“I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in . . . “ Jesus

“Our prime purpose in this life is to help others,  and if we can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them.” The Dalai Lama

Good Friday is one of my favorite religious holidays.  There’s something deeply sacred in the remembrance of the death of Jesus that reaches into one’s innermost depths.  In my pastoring days I used to have two services; one from noon-three, dedicated to the seven last words Jesus spoke from the cross.  The other an evening Tenebrae service of darkness.  Nowadays I make it a point to find a service to attend.  This year it was at a big Episcopal church in Colorado Springs.

I was there visiting my youngest daughter.  She was at work, and I had the day off, so I decided to walk around the downtown area.  It was a warm day, conducive to soaking up the Spring Sun and just feeling alive. It “just so happened” that at about noon I was in the vicinity of a big church. I love old churches and had a hunch this one might be having a noon Good Friday service.  Indeed, as I drew near there were people ambling toward the side entrances.  What caught my eye as I approached was not the large wooden doors, but rather the three men, obviously homeless, who were camped out in a small corner in an alcove of sorts.  Partially hidden by small bushes, they had set up a temporary camp of sorts.  On the day one commemorates three men dying on crosses outside of The Holy City in plain view of the religious people who walked by, there were three men living a crucified life outside of a holy place in full view of the religious people who also averted our eyes as we passed by.  The irony was striking.  I also gave them a brief glance as I passed by on my way into the safe and secure sacred space.

The edifice was magnificent, with a huge chancel area upon which was perched an elevated pulpit.  Stained glass windows, a long center aisle, and great marble beams provided a sense of the magnificent transcendence of the divine.  It wasn’t hard to find a place to sit, as there were perhaps fifty people in the sanctuary which easily could’ve accommodated hundreds.  I chose a place next to one of those pillars, perhaps four pews from the back.

As I sat there waiting for the service to begin I thought about those three men.  Not the ones dying on crosses in a faraway place so long ago, but the three who were right outside this dedicated holy place.  Suddenly I recognized my own hypocrisy in passing them by, preferring them to be invisible and in the process dehumanizing them.  I was convicted by the sense that I was in good company with those who jeered as the gazed at the three suffering on Golgotha. I got up from the pew, exited the back of the sanctuary and went back outside.  They were still there.  One was spreading peanut butter on white bread.  I greeted them. 

“Hi.  My name is Ralph.”  (Pause—no response due no doubt to their suspicion) “Do you know what day it is?”  I continued.  They didn’t respond, perhaps annoyed by this unwelcomed intrusion into their little world.  “It’s Good Friday”, I said, “The day that the death of Jesus is remembered.  I’m here to attend the service, and you’d be welcome to join me.” 

I sensed discomfort at this invitation.  And perhaps a bit of confusion.

“I can’t.  I’m on my way to meet my sponsor.” Said one.

“Your sponsor for AA?”  I asked.

“No, NA,” he responded.

“Oh.  That’s good.  What’s your drug of choice?” I asked. 

“Fentanyl,” he responded.  “Besides, I don’t belong to this church,” he continued.

“Neither do I,” I said.  “But you can still come in if you’d like.” 

Two of them ignored me and my invitation.  I was on the receiving end of a dose of the disdain and dismissal that they had received so often.

“That’s Ok.  I’d rather not cuz I have to leave,” said the one making the sandwich.

“Well try and have a Good Friday.”  That, or something similar, was the farewell that I awkwardly spoke as I took leave of them and made my way back in to the comfort of the congregation that looked and acted more like me. 

The service was solemn and reverential.  The priest did an excellent job of creating a sense of sadness with his sermon and the tone of his voice. At the end of the service he invited the congregation to make our way forward to the front of the church to venerate a rather large wooden cross placed at the center of the aisle immediately in front of the chancel. The priest and his assistant, perhaps a deacon, led the way, and then exited to the left.  I’m not much for that type of thing, perhaps due to the traditional Lutheran suspicion of all things that smacked of Roman Catholic idolatry.  So I carefully snuck out the back side door of the church.  As I left, I saw the three men in their nook.  I paused a moment, trying to determine whether I would approach them again.  As I did so the deacon, who had left out the side door near the front of the church, came slowly recessing down the sidewalk.  He was only about twenty feet across the yard from where the men were sitting.  He had to have seen them as they were directly in his line of sight as he exited.  I watched to see what this one who loved the dying homeless man whose cross he had just kissed would do.  I hoped that perhaps he would approach them, pray for them, maybe even reverence them by offering a cup of water or giving them a holy kiss.  It didn’t happen.  They were invisible to him.  Somehow the offense of the cross and the dying love on display there, was an historical event, not a present reality.

Judgmental of me?  Yes.  Unapologetically so.

Reverence for the cross must be a reverence for people.  Good Friday must be a day to worship The One who opened his arms on a cross long ago to promise us an eternal home in the sky, but to compel us to open our arms to those who have no home, no hope, no help in the here and now.

Good Friday provided me a sacred encounter with Christ, in the person not of the priest, the deacon, or the parishioners, but with three men in a garden.