Good Friday is for me the most meaningful “holy day” of the year. Solemnity, quietude, even an appreciation for beauty are all mixed together. It’s easy to be afraid of the day, thinking it’s intended to be morbid or self-mortifying. And I suppose some prefer it that way. Certainly, I make it a point to slowly walk the Stations of the Cross somewhere meaningful. “For us and for our sake he was crucified, died and was buried,” according to the Apostle’s Creed recited weekly in the Anglican tradition. Good Friday is intended to be the great Memorial Day for time immemorial.
But I don’t dwell a great deal on blood and nails and thorns. In Jesus’ “It is finished,” I sense an invitation to rest, and to appreciate the beauty of a world worth redeeming… in nature, music, art that speaks to the soul. So it’s a day for resting and quietly pondering, not for mortifying myself. I try to be exactly where my soul wants to be, where it finds rest and reflection. May you find that rest this Good Friday.
Into Your Courts I Come
It’s Good Friday.
I appreciate dreary weather on Good Friday: it fits the solemnity of the day. But this year it’s a Chamber of Commerce day for So Cal, and I’m in warm sun at St. Michael’s Abbey in Silverado, 5 miles from my home. I attended a short midday service chanted by the monks and then walked around the church to enjoy the day and the beauty of the abbey setting.
Above a statue of St. Michael slaying a demon, above the bursting calla lilies, I heard odd guttural bird sounds, almost like the grinding of teeth. I looked up to see an entire complex of swallow’s nests, the mythical swallows you can only read about now at my beloved San Juan Capistrano Mission nearby. I’d never seen this, so close-up and intimate, so I watched the show ’til my neck hurt. Then I grabbed a chair nearby and now I am sitting in the sun, in calm 70-degree perfect weather, just enjoying the show. At times, my jaw drops open spontaneously.
Right now, it’s quiet. The dark faces of momma birds peer from each hole in these trademark mud igloos built on top of one another, plastered under the eaves of the church. Busy white beaks glance this way and that against the dark peephole opening, while papa swallows zoom back and forth with more supplies of mud or food.
A few minutes ago, a church attendant opened the nearby sanctuary windows, and most of these bird-apartment dwellers flew off, returning a few moments later in a tornado of swirling, chirping activity.
Amazing. And beautiful.
There’s something else that strikes me, something I have in common with these feathered friends: we both want to hang around the Lord’s house today. This is Good Friday, and it’s a good day to be here.
Now a lone human voice is added to the sound of birds and fountain, and Latin chants with a holy reverberation come wafting out those open windows to mingle with the chirp-and-grind from above. And I suddenly remember a song we used to sing at church, taken from Psalm 84, one of the “songs of ascent” that pilgrims would recite as they climbed toward the temple in Jerusalem, “City of Peace”. The psalm starts with “How lovely is your dwelling place, O Lord Almighty” and is filled with love-lines worth reading about the Lord’s house. The song was inspired by verses 3-4:
Even the swallow has found a nest
A place to lay her young near your altar
And we are longing to find that rest
So into your courts we come
Into your courts we come.
Guess I’m not unique. The psalmist found the same connection between swallows, rest, and a holy place. And maybe it’s no coincidence that swallows seem to hang out (literally) at churches, missions, temples. And why churches are also called sanctuaries.
And I am longing to find that same rest. So into your courts I come. Into your courts I come.
One other group tends to be found worldwide around churches and other “holy sites”: the begging poor. Seems they understand the connection between faith and compassion. Sometimes, while visiting a religious site somewhere like Ethiopia, India or even the former Soviet Union, I feel I’m “running the gauntlet” through those in need and I cringe inside. Yet another part of me is grateful: Grateful to realize that “everyone knows” that commitment to God and compassion for the poor are supposed to go hand-in-hand. And grateful to be found in the same place; all of us together, beggars in need of bread.
Funny epilogue: I dawdled so long that the big afternoon service started. The parking lot had become so overfull that one participant apparently double-parked and hemmed me in. That service lasted nearly three more hours. So, I ‘accidently’ got my wish… five solid hours of rest at the Abbey. 🙂