For the Master is gracious and receives the last even as the first;
He gives rest to him that comes at the eleventh hour,
just as to him who has labored from the first.
He has mercy upon the last and cares for the first;
to the one He gives, and to the other He is gracious.
He both honors the work and praises the intention.
Enter all of you, therefore, into the joy of our Lord,
and, whether first or last, receive your reward.

O rich and poor, one with another, dance for joy!
O you ascetics and you negligent, celebrate the day!
You that have fasted and you that have disregarded the fast,
rejoice today!
The table is rich-laden: feast royally, all of you!
The calf is fatted: let no one go forth hungry!

Let all partake of the feast of faith.
Let all receive the riches of goodness.
Let no one lament their poverty,
for the universal kingdom has been revealed.
Let no one mourn their transgressions,
for pardon has dawned from the grave.
Let no one fear death,
for the Saviour’s death has set us free.

He that was taken by death has annihilated it!
He descended into Hades and took Hades captive!
He embittered it when it tasted His flesh!
And anticipating this, Isaiah exclaimed:
“Hades was embittered
when it encountered Thee in the lower regions”.
It was embittered, for it was abolished!
It was embittered, for it was mocked!
It was embittered, for it was purged!
It was embittered, for it was despoiled!
It was embittered, for it was bound in chains!

It took a body and came upon God!
It took earth and encountered Ηeaven!
It took what it saw,
but crumbled before what can not be seen!

O death, where is thy sting?
O Hades, where is thy victory?

Christ is risen, and you are overthrown!
Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen!
Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice!
Christ is risen, and life reigns!
Christ is risen, and not one dead remains in a tomb!
For Christ, being raised from the dead,
has become the first-fruits of them that have slept.

To Him be glory and might unto the ages of ages.

Amen.

In processing this further, I am thinking that it might be appropriate to look at the time between all worship services as an intermission, irrespective of whether we have received a benediction or not, since worship is the meaning of time. The Westminster Shorter Confession supports this idea when it asks, “What is the chief end of man?” to which it responds, “Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever.” Thus according to this confession, which is intended to function as a biblical summation, the very purpose of our existence (an existence that moves through time) is the glorification and enjoyment of God. This can be further distilled by saying that the purpose of human existence is to worship God, as worshiping God means glorifying him particularly by expressing that he is our deepest delight and satisfaction, or using the words of the confession, our deepest enjoyment.

In viewing the time between services as an intermission, a potential problem is that it could imply taking a break from worship, which would further imply that there is a space where humans could be unhinged from the purpose of their existence. This is nonsense. Drawing from experience, I would like to try to resolve this problem by pointing out that whenever there is an intermission, at whatever kind of performance, the crowd conducts themselves in a way that is appropriate to the venue. Translating this into the context of worship, the venue in which we live is God’s world, and we should always conduct ourselves in a manner worthy of the place we occupy. Moreover, and more importantly, the venue in which we live is one in which the distinction between actors and audience is dissolved, as all who come to the show are called to actively participate. In this context, the stage, which would be the worship service proper, is merely a focal point for the performance we carry into the world, and the intermission is just that time where we embody the performance we participated in upon the stage.

“Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return”

The above sobering words are central to the Lenten liturgy that I, and many other Christians throughout world, heard yesterday as we came forward, at our respective services, for the imposition of ashes, a rite where believers receive the mark of the Cross on their foreheads. This mark was made using the ashes of burnt palm branches, which were used the previous year in celebration of Palm Sunday, a celebration of Jesus’ triumphal entrance into Jerusalem. Knowing this added poignancy, for Palm Sunday is closely followed by Good Friday, the event of Jesus’ crucifixion, an event that transpired at the hands of those who just a few days previous celebrated him as the Messiah. This is poignant because in some manner my involvement in Lent, and particularly Ash Wednesday, implicates me in Jesus’ death, just as if I was among those who turned on him during his last week in Jerusalem. In short, the sign of the cross on my forehead is like blood on the hands of a murderer. This sign is a mark of the very reason why I deserve to return to dust.

The thing is, though all I have written above is true and somber, Lent is not ultimately about guilt and death. Instead, it is a season of preparation to enable one to enter more fully into the life of God. Sure this season is justly somber, as this time of preparation is animated by repentance and fasting, which are two practices that do not evoke positivity and joy. I think, however, that the negative connotations associated with these practices are largely due to a misunderstanding. Often when people think of repentance and fasting, they think of giving up something desirable to please or, worse yet, appease God, but the Gospel has another word to say about this matter. In short, it tells us there is nothing we must, or more importantly, can do to please God, as he fully accepts us on the basis of what he has already done through Jesus Christ. So then, why this season of repentance and fasting? Simply put, God has much to freely give us, and more than that, he wants to give us more of himself, but we cannot receive what he offers when our hearts are full, no matter how free it might be. In this manner, repentance is merely letting go of something to be able to receive something better, deeper, and more satisfying.

According to Christian conviction, in this age between the ages, believers still struggle with the reality of sin, a struggle that takes place within our hearts. In its essence this struggle has to do with deep longings for connection, worth, meaning, and ultimately joy. We struggle because the world readily offers many resources to meet these longings, and to some degree, what the world offers provides satisfaction, but it is not a satisfaction that is equal in measure to that for which our souls were made: communion with God. And so, the season of Lent is a grace that reminds us that though we are mortal we were made for immortality, the very immortality that is expressed in the event towards which Lent is always moving: Easter. In Easter, Christians celebrate the resurrection of Jesus, and with him, our resurrection as well. In summation, Lent is a preparation for that event through which the dust of our lives will be gathered into everlasting glory, and in which are insatiable longings will find a satisfaction that will never end.

I remember once, upon hearing the last part of the line above, having a mild epiphany wherein I realized that Christians should constantly be looking for such life to presently manifest itself. In this manner Christianity waylays the temptation to be a “pie-in-the-sky, opiate of the masses”, because it encourages Christians to not  just endure the present life for some heavenly hereafter, but rather it calls them to be engaged in the world looking for ways to be involved in how the world to come is currently manifesting itself.

In this light, Christmas is the season wherein we celebrate the first manifestation “of the life of the world to come.” Moreover, by celebrating Christmas we sharpen our sensibilities to discern the subtle and often paradoxical ways that God is currently bringing this life into the world, just as he did 2,000 years ago when a baby, the embodiment of human dependency, was born to a marginalized people in some remote back country of the Roman Empire.

I have been reading through N.T. Wright’s book, Justification, which was written in part as a response to John Piper’s book, The Future of Justification: a Response to N.T. Wright. And so, Wright’s book is a response to a response, which expresses the controversial nature of Wright’s concept of justification. Perhaps the depth of this controversy can be seen in the metaphor that Wright uses to begin his book, a metaphor that equates his understanding of justification with a kind of intellectual Copernican revolution.

Essentially, Wright is saying that the doctrine of justification does not arise out of the question “How can a sinner stand before a righteous and holy God?” but rather out of the question “How will God be faithful to his covenant with Abraham, by which all the nations of the world will be blessed.” The point for Wright is that justification is not about the existential crises of the individual, but rather about God’s actions to restore the entire cosmos and all of humanity to their original integrity and beauty.

In constructing his understanding of justification one of the key issues Wright addresses is a mischaracterization of Judaism as a religion based upon works righteousness. Wright asserts that much of the historical documents of Paul’s era make it clear that the Jews understood themselves to be God’s people on the basis of grace, a grace most particularly seen in the covenant established with their forefather Abraham. Within this covenant, the Law was commonly understood to be a means of maintaining faithful membership, as well as a means by which Israel was distinguished and separated from the rest of the gentile nations.  Thus the Law was not held to be the means by which a faithful Jew sought to make his or herself righteous before God.

Another critical issue Wright addresses is the idea of exile as it was understood during Paul’s time. According to Wright many Jews believed they were in a state of partial exile, insofar as they had returned to their homeland, but they continued to be under foreign domination. Along with this, it was commonly believed that a complete end to their exile would not happen until the Messiah came to usher in God’s Kingdom by which God’s people would be delivered from and vindicated before all the nations. It is from this idea of vindication, particularly with its eschatological connotations, that Wright develops his understanding of justification.

Paul, according to Wright, had come to see that what Israel had expected for herself at the end of the age: vindication, had happened in the person of Jesus the Messiah, and that this vindication was particularly seen in Jesus’ resurrection. For Paul, the resurrection of Jesus signified the coming of the end, the coming of the Kingdom in which the restoration of creation and the justification of God’s people is now available in the person and ministry of Jesus Christ. The implication of Jesus’ resurrection also necessitated for Paul the need to redraw the lines of covenant membership. Instead of this line being drawn along the ethnic markers of Judaism, it was now to be drawn along the lines of all those who confess that Jesus is the Messiah of Israel. And so, justification, according to Paul, according to Wright, is about inclusion in God’s covenant with Abraham, a covenant that was established prior to the giving of the Law, and a covenant that Abraham entered into by faith, and who thereby became the father of all who believe.

Please take note that my presentation of the essentials of Wright’s book does not due justice to the cogency with which he develops and supports his understanding of the doctrine of justification. Moreover, I have not touched upon the ways his book has been a blessing to me, and the ways I find myself resisting him on some points. In short, this book merits much more than I have given it in this post, and for this reason I plan on returning to it in future posts. For now, however, in light of the Christmas season, I will just say the following.

One result of reading this book is that I have never, in my life, ever felt so connected to the history of Israel. I now see myself as one who has, to use Paul’s term, been grafted into the story of God’s passionate love for his people Israel. I feel much more connected to the lives of the patriarchs and prophets, and the significance of proclaiming that Israel’s God is God indeed. Most importantly it has become very meaningful for me to proclaim that Jesus is the Messiah, the living embodiment of God’s righteousness, the living embodiment of God’s faithfulness to his covenant with our father Abraham, through whom all the nations of the world will be blessed.

In thinking about God’s covenant with Abraham as the context for understanding the significance of the birth of Mary’s baby, I am reminded of the words of an old man named Simeon. When Mary and Joseph took Jesus to the temple, in accordance with the custom of the Law, Simeon, prompted by the Holy Spirit, took the baby into his arms and praised God by saying:

Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,
you now dismiss your servant in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the sight of all people,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles
and for glory to your people Israel.

What I particularly like about “Ash Wednesday” is Eliot’s uncanny ability to use the energy of language to place a reader on the thresshold of transcendence, while at the same time thoroughly analyzing and describing the spiritual struggle of broken human existence. The poem itself is an expression of beauty emerging from the ashes of falleness, and in this manner it is very incarnational. I could go on, as in fact I did, for during that semester I ended up writing a 25 page paper about this poem, but for this Ash Wednesday, I will let the man speak for himself and post the poem in its entirety below. Before I do so, however, I would like to preface his poem with these words from the Ash Wednesday service from the Book of Common Prayer:

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

************

Ash Wednesday

I.
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

II.
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.

III.
At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.

At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jaggèd, like an old man’s mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark.

At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs’s fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind
over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.

Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy

but speak the word only.

IV.
Who walked between the violet and the violet
Who walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary’s colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs

Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary’s colour,
Sovegna vos

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing

White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.

The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word

But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile

V.
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice

Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.

O my people.

VI.
Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

I can hear the responses of those in Mary’s community, “I cannot believe that trollop, bringing such shame to her family and to Joseph, her betrothed.” Moreover, if Mary ever did share what was happening, I can imagine the incredulity of any who listened, “Suurrre Mary, an angel of the Lord visited you, God himself impregnated you. Who the hell do you think we are? Pagans! We don’t worship that disgusting seducer of women: Zeus. You have blasphemed our holy, eternal God by ascribing such unbecoming and human behavior to him. C’mon Mary, admit it. You were raped, or you were carried away in a moment passion, but please don’t insult us with your disgusting fantasy of divine intervention.”

After 2,000 years of Christian history, Mary’s story seems commonplace, and thus it is easy for us who profess faith to imagine that had we lived back then we would have had the discernment to recognize the hand of God. Likewise, I think it’s easy for us to think we have some kind of inside knowledge regarding God’s present actions in the world. I am quite sure, however, that God’s actions remain scandalous, and not only to the world, but also to us who believe.

During the remainder of this Christmas season it is this scandal that I want to meditate upon, for I sense that it is critical to genuine faith and spiritual maturity. I have no doubt that the world has deeply influenced my rational instincts and sensibilities, for like the world, I love power. My sense of well-being is deeply connected to the various ways the world expresses power: reason, law, order, religion, government, technology, civilization, decorum, and decency. The world loves these good things, but it does so on its own bright and shiny terms, and thus, they have become idols that function to cover the disorder at the depths of the human condition. By contrast, Mary’s story is that God has chosen the weak things to undermine the strong, and the foolish things to confound the wise, for what is weaker than a baby and more foolish than a virgin birth.

If you were to talk to anyone in my social circle, I am moderately confident they would characterize me as intelligent and moral, for these are things that I strive to be, and have developed throughout my life. As much as I sincerely appreciate these things, however, I also know how much I value them as a means of personal affirmation or self-worth. Like the world, I use them as a cover for the disorder and brokenness at the depths of my being, a depth so deep that it remains beyond anything in my power to lay a hold of, and this is the source of the scandal.

Mary’s story unmasks the false hope of power, whatever form it takes, and I think our response to Mary’s story reveals how deeply we are invested in the power structures of the world. The world rejects Mary’s story as an obvious offence to reason. This is to be expected. Beyond this, however, I think we who are religious also reject Mary’s story, but we do so in a more subtle fashion. We accept that this event happened, for after all, if the Christian God exists it is not unreasonable to think that he who created all from nothing can also conceive a child without the agency of a father. In fact, from a Christian worldview, this can be seen as an act of power. In this way, our affirmation of the story is something akin to the world’s love of power. Our rejection of Mary’s story does not happen along these lines. Instead, our rejection arises from the depths of intimacy and messiness it implies.

God got inside Mary. In overshadowing her with his Holy Spirit, he utilized her body, her biology, her very DNA to accomplish his purpose in the world. Certainly in the tradition and scriptures of the Jews, God was seen as active in human affairs, as a being who drew near to his people, but one who did so in such a way that his majesty and power were clear. What happened to Mary, however, was an involvement of another kind. Jesus, the Son of God, came into the world through the panting, sweating, and bleeding of a young woman, who labored in a stable in some backwater town of a marginalized culture. As he emerged from the womb, he was messy with vernix, amniotic fluid and blood, and he had to be wiped clean before he was wrapped in the swaddling clothes so often seen in the pristine manger scenes.

The point is, in the radical act of incarnation, God intimately entered into the messy affair of the human condition. According to the Church’s reflection on the meaning of Christ’s life, through birth, baptism, and finally crucifixion, God, through Jesus Christ, assumed our sinful, broken and rebellious nature, so that from the inside he could overcome it. This may not sound so bad as a grand, metaphysical act of God, and in some measure it isn’t. The scandal comes when the meaning is personally applied, when we discover the incarnation in the intimate details of our own brokenness, rebellion, and sin.

As I mentioned, what I want to contemplate for the remainder of this Christmas season is that God wants to meet me precisely at the point where I want to turn from him. In order to grow spiritually, in order to be real, in order to live by faith, I must learn to not say with Peter, “Get away from me Lord, for I am a sinful man.” Instead, I must learn to embrace, or better yet, let him embrace me in those areas where I am mostly deeply shamed: in my own lust, anger, laziness, and fear. The scandal of Mary’s story is that God has drawn so very near. In the weakness of a baby, and in the frailty of death on a cross, God has met me not in my higher self, not in my striving after righteousness, but in the very messy details of my broken existence.

It is truly right and good, always and everywhere, with our
whole heart and mind and voice, to praise you, the invisible,
almighty, and eternal God, and your only-begotten Son,
Jesus Christ our Lord; for he is the true Paschal Lamb, who
at the feast of the Passover paid for us the debt of Adam’s sin,
and by his blood delivered your faithful people.

This is the night, when you brought our fathers, the children
of Israel, out of bondage in Egypt, and led them through the
Red Sea on dry land.

This is the night, when all who believe in Christ are delivered
from the gloom of sin, and are restored to grace and holiness
of life.

This is the night, when Christ broke the bonds of death and hell,
and rose victorious from the grave.

How wonderful and beyond our knowing, O God, is your
mercy and loving-kindness to us, that to redeem a slave, you
gave a Son.

How holy is this night, when wickedness is put to flight, and
sin is washed away. It restores innocence to the fallen, and joy
to those who mourn. It casts out pride and hatred, and brings
peace and concord.

How blessed is this night, when earth and heaven are joined
and man is reconciled to God.

Holy Father, accept our evening sacrifice, the offering of this
candle in your honor. May it shine continually to drive away
all darkness. May Christ, the Morning Star who knows no
setting, find it ever burning–he who gives his light to all
creation, and who lives and reigns for ever and ever. Amen.

O God, Creator of heaven and earth: Grant that, as the
crucified body of your dear Son was laid in the tomb and
rested on this holy Sabbath, so we may await with him the
coming of the third day, and rise with him to newness of
life; who now lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Later, knowing that all was now completed, and so that the Scripture would be fulfilled, Jesus said, “I am thirsty.” A jar of wine vinegar was there, so they soaked a sponge in it, put the sponge on a stalk of the hyssop plant, and lifted it to Jesus’ lips. When he had received the drink, Jesus said, “It is finished.” With that, he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.

*******

I imagine that in some way Jesus’ dying words about being thirsty is a reality that is still present in the world, present in all those who have need, in all those who thirst physically and spiritually. The Scriptures declare that “God made him who had no sin to become sin for us.” In this radical act of God identifying with fallen humanity, in those moments when Jesus hung on the Cross bearing our sins, it would not be far fetched to say that he tasted the collective thirst that blights all of us who live in want for God’s presence in our lives.

Given the death of the Lord of Glory that is commemorated on Good Friday it is certainly understandable why dubbing it “good” seems such a misnomer. And yet, when I consider that through the cross Jesus has identified with my deepest need, that he is somehow present to me even in sin, I am prompted to declare that Friday is indeed good, for God is with us even as we thirst for him.