Yes, I am stepping away from Thomas Merton for the next few posts, which seems strange since we are currently in one of the most important seasons of the Christian calendar. But, after living with Merton for over a year now, I understand one thing about him--he did things his own way. So, I am just following in his footsteps.
Today is Good Friday. I went to church this afternoon, played the pipe organ for the service. Of course, the Biblical account of Christ's passion was read. And the moment that always moves me the most comes immediately after this passage:
Jesus called out with a loud voice, "Father, into your hands, I commit my spirit." When he said this, he breathed his last.
At that point in most Good Friday services I have ever attended, everyone gathered bows their heads. Some kneel. And a prolonged moment of silence follows. It's a silence that's filled with the grace of this world and the next. The silence when I saw my sister breathe her last breath. When my father stopped thrashing on his hospital bed, calmed, and seemed to see something beautiful. And I am struck mute by it, throat closed, choked by . . . thankfulness? Sorrow? Hope? I'm not sure.
All I know is that I'm in deep and can't surface for breath.
Saint Marty wishes all his disciples a good, bad, or ugly Friday.
Good, Bad, and Ugly Friday
I used to think I’d be struck
Deaf and blind if I stepped outside
Between noon and three o’clock
On Good Friday. My family would
Unplug radios and TVs,
Let the phone ring and ring,
Never answer, in case Satan
Was calling to tempt us to eat
Meat or chocolate or jellybeans.
For those three hours, we lived
As ancient Israelites, I thought,
Unable to depend on any modern
Luxury that made life easier.
I ignored hunger, nausea,
The urge to pee or defecate, use
A flush toilet, while Jesus hung
On the cross for me, forgave
Me for finding the Playboy
Under my brother’s mattress,
Sneaking into the bathroom
To see those secret woman
Places Saint Joseph never knew.
At exactly 3:01 p.m., I went
Into the backyard, breathed
Air purged of sin, clean
As salt waves in the Pacific.
I was a chalkboard washed
Of math problems, spelling lists,
Ready for new lessons,
New vocabulary. Not words
Spray-painted on gas station walls
By people who wandered
The streets during the sacred
Three hours. No. Holy words
The nuns taught me in religion class:
“Suffering,” “sacrifice,” “redemption.”
In three days, I’d meet Jesus
At Dairy Queen, split a vanilla malt
With Him, talk about all
The things I’d done. The good.
The bad. The ugly. The beautiful. Tell Him
Of my suffering, sacrifice on Friday,
All for Him, only for Him.
Give Him the whipped cream,
The maraschino cherry.
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