Just about everyone I know has posted something about this final leg of the Lenten journey. It's probably because the vast majority of people I know are in seminary or a ministry profession. However, this reflection I offer is contextual. It is a vulnerable side of me, and I have found it almost prophetic that I have come to it at this time... it's one more way God says to me, "it is my time, and not the design of humans, that is perfect."
I have always loved Good Friday. It is a day in which God showed strength in vulnerability. Strength - now there's a word worth defining. In the American vernacular I best know, it generally means to have control over the will and actions of another. It can also mean an ability to temper the emotions within one's self. So how do strength and vulnerability coexist? Well, how do finite and infinite, divine and human coexist in one person? I take this Good Friday to sit with the paradox of what should not be and what is. A young boy should not have taught the priests and scribes at age twelve in the temple, but he did. A young boy, of little to show in family name and status, should not have lead the temple over the sons of the high priest, but he did. A young woman should not have entered the court of a king, but she did - and her people were saved. A man who sought to persecute those who believe should not have changed sides, but in doing so he taught us about love, fellowship and clinging to hope. There are many things that should never transpire, but they do; God has a way of making it right somehow.
So, vulnerability... it's a difficult thing. Commercials tell me that I should never let them see me sweat. I should never show any sign of weakness lest it be exploited. If you open your heart, it might be plundered, and you will be left with nothing. No wonder so many people wander around looking for someone to love them but feel unable to do so. No wonder I have felt more at home communicating through facebook or text messaging. If I keep a barrier there, I do not have to be vulnerable. I do not have to risk being hurt, but I find that I also do not risk being loved. This leads to feeling alone in a world that has surpassed 7 billion people!
The greatest joy has been when I have risked it all and felt loved in the end. My dearest friends have held that vulnerability in their hands with tenderness that can only be described as divine. Conversely, a great joy is when someone hands me his or her vulnerability, and I can say to that person, "I see you; I hear you; know that I love you."
How does this translate into a cross on Calvary? God, in Jesus Christ, risked it all for love. He was hurt; he was betrayed - I don't want to take away from what should not have been. No one should die for wondrous love like this - not in body, mind, heart or spirit. But still - something surpassed it all. From on this cross he still risked it all. He spoke to his neighbors, criminals on crosses just like his and promised that love would still win out. Anger, pain, betrayal, grief... they are never the end of the story. This wounded healer, with arms literally stretched out for all to see still spoke to us, "I see you; I hear you; I love you."
While I would never compare myself to Christ, I have had my own experience with this in the past few weeks. The decision of the board of ordained ministry felt like my vulnerability was exposed for all to see. In the midst of my pain, it felt as though a crowd had come, once again, to see just how far a person could be torn down before giving up. I told my congregations about what had transpired, and feeling wounded themselves, we began to say that this is not the end. This is the end of one journey and the beginning of another. We had hope in the promise of Sunday.
The story is not done; not the Lenten story and not my story. For now, though, I must sit with Friday and what is finished. It's horrible to look at. It hurts to see, and I want to look away. I think God knows that those who hurt do not have the opportunity to look away; God knows I cannot look away and my pain is deep. I need to hear the words "I see you; I hear you; I love you." This is the vulnerability because I risk not hearing them at all. I risk the feeling that my life was in vain and I have nothing to give to God and God's people. I risk not being loved in return. As much as I need to hear these words, I need to find the strength to say those words in return. In that cycle, I know I will find Easter present again.
