Good Friday, 2008, looking southward

GOOD-FRIDAY, 1613, RIDING WESTWARD.
by John Donne

LET man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this,
The intelligence that moves, devotion is,
And as the other spheres, by being grown
Subject to foreign motion, lose their own,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a year their natural form obey;
Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit
For their first mover, and are whirled by it.
Hence is't, that I am carried towards the West,
This day, when my soul's form bends to the East.
There I should see a Sun by rising set,
And by that setting endless day beget:
But that Christ on this cross did rise and fall,
Sin had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I almost be glad I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for me.
Who sees God's face, that is self-life, must die;
What a death were it then to see God die?
It made his own lieutenant, Nature, shrink;
It made his footstool crack, and the sun wink.
Could I behold those hands which span the poles,
And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes ?
Could I behold that endless height which is
Zenith to us, and t'our antipodes,
Humbled below us? Or that blood which is
The seat of all our soul's, if not of his,
Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn
By God for His apparel, ragg'd and torn ?
If on these things I durst not look, durst I
Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye,
Who was God's partner here, and furnish'd thus
Half of that sacrifice which ransom'd us?
Though these things as I ride be from mine eye,
They're present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them; and Thou look'st towards me,
O Saviour, as Thou hang'st upon the tree.
I turn my back to thee but to receive
Corrections till Thy mercies bid Thee leave.
O think me worth Thine anger; punish me;
Burn off my rust, and my deformity;
Restore Thine image, so much, by Thy grace,
That Thou mayst know me, and I'll turn my face.

---

Norton Anthology of English Lit., 5th ed., Vol. 1, 1986

I remember studying this poem in English Lit, and then thinking of it again as I drove westward on Good Friday, 1994, to get engaged to marry Joel. There are so many, many things I would rather do than "see that spectacle of too much weight for me." Turning my face towards God's, that is too much knowledge. I would rather face the warm south windows, the crocuses, the red wheelbarrow and my boy in the dirt

We have a Good Friday communion breakfast every year at the Villa and it always ends up being a more meaningful time than I could have anticipated. When I leave I can say I am glad to have been there. And yet I feel great relief when it is over. Whew! I dealt with the topics of death, sin and brokenness today. Now I can escape to more pleasant things.

It felt like a wonderful escape, fourteen years ago, to drive westward to get engaged. Four years later, Good Friday of 1998, we drove south for Joel to have a biopsy and then wait until Easter Monday to learn it was Hodgkins Disease.

Now, ten years, a clean bill of health and one dirt-loving boy after that, I'm thankful to have a husband who wants to photograph the back of my neck on Good Friday. I'm thankful for the food I've been able to eat at the table these forty days (and all the food I've eaten elsewhere!). But I've felt this unsettled feeling today, probably due to not enough sleep.

Good Friday is a teary, touchstone day for me. A reminder of past joys and pains. I guess I get so many reminders of human finiteness and fallibility (my own and others') on other days that I just can't bear to face eastward for very long. And the whole turning-the-back-for-punishment business at the end of the poem... I don't want to tamper with seventeenth-century literature, but the idea offends my twenty-first century sensibilities. The way to my heart seems to be through gentleness and humor. But I want to remain open to new interpretations.

What perspectives do you have on Good Friday? I definitely prefer to see it as part of the Triduum, those three holy days that allow us to say, "Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again." The mystery of our faith.

A quietly joyful Holy Saturday to you.