“Journey to the cross.” Each Lenten season is peppered with this phrase. For me, those words have always been amorphous and ambiguous. The tumultuous end to Jesus’ earthly life barely seems to be contained by labeling it as a journey to the cross. And then, each year around this time, we are to endeavor our own journey to the cross, right? I have difficulty with the Lenten season. The ominousness that comes with Maundy Thursday turns into sorrow and grief by Good Friday, and then by sunrise on Easter morning, all is well? It is the very foundation of my faith. But still I struggle to find and grasp that Easter morning joy.
Raised in the Presbyterian Church, I had the basic Bible story understanding most children do of Jesus’ birth, life and death. An unlikely beginning for a king; followed by a life filled with miracles, and then a tragic end that somehow saved us all. I knew Jesus’ death was sad, because, well, death is sad. And scary. But with my teenage years in youth group came more developed emotions and my ability to empathize. However odd it may be, my understanding of Jesus’ final days was made more real by watching Jesus Christ Superstar with my youth group. That’s right - that controversial, arguably blasphemous and inconsistent-with-the-Bible 1970 rock opera shed some light on the terrible and gruesome conditions of Jesus’ death.
When I read the Gospel accounts of the days leading up to Jesus’ death, the crucifixion and the days following, I find myself identifying most with the disciples. In reality, I should probably be identifying with the masses who demanded Jesus’ crucifixion, knowing that I might have very well had the same doubts and reactions. But I put myself in the disciples’ place. They lose their best buddy, their father figure, their teacher. They are told his death is coming, and some even witness it. They mourn. He rises. Some doubt. Some don’t recognize the risen, healed Jesus. But they are expected to understand and to rejoice in this prophecy fulfilled.
I wouldn’t have been able to rejoice. In my very human form, I am selfish and fearful. Imagining myself as a disciple, being without Jesus - even knowing that he had indeed risen - I can’t get past the grief of losing someone so precious. What will life be like without him? How do I go forward? How do I trust in my Lord?
Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the day-to-day sorrow I observe and am sometimes a part of. Almost daily, I see a man in the median on Freedom Drive on the bridge over I-85 with a sign asking for food, money, hope. I pass him on my commute home. My student who comes to school for the fourth day in a row without a bath, wearing clothes two sizes too small and scarfing down her breakfast because she hasn’t eaten since her snack at school the previous afternoon. Harsh words I may exchange with my husband because I’m tired and there’s laundry to do and a cranky toddler and all we both really want is calm, quality time with our little family.
That journey to the cross holds so much sorrow. I’m in search of a thin space on that journey. Somewhere on the route to and beyond the cross, where I find a way to let God help me hold that sorrow. Where I can let God guide me to making dents in that sorrow. Where I can question and doubt and mourn, like the disciples, and then eventually feel and live that Easter morning joy, even if it takes more than three days and Easter has come and gone. I hope and pray that my journey to the cross will be cyclical, and more than just an annual Lenten journey. Because there will always be sorrow that needs to be held and joy that needs to be found.
