to death on a cross. Because he desperately and irrepressibly loves you and longs for you.

“Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom.” May that be our prayer this day and at the hour of our death. When Jesus will lovingly gaze upon you, as he did to the penitent thief, and reply, “Truly I tell you, this day you will be with me in Paradise.”

Good Friday 2023

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 7, 2023 (Good Friday)

“Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume breathes a life of gathering gloom; sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying, sealed in the stone-cold tomb.” 

And so the words of a familiar hymn, often sung at Christmas pageants announcing the arrival of the three kings, come back to us on Good Friday. The Magi’s gift of “bitter perfume,” this embalming oil, finally makes sense. The foreshadowing of the seemingly odd gift of myrrh is realized on this day when we mark our Lord’s crucifixion. His broken body is taken down from the cross and prepared for burial with myrrh before being “sealed in the stone-cold tomb.”

And just as myrrh itself has a bittersweet aroma, so is this day bittersweet to Christians throughout the world. Bitter in its agony; bitter in its indignity; bitter in its shamefulness. Yet sweet in its necessity for the redemption of the world; sweet in its act of love for all humankind; sweet in its atoning, once-for-all sacrifice. Good Friday is and must be bittersweet. For to minimize the bitterness of the cross is to gloss over its power. And to minimize its sweetness is to neglect its love. 

I’ve always thought the Good Friday symbolism of the Orthodox Church beautifully and poignantly captures this duality. As worshippers enter for the evening liturgy they encounter a rough-hewn wooden cross placed in the middle of the church, surrounded by Easter lilies. A compelling visual manifestation that the Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ is both bitter and sweet; that death and resurrection are intertwined and can never be separated. On Good Friday we anticipate our Lord’s resurrection, even as we reflect on the hard wood of the cross.

So amid all the images of crucifixion – the crown of thorns, the nails, the indignities, and the mockery – everything points forward to the resurrection. We know that soon enough, Jesus will be released from his three days’ prison. And to pretend we don’t would delve into the realm of play acting. Come Easter Day, we know the tomb will be empty and we can’t make believe that we don’t. Good Friday is not a “funeral” for Jesus. But even still, the violence of the cross is a bitter pill. The image of our Lord’s broken body hanging on a cross is seared into our consciousness. And we can imagine what those first disciples must have felt – the anguish, the loneliness, the feelings of abandonment, the despair, the heartbreak. 

Because in our own lives we are all familiar with such emotions. We have all experienced loss and pain and grief. Perhaps the whole notion of Good Friday is an apt metaphor for the human experience. Because life itself is often bittersweet. Our dreams are dashed; our expectations don’t meet reality; our hopes are met with disappointment. 

As we gather today, some of these wounds may still be open and raw for you; some, over time, may have built up scar tissue around them. But our very humanity binds us to the anguish of Good Friday. And the cross stands as the great connector that links the suffering of Jesus to our own suffering. Jesus’ humanity touches our own very human hearts.

And the good news embedded in the agony of our Lord’s death, is that we can leave our pain, drop our burdens, release our sorrows, shed our grief right there at the foot of the cross. We don’t have to hold it alone. Jesus, our constant companion, bears it with us and for us. He walks with us through the valley that can indeed feel like the shadow of death. And so even in the depths of our pain and brokenness, hope exists. A deep and abiding and life-giving hope. A hope that transcends even the most seemingly hopeless situation.

And so, even as the Savior of the world hangs upon the cross — bruised and broken, reviled and forsaken — the cross of Christ invites us into a place of hope and meaning. A place where salvation is freely offered and grace is abundantly poured out. Which is what makes this day “Good” Friday or, as the Orthodox call it, “Great” Friday.

“Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume breathes a life of gathering gloom; sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying, sealed in the stone-cold tomb.” Jesus’ death and burial is not the end of the story, merely a piece of it. It is bittersweet, yes, but it is decidedly not yet finished. Our journey continues.

Good Friday 2022

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 

St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 15, 2022 (Good Friday)

One of the most moving Good Friday images I have ever witnessed was longtime parishioner Mary Ellen Hatfield coming up to venerate the cross on her last Good Friday on this earth. Her son Steve helped her slowly navigate the chancel steps on the long journey towards the altar. He stayed by her side as she knelt down and kissed the rough wooden cross that is placed just inside the communion rail. And then he helped her slowly and steadily return to her pew.

Partly it was her determination, that literally nothing in the world would stop her from encountering the cross on Good Friday; partly it was Steve’s love for his mother playing out in such a tangible way; partly it was Mary Ellen’s deep faith as she literally went to the foot of the cross knowing that she would soon be with her Lord in paradise; and partly it was Mary Ellen’s deep and infectious faith. It transcended hardship and physical pain and entered the world of the joyful and mystical.

It’s this spirit of walking with our Lord that feels like a holy thing to reflect upon on Good Friday. For Mary Ellen, that walk through the church to venerate the cross was both literal and theological. It was both an arduous pilgrimage and a mission of conviction. And the point is, that short walk was a journey. A journey with and to her Lord.

And for us, Good Friday is also a journey. A journey with and to our Lord. The crucifixion of Jesus reminds us that this is not always an easy journey. The life of faith is littered with disappointments. We die to all sorts of things in our lives. To sin, hopefully. But how often do our hopes and desires perish before our very eyes? Dreams go unrealized and wither on the vine. Aspirations fail to come to fruition. Relationships fade away and fall apart. Our mortal bodies betray us, and sometimes so do our minds. Death is as much a part of life as breathing. 

Jesus is intimately aware of our suffering, of our broken dreams and broken hearts and broken bodies and broken lives. His own body wasn’t broken in order to make us feel better, but to walk with us in our brokenness. To join us in our struggles. To love us as we wobble our way through our lives — hesitantly, haltingly, helplessly.

On this day we aren’t merely passive observers of Jesus’ death, we are active participants in the journey. Because Good Friday is an integral part of our own journey. The pain is our pain; the death is our death; the grief is our grief. And so, we grow weary right along with Jesus as he makes his way up to Calvary. We stumble right along with Jesus as he falls under the great weight of the cross. We are mocked and reviled right along with Jesus as he faithfully follows the will of his Father. We are in his struggles and he is in ours. Walking with us, comforting us, loving us. Like Mary Ellen, we journey with and to our Lord.

The good news of this day, the “good” in Good Friday, is that we will get to our destination. Our journey leads us directly to the foot of the cross. It leads us to Jesus. And it is in Jesus that we can lay our burdens down. It is in Jesus that we realize we don’t have to bear this heavy load alone. It is in Jesus that we can find rest for our weary souls. 

Jesus says to us, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” It is at the foot of the cross that we find rest and refreshment, even amid the struggles of the journey.

We have made it to the foot of the cross. Our journey has led us to Jesus.

Good Friday 2021

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of  St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts Preached by the Rev. Timothy Schenck on April 2, 2021 (Good Friday)

I’ve always loved the term “rubbernecking.” It’s a wonderfully illustrative, even cartoonish description of turning to watch something that really isn’t our business. I don’t love what people normally see when they rubberneck. I mean, it’s easy enough to feel a sense of schadenfreude when the guy who just raced passed you on the highway gets pulled over for speeding a mile or two down the road. But slowing down to stare at a grisly accident is hard to see, even as it is nearly impossible to look away.

I get the sense there was a lot of rubbernecking during that first Holy Week. With all the drama surrounding Jesus’ arrest, trial, and crucifixion, there were ample peak rubbernecking opportunities. The forces of empire and the seeds of rebellion, the mix of religious conviction and charges of heresy, the passions aroused on all sides — all of this came together to create a highly-charged environment with an intoxicating swirl of emotion. It must have been hard for even the most causal observer to turn away.

And, regardless of where they stood on the question of this particular religious movement — whether they viewed Jesus as a misguided zealot, a dangerous heretic, or the Messiah — people couldn’t help but be drawn into the drama of what was unfolding before their very eyes. They simply could not avert their gazes.

But for people of faith, the crucifixion of our Lord, isn’t merely interesting or captivating from a detached, observational point of view. Just as it was for Jesus’ closest friends, Good Friday is an integral part of our story. The pain is our pain; the death is our death; the grief is our grief.

In some ways we’ve gotten desensitized to the full violence of the cross. You can buy sweet little silver crosses at Kay Jewelers, you can spot crosses on bumper stickers, they’re seen on the steeples of picturesque white clapboard New England churches. They’ve become so ubiquitous  as emblems of personal and communal faith, that the shock value has worn off. But it’s not just the violence, it’s the symbolism and meaning behind crucifixion itself that demands our attention.

We forget that crucifixion was not the normal means of capital punishment in the ancient Roman world. It was typically reserved for a certain class of criminal.  The crucified class included those deemed especially worthless by the powers that be, which is why Roman citizens themselves were exempt from such a fate. 

Crucifixion was used exclusively for outsiders — for slaves; for enemy combatants; for insurrectionists. Victims were stripped naked and put on public display. Besides excruciating pain, crucifixion carried with it the stigma of dishonor and humiliation. And so to be crucified, was to be dehumanized, shamed, and literally lifted up as an example of all that was wrong with the world. 

So in a very real sense, for Jesus, crucifixion was his final earthly act of allegiance with the poor, the marginalized, the hopeless, the devalued, and the scorned. After casting in his lot with tax collectors and sinners, bringing good news to the poor and downtrodden, pushing back against the hypocrisy, privilege, and abuse of authority, it’s not surprising, really, that he ends up dying among those he so lovingly and compassionately served. Jesus lived among the outcasts, and Jesus died among the outcasts.

I’m reminded of the story of Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, the young white Union officer who commanded the all-black 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry, made famous in the 1989 film Glory. In 1863, Shaw was killed leading a fierce but ultimately unsuccessful charge on Fort Wagner near Charleston, South Carolina. The Confederates dumped his body in a mass grave with the rest of his unit’s dead soldiers, figuring that would be the utmost insult, burying a white man with a bunch of black bodies. 

As word of the regiment’s bravery started to spread, a movement to return Shaw’s body for a proper burial in Boston with full honors was initiated. But Shaw’s parents, avowed abolitionists, would not have it. Shaw’s father wrote to Union officials, “We would not have his body removed from where it lies surrounded by his brave and devoted soldiers.” 

This isn’t a perfect parallel to Jesus being crucified among those he sought to lift up. There’s danger in viewing Colonel Shaw as a white savior, as many even well-intentioned people initially did. But that’s not how Shaw viewed his role, nor is it how his parents saw it. They objected to the design of the famous bronze relief that stands on Beacon Street showing Shaw on horseback, elevated above his soldiers. The true memorial, however, is Shaw’s unmarked final resting place, lying among those he loved and respected.

Through the shame and scandal of the cross, Jesus placed his broken body between God’s vision of a beloved community where all are equally valued and loved, and the sinful reality of the human condition where some are loved and elevated, and others are derided and rejected and treated as less than.Which is why you can’t fully face and embrace the power of the cross without confronting and condemning racism and sexism and every other human construct that stands between God’s vision and our reality.

In the end, the cross stands as the ultimate act of love. The attempt to strip Jesus of everything — his dignity, his power, his beliefs, his life — only reveals that God’s love is everything. In one way or another, we are all outcasts and sinners. And God loves us anyway. God casts his lot in with us, despite all that we do or fail to do. And God loves us anyway. Through belief in Jesus Christ, God forgives us and lifts us up and loves us anyway.

All of which is why, when it comes to the crucifixion, we can’t just rubberneck. As people of faith, we are not merely interested bystanders. The cross isn’t something to casually gaze upon, but to venerate with all of our being. That’s what Good Friday is all about. A reminder that hope and joy and love sprout forth even from the hard wood of the cross.

Don’t avert your eyes from the pain of this day. Stare intently and intentionally into it. And know that this act of love is not just for all of humanity, but also very specifically for you.

Good Friday 2019

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 19, 2019 (Good Friday)

A few years ago a modern sculpture suddenly appeared at World’s End. To see it, you had to enter the park, go over a footbridge, walk through a tree-lined path, come down a big hill, past what I consider one of the greatest views of the Boston skyline, and onto what’s known as “the bar,” that thin strip of trail with water on either side that connects the inner part of the nature preserve to the outermost section, the area that truly does feel like the end of the world.

I remember setting out for a walk with Bryna on a beautiful, crisp fall day to revel in the beauty of World’s End, one of the great gifts of living on the South Shore. And I admit it was a bit jarring to encounter modern art amid the natural beauty of God’s creation. The shiny, reflective, mirrored steel panels were arranged in a spiral, large enough to walk through and in and around. 

The art installation, by a Danish artist named Jeppe Hein, was provocative and controversial — I’m pretty sure letters to the editor of the Hingham Journal were involved. And I think that was precisely the point. It certainly got me talking as we descended the hill and the sculpture first came into view. I think my initial words to Bryna were something along the lines of, “What is that monstrosity?” 

But after visiting World’s End several more times that fall and intentionally spending some time with the sculpture, it started to grow on me. Or if not grow on me, I came to at least appreciate what the artist was trying to do.

The sculpture reflected back the natural beauty, allowing you to take in the trees and water and changing light in new ways. Depending on the time of day and the tides and the weather, the sculpture offered a shifting, ever-changing perspective. Engaging with the art and walking through it as a labyrinth, allowed me to experience World’s End as if for the first time. And that was a gift. 

It also didn’t hurt to learn that it was not a permanent installation, and would only be on display for one year.

As we gather to gaze upon the hard wood of the cross on Good Friday, I invite you to envision the cross as a mirror. Allow it to reflect back the pain of the world; the brokenness of the human condition, the fear and violence of war, the tragedies of natural disaster, and the abuse we inflict upon one another. Allow it to reflect back your own pain; the hurts and suffering of your life, the setbacks of health and age, the crippling anxiety that threatens to tear you down, the isolation and loneliness that keeps you from experiencing joy and the fullness of life.

Like the mirrored sculpture at World’s End, we experience the cross in a kaleidoscope of shifting perspectives over the course of our lifetimes. Depending on what’s happening in our lives, the cross is a symbol of suffering or hope or grief or joy. The once-and-for-all act of salvation accomplished upon the cross is experienced by us in different ways, even as it remains constant as the source of God’s love and grace.

And in the mirrored cross of Christ, we see ourselves. For better, for worse. In all our pain, in all our joy. There are times when we want to avert our eyes, but those are the times we must gaze upon it even more intently and with greater focus. 

Because when we do, what is reflected back is the very hope of the world. The love that God has not just for all of creation, but for you. In all your brokenness. In all your unworthiness. In all your sinfulness. Jesus stretches out his arms of love on the hard wood of the cross to usher you into his loving embrace. That is what is revealed in the mirrored cross of Christ: God’s undying love for humanity; God’s undying love for you.

Hein’s mirrored sculpture was titled “A New End.” And in many ways, that’s what Good Friday is: a “new end.” Jesus’ last words before he bows his head and gives up his spirit are “It is finished.” And at one level, it is finished. Jesus has been strung up on a tree to die, murdered by the Roman authorities, another minor rebellion crushed, and that’s that. 

But it is finished only in one sense. Because Good Friday is also a “new end.” And so what is finished in Jesus’ dying breath is merely his earthly ministry. The new end of the Christian faith brings this movement of the Messiah to a higher plane. One that will only be fully revealed to the scattered disciples on the day of resurrection.

On Good Friday, the light of hope stands in stark relief to the darkness of despair. Our suffering is reflected back in Christ’s suffering. But our glory is reflected back in Christ’s glory. That’s the “new end” of the Christian faith. That’s the joy of our salvation. That’s the good news of the mirrored cross.

© The Rev. Tim Schenck 2019

Good Friday 2016

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 25, 2016 (Good Friday)

“Judas brought a detachment of soldiers together with police from the chief priests and the Pharisees, and they came there with lanterns and torches, and weapons.”

There is a lot of violence in our lives. Murder, mayhem, misdeeds. Fortunately, at least for the vast majority of us, most of it doesn’t affect us personally. Violence happens to other people. Or on television. It happens in bad neighborhoods. Or in the Middle East. Or in Belgium. You can see it on the news. You can watch murder on demand. Corpses abound on our screens and in our consciousness. There is a lot of violence in our lives.

“Then Simon Peter, who had a sword, drew it, and struck the high priest’s slave, and cut off his right ear.”

The problem, of course, is that we can too easily become desensitized to violence — both fictionalized and real — while living in the comfort and safety of our South Shore living rooms. No, we don’t live in a war-torn part of the world. And while gun violence is a daily issue mere miles from here, it is not something that consumes our everyday thoughts. Occasionally violence does break into our lives, but contrary to the images we regularly see, it’s the exception rather than the rule.

“Jesus said to Peter, ‘Put your sword back into its sheath. Am I not to drink the cup that the Father has given me?’”

But this de-sensitivity to violence has a direct impact on our own spiritual lives, one that is magnified on Good Friday. Because the violence of the cross can become just another murder that takes place “out there” beyond our emotional connection. One that took place 2,000 years ago in what can feel like a galaxy far, far away.

“So the soldiers, their officers, and the Jewish police arrested Jesus and bound him.”

On this dark day in the Christian year, I encourage you to take Jesus’ death personally. To allow it to spark outrage. To acknowledge the pain at the core of your soul. To grieve for a beautiful life cut short. To internalize the grief. To rage against the injustice. To make it personal.

“When he had said this, one of the police standing nearby struck Jesus on the face, saying, ‘Is that how you answer the high priest?’”

Because when you take the crucifixion of Jesus personally, it allows you to take the resurrection of Jesus personally. When we make Christ’s suffering personal, the journey to the empty tomb becomes personal. Insurrection leads to resurrection. Like two sides of a divine coin, we can’t have one without the other.

Yet for as much as we are consumers of violence in our daily lives, when violence becomes personal, we look away to avoid the pain. That’s human nature, of course. We want to get Good Friday over with so we can get on with the celebration that is to come. Many people avoid coming to church on Good Friday precisely because they don’t want to deal with the hard reality of the cross. They don’t want to deal with Jesus’ death. They want to keep the cross at a safe distance. They don’t want to take it personally.

“Then Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged.”

The truth about the Christian faith in general and this week in particular, is that we want to avert our eyes, and yet we cannot. We want to skip over the betrayal, and yet we cannot. We want to avoid the denial, and yet we cannot. We want to pass over the violence, and yet we cannot. We cannot look away because the betrayal is our betrayal, the denial our denial, the violence is our violence.

We must fix our gaze firmly upon the cross. Not because we’re gluttons for punishment but because it is only through the cross that new life beckons.

“When the chief priests and the police saw him, they shouted, ‘Crucify him! Crucify him!’”

We gather at the foot of the cross, not to curl up into the fetal position but to gather strength for the journey ahead. Jesus died to destroy the power of death — that’s the power of the resurrection, yes. But, still, we cannot ignore the violence that takes place on this day we proclaim “good.”

“Then Pilate handed him over to them to be crucified.”

I bid you to take this day so personally that it changes you; that it transforms how you live your life. That through it, you are able to live a life free from the paralyzing fear of death. That you’re able to look not past or beyond but through the violence to see what the cross truly is: the ultimate act of divine love.

“There they crucified him, and with him two others, one on either side, with Jesus between them.”

We gaze at the hard wood of the cross not in isolation or alone but within the context of the resurrection and with one another. As painful as it may be, this is a day of love, not violence. Because unlike the original disciples, we know the end of the story. We don’t have to pretend as if the agony of the cross is the end; as if Jesus’ words “It is finished” are the final chapter. We know that it is NOT finished. The question is what we do about it and where we go from here.

“Then he bowed his head, and gave up his spirit.”

© The Rev. Tim Schenck

Good Friday 2013

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 29, 2013 (Good Friday) 

In Homer’s epic poem, the Odyssey, we hear the story of Odysseus’ long journey home after the Trojan War. Along the way he encounters myriad obstacles and much intrigue, due in large part to the gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus. Toward the end of his journey he must skirt a section of coastline notorious for devastating shipwrecks. The reason it’s so perilous, we learn, is on account of a magnificent song sung by the sirens of the sea. The tune is so tantalizing that unsuspecting sailors steer dangerously close to the rocky shore until their ships are inevitably dashed against the rocks, sending entire crews to their watery graves.

Fortunately for our hero, one of the gods warns Odysseus and offers a solution. Before setting sail, Odysseus has his sailors plug their ears with wax so they won’t be able to hear the sirens’ sultry song. Then he asks his crew to lash him securely to the mast so that, while he is able to listen to the enchanting melody — which he desperately want to hear — he won’t be able to escape and bid his crew to steer closer.  This plan works and Odysseus is able to continue his journey home.

On this Good Friday, we reflect upon the pain of Jesus’ being lashed to the mast. The mast of Christ is, of course, the cross and he’s lashed with nails rather than rope. But lashed he is to this implement of torture and death. Strung up like a common criminal. Helpless as he endures the taunts and mockery of the very humanity he came into the world to redeem.

And it’s important to stop for a moment. To pause and gaze upon our Savior lifted high upon the cross. To metaphorically walk around it and take in the scene. As much as we want to avert our eyes, as much as we want to edit out this chapter in the Christian story, as much as we want to change the ending, this is one time when we cannot.

Because on this day we are reminded that the cross is real. It’s not merely symbolic or something we wear around our necks as a fashion accessory. We run our hands across the rough hewn wood; we touch the cold steel nails; we hear the agonizing cry of Jesus lifted high upon the cross: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”; we feel the vibrations of the nails being driven deep into flesh and bone; we smell the bitter vinegar as it’s lifted to his lips; we see the blood on our own hands.

There is nothing more real than the death of our Lord. Speaking of the crucifixion in tangible terms isn’t some rhetorical trick; it’s not meant to scare young children; or guilt us into becoming better Christians. But crucifixion must be real and vivid if resurrection is to be real and vivid. The crucifixion matters because resurrection matters. Amid the changes and chances of this mortal life, it offers meaning; amid the suffering and despair, it offers hope; amid the enslavement to sin, it offers freedom.

Yes, the hard wood of the cross is painful to behold. And it’s painful because it holds up a mirror. It reflects our lives back to us: the brokenness, the despair, the helplessness, the complicity, the pain, the struggle. Despite our hardened exterior shells, we are reminded of the depth of our vulnerability; of how often we travel this road of humanity carrying heavy burdens. Burdens that weigh us down and frighten us and sometimes bring us to our knees unable or unwilling to go on. Burdens that Jesus invites us to place at the foot of the cross. Today. Right now. In this very moment.

We can do this because as Christians we are lashed not to the cross but to Jesus himself. Our lives are bound up in his life. Jesus’ death on the cross frees us from that same death; his resurrection insures this. We belong to Jesus by virtue of our baptism; we are lashed to Jesus and marked as Christ’s own forever. And it is this sweet union to our Lord that brings us to a place of hope and salvation. Even on Good Friday.

Jesus willingly takes up his cross even as his very humanity screams against the horror of it all. His heavenly home awaits even as he suffers for the sins of all humanity. As Odysseus hears the sweet song of the sirens while lashed to his mast, perhaps Jesus hears the sweet song of the angels while hanging on the cross. Both are going home. Odysseus to his wife and son; Jesus to his Father in heaven. But the journey itself is a trial of faith.

As Odysseus willingly lashes himself to the mast, we can willingly lash ourselves to Jesus. This doesn’t mean our journey home will be all light and sweet. But we will get there. We will one day be received into God’s loving and merciful arms. Jesus’ victory will be our victory. And the good news on this Good Friday is that just as we are lashed to Jesus in death so are we lashed to Jesus in resurrection glory.

© The Rev. Tim Schenck 2013

Good Friday 2001

Good Friday, Year C
April 13, 2001
Old St. Paul’s, Baltimore
The Rev. Timothy E. Schenck

If this was the end of the story, we would not be here today. If the story ended with nails being driven into the hard wood of the cross, we would not be here today. If the story ended with the limp body of Jesus hanging on a cross at Golgotha, we would not be here today. The good news on this Good Friday is that it is not finished. The story continues.

But today we stand at the foot of the cross to weep and mourn. Christ our Passover has been sacrificed for us, and on this day there is no feast to keep. There is an emptiness that fills this cavernous space, a pall that hangs over our time together this afternoon. For it was at this very hour that God in human flesh was hung on a cross to die. So, here we are at the foot of the cross: confused, speechless, wounded in spirit. And when we stand at the foot of the cross, with the disciples and one another, we are presented with a choice: we can look up or we can look down. And how easy it is to look down! Who wants to see agony? Who wants to hear the wailing of a dying man? Who wants to encounter the travails of a body broken? If we look down we can bury our feelings, avoid our emotions, and ignore the painful suffering of the cross. We can avert our eyes, cover our ears, and entomb our hearts. But hard as we might try to neglect and avoid it, we can never escape from the looming shadow of Christ’s cross. It pervades all things whether we readily acknowledge it or not. Denial does not take away the pain, it merely diverts our attention from it.

We’re also offered another option as we stand at the foot of the cross. Rather than looking down, we can look up at the cross and gaze in wide wonder at its power, its mystery, its pain. We cannot wipe away the tears but we can join ours to those that have already been shed. We can embrace the full reality of all that the cross stands for: Christ’s suffering, God’s love, and our redemption from sin and death. To look up at the cross is to venerate Christ’s presence among us. To look up at the cross is to love God and one another despite the brokenness of this world. To look up at the cross is to adore Christ and be healed even as Jesus himself is mocked, derided, and crucified. We must open our eyes, raise our heads, and be present to the power of the cross of Jesus Christ.

In this context, there’s something about the three Mary’s. John’s Gospel tell us that Mary, the mother of Jesus, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene all gathered at the foot of the cross. And it’s difficult to imagine the depth of their grief as they watched their beloved Jesus die on the cross right in front of their eyes. They were thee when the soldiers taunted Jesus, they were there when they cast lots for his clothing, they were there when  he bowed his head and gave up his spirit. The three Mary’s are wonderful examples to us of what it means to look up at the cross. Despite the fear, anxiety, and emotional anguish they endured, the three Mary’s remain steadfast in the adoration of their Lord and savior. They face and embrace the pain of the cross rather than denying and avoiding it. Not because of an unnatural courage, but because of a deep well of hope deep within their collective souls. They didn’t know the end of the story; we do. But what we have in common with the three Mary’s is the profound challenge to be present through Christ’s suffering and to stand in anticipation of the glory that is to come.

It’s important to remember today that the cross is not a metaphor or an abstraction, or simply an ornament to hang on a rear view mirror. The power of the cross is real, the pain of the cross is real, the love of the cross is real. We can deny it or we can adopt it as our own. Christ graciously invites us to partake in the love that is offered through his sacrifice. We are not compelled to accept this loving act into our lives and hearts, but the offer is never taken off the table. It’s a standing offer, awaiting a response that can only be a movement towards a deeper relationship with God in Christ. The cross is just as present now as it was 2,000 years ago. It never splinters or decays or rots. Because it is the cross that is the very foundation of our faith in God, our relationship with God, and our love for God. The cross does not wither or fade over time. Rather, it grows in stature and power and glory. We are strengthened by its presence in our lives. The roots of the cross run deep, for they are the very source of life. At its core, the cross is about victory and triumph, not pain and death. But that’s because the cross by itself is not the end of the story. Death is not the last word. And we’re lucky. We know that the story continues. But we also can’t fully comprehend the resurrection glory unless we acknowledge the pain of the cross. And therein lies the power and paradox of the Christian message: out of pain there is joy, out of darkness there is light, out of death there is life.

 © The Rev. Tim Schenck 2001

Good Friday 2009

A Sermon from All Saints’ Episcopal Church, Briarcliff Manor, New York
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 10, 2009 (Good Friday)

“Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume breathes a life of gathering gloom; sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying, sealed in the stone cold tomb.” And so the words of a Christmas hymn come back to us on this Good Friday. The Magi’s gift of “bitter perfume,” this embalming oil, finally makes sense. The foreshadowing of the seemingly odd gift of myrrh is realized on this day when we mark our Lord’s crucifixion. His broken body is taken down from the cross and prepared for burial with myrrh before being “sealed in a stone cold tomb.”

And just as myrrh itself has a bittersweet aroma, so is this day bittersweet to Christians throughout the world. Bitter in its agony; bitter in its indignity; bitter in its shamefulness. Yet sweet in its necessity for the redemption of the world; sweet in its act of love for all humankind; sweet in its atoning, once-for-all sacrifice. Good Friday is and must be bittersweet. For to minimize the bitterness of the cross is to gloss over its power. And to minimize its sweetness is to neglect its love. 

I’ve always thought the Good Friday symbolism of the Orthodox Church beautifully and poignantly captures this duality. As worshippers enter for the evening liturgy they encounter a rough-hewn wooden cross placed in the middle of the church and surrounded with Easter lilies. A compelling visual manifestation that the Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ is both bitter and sweet. And then the priest chants the following:

He who hung the earth upon the waters hangs today upon the Cross.
He who is King of the Angels is arrayed in a crown of thorns.
He who wraps the heavens in clouds is wrapped in the purple of mockery.
He who in the Jordan set Adam free receives blows upon His face.
The Bridegroom of the Church is transfixed with nails.
The Son of the Virgin is pierced with a spear.
We worship Thy Passion, O Christ.
Show us also Thy glorious Resurrection.

(Antiphon 15)

So amid all the images of crucifixion – the crown of thorns, the nails, the indignities and the mockery – everything points forward to the resurrection; “Show us also Thy glorious Resurrection.” Christ’s crucifixion is firmly rooted in his resurrection. Which is important because the Good Friday liturgy is not a funeral service for Jesus. We know that the context of crucifixion is resurrection. And to pretend we don’t would delve into the realm of play acting. And so we can imagine what those first disciples must have felt – the anguish, the loneliness, the feeling of abandonment, the bitterness. But come Easter Day we know the tomb will be empty and we can’t make believe that we don’t.

I think the real terror of Good Friday is that it holds up for us the prospect of life devoid of divine relationship. The emptiness of this day offers the specter of living life without Jesus and the potential void is frightening. Because without faith, I’m not sure how anyone gets out of bed in the morning; how anyone faces the uncertainty of this mortal life. And I’m never so aware of this as at a funeral. We’ve all been to funerals that seem especially heartbreaking – funerals for children or young parents or victims of violence. Situations where you couldn’t possibly write a more painful script. And I’ll invariably lean over and say to someone, “I just don’t know how anyone without faith would be able to handle this.” These scenarios are difficult enough even with the most vibrant faith. But without faith, the end is really the end. The brutal rawness of a tragedy has no inherent consolation or solace. The ending is absolute; there is no continuation of the story in another realm. And that is the horror of Good Friday; the possibility of life without Jesus, life without God, life without faith.

Perhaps the whole notion of Good Friday is an apt metaphor for the human experience. Because life itself is often bittersweet. Our dreams are dashed; our expectations don’t meet realities; our hopes are met with disappointment. Not always, not every time but enough to make us question whether there is anything to our frenzied pursuit of happiness and meaning.

But then there’s the cross. Our savior hangs upon it bruised and broken and reviled and forsaken. And we’re reminded that God never promised us ease and leisure and comfort but redemption and salvation and eternal life. And that sometimes, like Jesus, we must first be beaten down before we are raised up. God doesn’t want this for us, of course, but it is part of the human condition; part of what it means to live as a sinner in a world rife with sin. This is what the cross of Christ lifts us out of. Through faith we are raised up to new life — a place where there is meaning and hope and it is all freely offered to you and to me. It’s what makes this day “Good” Friday or, as the Orthodox refer to it, “Great” Friday. And it’s why the cross of Christ is, quite literally, our saving grace.

“Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume breathes a life of gathering gloom; sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying, sealed in the stone cold tomb.” Jesus’ death and burial is not the end of the story, merely a piece of it. It is bittersweet, yes, but it is decidedly not yet finished.

© The Rev. Tim Schenck 2009

Good Friday 2010

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 2, 2010 (Good Friday)

TGIF. “Thank God it’s Friday.” You probably never thought you’d hear that proclaimed on Good Friday. But I’ll say it again: TGIF. Or more to the point, TGIGF – “Thank God it’s Good Friday.” And we quite literally do “thank God” on this day. Not because it’s an easy day; not because it isn’t viscerally and spiritually painful. But because without the crucifixion there could be no resurrection. 

I should be clear about one thing: the Good Friday liturgy is not a burial service for Jesus, though it’s often treated as such. In keeping with the day’s oxymoronic name, this is a day of mixed emotions. It is a day of tragedy and triumph; victory and death; agony and love. The Passion of our Lord refers to both the pain of the crucifixion and Jesus’ passionate love for all of humanity. Which means that even with the emptiness of this day; even with the void left in our hearts as Jesus breathes his last; there is joy in the midst of the hard wood of the cross. Yes, joy. Because as Jesus lays down his life for us, as Jesus hands over his spirit, the meaning of life changes before our very eyes. Our sins are hoisted high upon the cross, paving the way for a life of forgiveness. And we cannot experience the full joy of Easter without first walking the way of the cross. As Bishop Barbara Harris is fond of saying, “We are an Easter people living in a Good Friday world.” Which means the good news of Jesus Christ must be proclaimed even in the darkness of this day. This doesn’t minimize the crucifixion; rather it keeps it firmly rooted in the resurrection.

On the night before he died for us, in the midst of his last meal among his disciples, Jesus took bread and said to the disciples “This is my body.” And Good Friday is all about the body. The body betrayed; the body denied; the body broken. 

We often shy away from the physical body of Christ. Perhaps it’s cultural. But on Good Friday, Christ’s body cannot be ignored. It hangs high upon the cross, bearing both the weight of death and the weight of the world.

“This is my body.” Jesus offers himself, his very body, as a sacrifice. A sacrifice for the sins of the whole world; and more to the point for our own sins. It is a personal sacrifice; not a sacrifice in the abstract. Jesus Christ quite literally has a cross to bear and he bears it for you and for me. His sacrifice takes away the sin of the world. Now it’s easy enough for me to speak these words – they roll off the tongue. That Christ died once for all to take away the sin of the world is basic, if bedrock, theology of the Christian faith. And it’s probably just as easy for you to hear these words – they’re familiar. For years, you’ve heard preachers say this or a variation on the theme. But I encourage you to reflect upon them as if hearing them for the first time. Because this is a truly radical message. It’s not just that the sin of the world is taken away; your sin is taken away. You have been redeemed by Christ’s sacrifice. Not someone else; not in theory; but you. Jesus Christ died on the cross for you as well as for all of humanity. 

Now we have a role to play here as well. We don’t, obviously, add anything to Christ’s self-offering; our sins are forgiven. But we can participate in his action by offering ourselves, our souls and bodies, back to God. As Jesus says to the whole world, “This is my body,” we can individually respond by offering our own bodies back to Jesus. And in so doing, we hand our lives over to God. Not just a piece of it; not the just the parts we like; not just the aspects in which we take pride. But the whole thing. The pains and hurts and sins; the abusive patterns of our lives; the dysfunctions; the burdens we carry. 

Today is about Christ’s body. The body beaten; the body pierced; the body crucified. Good Friday is all about the body. But so is Easter. Which is why hope and joy accompany our pain and grief. Which is why we can say TGIF on this day. Not glibly or lightly but reverently and profoundly. We are called not to remain at the foot of the cross but to walk the way of the cross. And our journey is not yet finished. 

 © The Rev. Tim Schenck 2010