He Makes the Failures of Friday Beautiful in His Time

Ravaged by grief,

she saw you standing right there,

but did not recognize you.

 

She was living in Friday,

That traumatic Friday.

 

But it’s Sunday now,

And there you stand,

In front of Mary.

 

It’s a new day,

The only day that really counts.

Today.

* * *

Lord Jesus,

I give you the Fridays of my past.

My Fridays of trauma and grief

The Fridays I was betrayed,

The Fridays I failed.

 

It’s Sunday now,

And there you stand in front of me,

Oh Lovely One!

 

And you make all things new.

* * *

Cleopas walks downcast,

His hopes have crumbled.

He has seen betrayal, and he has learned

Religious leaders can be evil.

He walks, sad, foolish

And slow of heart,

Thinking of crumbled hopes

And his beloved

Humiliated teacher

 

Who walks beside him,

Always walks beside him.

* * *

Forgive me, Lord,

For the times I walked in darkness,

Shrouded in self-pity,

Unable to get over past betrayal,

Past evil, past disappointment;

My vision darkened as I considered

Other people’s evil

Instead of clearing the logs from my eyes.

 

Living in Friday.

 

Not noticing you

Walking beside me,

Always walking beside me,

Even in my valley of suffering

 

Offering this heart,

Still puckered with yesterday’s vinegar,

Fresh bread.

 

It is Sunday, today,

And you feed me

With the breaking of the bread,

 

And beauty and creativity,

And you say, “Be not afraid of broken things.

Even the Christ had to suffer.

Be not afraid.”

 

“When you walk through the waters, I’ll be with you

And the floods shall not overwhelm you,

When you walk through fire, you shall not be burned,

And the flame shall not consume you.”

* * *

 Thomas says:

“Oh, the failure was dreadful,

Humiliating.

How could it be the Lord?

 

I saw hasty nails pierce

Those exquisite hands.

The impatient spear

driven into his side.

 

He failed

despite his prayer,

our prayer,

all the love, the preparation,

the hopes,

He failed.

They killed him.

 

But if prayer worked,

as he said it would,

If faith could move mountains,

as he said it would,

if his Father loved him,

As he said he did,

If he was God,

As he said he was

 

Would there have been that disgrace,

The mocking crown of thorns,

The mocking scarlet robe,

The stripping, the crucifixion?

* * *

 

“Thomas,” they say.

“He’s alive now.”

 

Faith!

I have no faith left.

I am bereft of faith.

 

Unless I see the nail marks in his hands

 and put my finger where the nails were,

 and put my hand into his side,

I will not believe, I say.

 

* * *

And then, I see him,

And words fail me

And I kneel,

 

And all I can say is

My Lord and My God.

* * *

Oh stupid Thomas!

 

Forgive me, Lord for my stupidity.

For believing you come

Only in day, and not in night,

Only in summer and not in winter

Only in success and not in failure.

Only in glory, never in shame.

 

My Lord and My God

Forgive me for needing

to see your radiant, risen body

 

To realize that there was beauty too

In the three hours on the cross

When you were the voluntary scapegoat

For a selfish world.

 

I believe.

Help my unbelief.

 

Help me to accept from your hands

Whatever you give me

With praise, and thanksgiving.

 

The lacerated hands,

The mauled side,

They too are part of the beautiful body of Christ

 

Things you make beautiful in your time.

 

May I never forget this,

lovely Lord Jesus.