I snapped a 40-year streak yesterday: I didn't attend services on Good Friday. As long as I can remember, I've attended Good Friday services and always found them among the most edifying of the year.
When I was a kid, my Lutheran church held seven mini-services from 12:10 to 3:00, one for each word from the Cross, each separated by five minutes. A person could come and go as he wished after each service, but once inside the sanctuary when a 15-minute service started and the doors shut, a person was expected to stay, move little, and say absolutely nothing unless it was in the liturgy. It's the best liturgical scheme I've ever come across. It's too bad they've since ditched it for a parade-like Cross walk. Another casualty of Entertainment America.
I've also always enjoyed the Catholic liturgy on Good Fridays. Yes, it's not a mere 15 minutes (or 2 hours and 45 minutes, if I, as a Lutheran, wanted to sit that long with my Savior), but it's one of the only liturgies where reverence reigns.
I like going, but the combination of age and young children knocked me out this year.
Holy Thursday, to be blunt, was brutal. The sanctuary was hot, the toddler and baby were restless, and the liturgy started 10 minutes late. I was sweating from wrestling with the baby by the time the Mass started. By the time the Gospel reading came, I was ready to go. There's no place to take small children in our church (the vestibule has dangerous stairwell drop-offs, and the basement has no speakers or toys), so I went outside and played on the concrete steps with the children for about 40 minutes. I took the Eucharist, then proceeded with the Blessed Sacrament into the basement, while my wife took the little ones home. Length of liturgy: 1:45, and I had essentially missed all of it (though the benefit of taking the Eucharist is incalculable).
Anyway, the Good Friday services started at 1:00, which is the little ones' nap time (we usually lay them down at 12:30). The prospect of going to church loomed as favorable as getting one's genitals lopped off with garden shears. When we got home Thursday night, my wife started laying out the logistics:
First, we commandeer a pew in the front, which will entail you getting there at 12:45. Meanwhile, I'll take the little ones for a walk in the stroller and hopefully they'll fall asleep on the way to Church. At 12:57, spread blankets on the pew and cushion them for Tess. At 1:02, detonate a sleeper bomb and bring in Army Rangers to cord off the south entrance way with silence. Alex may have to serve, by the way, so he'll go with you, and I might also send Meg, since she talks loud and might ruffle the little ones and Army Rangers. I'll see if Abbie wants to go with me. We still need to figure out what to do with Jack and Michael.
I said I had a better idea, "Put the three little kids down at 12:30, and I'll stay home with my make-shift altar in the basement." My wife asked, "Are you sure?" Even she--who gets a masochistic kick out of toddler logistics--was pleased. It worked out very well.
But it was the first time I haven't gone to Good Friday services, unless my parents held me back as an infant.
It was an eye-opener. I had no idea that the vast bulk of America carries on like there is no Passion. I guess I always knew that was the case (since the church pews are never full), but it didn't strike me until yesterday. The Catholics across the street went golfing. The Lutherans next door (whose devotion can't be questioned, and I'm not saying that just because they occasionally read this blog) played raucously and had friends over to play war games. The Episcopalian came home at 5:00 and, seeing me reading on my front porch, curiously asked if I took the day off work.
I know, of course, that 12:00 to 3:00 Eastern Daylight Time isn't exactly the time Christ suffered and died. Still, it's the closest we can get to re-living his suffering and contemplating it: the sun sits approximately the way it sat while he died, the day's weariness rests on us a little bit like it would've rested on a Jew that day, the liturgical year ticks away and tells us, "This is the date and time of year to re-live the Passion that took away your sins."
I even fancy that there's more grace available during those three hours. That's a borderline mystical, if not ludicrous, assertion, but though nobody knows exactly how or when grace works, the whole idea of establishing places and times of devotion (e.g., church buildings on Sunday mornings) assumes some places and times are better than others. And when I say "are better," I mean, "have a better chance of imparting grace or are more God-pleasing, which are often the same thing." And if that's the case, wouldn't the three hours from noon to 3:00 on Good Friday be especially good?
Yet for the vast bulk of Christians, it's just another three hours.
I found the whole thing curious. Not maddening or frustrating. Just curious. I never thought about it, but I guess I always assumed Christians exhibited some sort of reverence during those three hours. If not going to church, maybe reading the Bible or just sitting quietly. But that's not the case. It appears I'm out of step with everyday Christian America.
That being said, I did notice that very few people were doing yard work during those hours, and it was gorgeous out. I also didn't hear any blaring music, and the traffic levels were definitely lower. So maybe people do slow down a little during those hours, which would be a type of devotion. Hard to say.
