From the first moment my wife discovered
she had breast cancer, there was a deafening silence from the men I know. Even
ones whose wives, mothers or girlfriends had breast cancer seemed to have
received a gag order from some Central Cancer Command and did little more than
mumble about the experience. Not one to shut up for any known reason, I started
this blog…
Two hundred and
four posts, two hundred and eight weeks.
Good Friday was
last night.
Why do they call
it good? Strangely enough, the best explanation I have ever heard or seen
popped up on Friday on my niece’s Face Book post in the form of a comic strip
drawn by legendary artist, Johnny Hart, creator of the strip “B.C.” and
co-creator of the strip, “The Wizard of Id”:
This is the only
reason such a day, such a celebration could be called “good”.
Four years ago,
my daughter and I were talking about Good Friday on the way to the service and
back. She observed that this the only specifically Christian Holy Day that the
secular world has been unable to coopt. We decided that there’s no way that
such an event could be made cute or represented by cuddly animals, people in
costumes or from which candy companies might not spin adorable commercials or
bunnies laying chocolate eggs. Any attempt to “cute-i-fy” Good Friday is doomed
to failure by the nature of the day.
It’s grim.
Gruesome. Dark. It’s all about torture and execution.
Outsiders –
those who don’t know of, believe or otherwise acknowledge Christianity – find
it offensive and inexplicable; perhaps even insane. “Why would you possible
want to remember the horrific execution of your rabbi and teacher?”
Last night I was
reminded again that the events leading up to the execution of the Christ are
NOT about the failure of God to accomplish His mission on Earth. The
crucifixion was NOT a backup plan and a bad one at that.
The events prior
to Good Friday were an exhibit of
everything that is rotten in Humanity and a display of ample proportions of
exactly why it needed forgiveness and saving.
The infant Jesus
was born a slave to an empire both global and cruel. His birth sparked the
slaughter of hundreds of other innocent newborns by decree. His life exposed
the tedious, unremarkableness of thirty years of growing old in an ancient
world and the loss of his father during adolescence; his three years of
ministry exposed him to corrupt government, avarice and greed, ridicule by the
intelligentsia, betrayal and abandonment by friends, public adulation turned
mockery, lies, a corrupted justice system that did not represent slaves,
gambling and drug abuse.
What does this
have to do with my wife’s breast cancer? Last night, I was shamed by His
suffering because I have for some time now begged and challenged Him to
explain, “Why have you made me suffer so?”
He hadn’t
answered my plea until that night four years ago when He said, “I can’t explain
that, Guy. But I can say that I have been with you in that suffering because I
understand suffering. I understand despair. I get you. That’s why I haven’t
cast a lightning bolt in your direction for your impertinence. I understand, as
few others can, your suffering, and I’ll stand by you and answer what questions
I can. Look at your blog – lots of answers there. Not ‘the answer’, that won’t
come until we can talk face-to-face; but you got a lot of them. See you later,
bud.”
I know this
isn’t about breast cancer exactly; I suppose I pulled a Johnny Hart on you all.
Be that as it may, my prayer is that you might find some answers to your
suffering. If you can’t find answers, then I’d be happy to talk with you. Just
leave me a comment and I’ll reply…
From
the first moment my wife discovered she had breast cancer, there was a
deafening silence from the men I know. Even ones whose wives, mothers or
girlfriends had breast cancer seemed to have received a gag order from some
Central Cancer Command and did little more than mumble about the experience.
Not one to shut up for any known reason, I started this blog…
