The Conscientious Objector and the Cross
Over the years of parish ministry, you meet and you work with and you get to know many people. You meet people from a wide range of backgrounds with a wide variety of experience whose roots are far different than your own. Were it not for the privilege of being priest and pastor, there are many, many people you would never run into personally as you do in your work as a priest of the church. In this time, I have met and I have come to understand—and yes, I have come to love—a number of folks I would call “conscientious objectors” when it comes to Good Friday.
There are some people, of course, who fearlessly identify themselves and rigorously defend their objections whenever the opportunity arises. But for most, their thoughts and their feelings are rarely voiced. They keep their deepest feelings about Good Friday to themselves except when the circumstances or the situation they find themselves in force them to speak. Their objections are often brought out into the light of day by an innocent question, perhaps in a conversation they can’t escape over coffee following a Sunday mass, or sometimes when asked to read a lesson or serve in some way at the Good Friday liturgy.
These objectors belong to a greater number who stay clear of Good Friday altogether. Some are very articulate and comfortable in their reasoned objections, able to describe in great detail their reasons for being absent. Many more are just plain uncomfortable with the day—with the scriptures, with the hymns, with the quietness and the silence, and with the challenges it presents. Most of these conscientious objectors are not strangers to the church’s life; they are normally there Sunday by Sunday.
I remember one conscientious objector who was a faithful and very active member of the congregation. She was prepared whenever asked to take up a task, whether great or small, and was constantly reaching out to neighbors with care and prayer. But each year, she would leave the Palm Sunday liturgy and, if I wasn’t close by, she’d grab my sleeve during coffee hour and say, “Remember now—don’t expect to see me until next Sunday.” She told me that the unwelcome change in mood from the upbeat feeling of the palms to the reading of Jesus’ passion was upsetting and, as she said, “not necessary at all.” Without apology, she would head home with the words, “We all know what happened to Jesus on the cross. Why do we have to hear it over and over and over again?”
In their heart of hearts, the conscientious objector always asks one question: Why Good Friday? Why indeed? Especially in this 21st century, our world has dramatically changed from ages past. We have at our fingertips the knowledge and power to clone organisms, to harness the atom, and to enrich nations with technologies controlling everything from food production to disease management—and as we hear through AI, even controlling people’s daily lives. Proud of its achievements, the human race feels it has outpaced its “unsophisticated” past—a past that condoned crucifixion as a viable form of execution. We feel light years beyond the primitive peoples of first-century Palestine or our “superstitious” Victorian ancestors.
Yet, the passion and death of Jesus strips away all pretense. It is almost unbearable in its anguish because, in the passion of our Lord, we confront the dark side of human experience. It exposes our aggressive, self-assertive ways and the pretense of our society. It lays bare the bones of injustice, conflict, and suffering. While we are often able to keep a safe distance between ourselves and the Gospel, Good Friday doesn’t leave us alone. It draws us in. The prayers and the music ring with a truthfulness that leaves little room to congratulate ourselves on being “okay” people living in an advanced era. It confronts our pride and reminds us that our frailty is more than just “mischief.”
You cannot remain untouched by Good Friday. For years, a mixture of awe and dread has taken hold of me as the reading of the passion approaches. There is a desire to run away, a feeling that I cannot bear it one more time. It is impossible to remain aloof; you cannot listen and stand apart, self-assured and composed. When we are forced to say “Crucify, crucify” along with the mob, it is all too painfully close. As one parishioner once told me, “It’s not fair.” It takes a mammoth effort not to find ourselves in the story along with the governor, the soldiers, the priests, and the thief.
The passion of Jesus is far more than a bit of history or the sad ending of an old story about a long-gone teacher. It has the power to challenge our assumptions about how the world works and how people are put together. It speaks directly to our minds and hearts, touching the places where we are most vulnerable and fragile. It is the story for all time and all peoples. As much as I want to escape it, there is an inescapable immediacy and reality to it.
Good Friday reminds us that, try as we might, we are unable to design our own plans to set the world or ourselves right. Whatever program we devise, we will always fall short. In that sense, all of us are conscientious objectors. But with God’s good grace, we can face those objections head-on. God’s love alone makes sense of this day.
I close with a phrase from a prayer written by Frederick Temple, a former Archbishop of Canterbury: “Lord Jesus Christ, draw us with cords to the foot of your cross; for we have no strength to come, and we know not the way. Under the shadow of your cross, let us live all the rest of our lives, and there we shall be surely safe. Amen.”