2 Corinthians 5:19–21

Good Friday

May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with us all. Amen

2 Corinthians 5:19–21

19 For God was in Christ, reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting to us the message of reconciliation.

20 So we are now ambassadors for Christ, as though God were making his appeal through us; we implore you on Christ’s behalf: Be reconciled to God!

21 For he made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God.

Dear congregation,
In this service, we are accompanied by two images of Christ. One is from a church in Goslar. A modern Christ, without a cross: with open arms. The other image is from a church in Tübingen. A veiled Jesus.
Both images convey important ideas regarding our understanding of the crucifixion of Jesus.

The image without the cross – an idealised vision:
oh, if only we could do without crosses.
Oh, if only there were no failure.
Oh, if only we could cope a little more easily with death, and above all with the senseless and cruel crimes against humanity.

The other image makes us realise that we are looking at the cross through a veil. God is hidden. His love is veiled. We do not understand everything. We see only fragments.
The veil is also a gentle attempt to conceal Jesus’ suffering and his failure. When something is unbearable. When the shame of seeing it becomes too great and the exposure is a humiliation, then veiling it is an expression of compassion.

Yes, the suffering and failure, the pain that Jesus endured, raise many questions.
And throughout history, people have identified with Jesus’ suffering. Yes, when we see Jesus, executed and alone, his passion for non-violence and peace having failed, we also see the wounds of today.
Wars are such open wounds of humanity: inflicting and suffering injury – the inhuman cruelty that people experience and inflict. Crimes against humanity, both small and large.
All of this comes into focus on Good Friday.

Whilst we both take in the two pictures; I read a text by a contemporary author: Susanne Niemeyer. The author explores such wounds.

Failure by Susanne Niemeyer

In a big city stands a church. Its towers reach up to the sky and its door towers over every person. The windows glow and the art treasures attract visitors. If you walk round the church, you come to a second door. It is small. Someone has put up a sign; it reads ‘Jesus’, ‘Expert in Failure’. A strange title. You step inside.
“Good afternoon,” you say, once you’ve adjusted to the dim light and made out a man. He has a large wound on his side and is laughing.
You point to the raw flesh: “Doesn’t that hurt?”
“Yes, yes,” the man nods, “but it’s getting better.”
“What did you do?”
“I failed.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” You remember the sign again. “Is that why you chose that title?”
The man nods.
“To be honest, perhaps you should open an office for success instead. That would certainly appeal to people more.”
“Have you ever failed?”
You’re thinking. You’ve lost a loved one; you stood by a grave. You’ve signed a notice of termination, moved out of a shared flat, burnt a meal and stained the washing. You’ve let your child down. You’ve let yourself down. You’ve buried a few hopes, forgotten a birthday and let flowers wilt. In the high jump, you knocked the bar down; you didn’t win what you wanted to win, and at 50, you weren’t the person you once imagined yourself to be. You found the wrong words, or none at all. You set yourself goals you didn’t achieve—some despite your best efforts, others because you succumbed to inertia. But you’re standing here, alive. You have failed at many small things, but not at life.
“Yes. No. What is failure?”
“Become wiser.”
“Now you’re sugar-coating it.”
“Did you learn to walk as a child? To ride a bike?
“Of course.”
“And? How did you do it?”
“I fell over and got back up. I brushed the dirt off and carried on. Sometimes I cried. Because it hurt, or because I was angry that it wasn’t working out the way I wanted.”
“And then?”
“Then someone comforted me.”
“Because you showed your wound. I’m showing mine too.”
“So that someone will comfort you?”
“So that someone will comfort me. So that someone will take heart. So that they know they’re not alone, they’re not the only one who’s been hurt, who can’t manage something. Failure is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“A wound is frightening.”
The man shakes his head. “It shows that the world doesn’t need heroes. It shows that you can commit yourself to anything in life. That a single attempt is worth a thousand times more than staying unscathed. Every wound shows you were in the thick of it. Every failure means: you tried.
“But failure can simply be attributed to stupidity. To ignorance.”
“Then learn. Try again. So long as you’re alive, you have a new chance every day. Behind every failure lies an ‘and’. An ‘and on’. The story isn’t over. It can take an unexpected turn.”
He pauses for a moment. “That’s why I’m here.”

“That is why I am here!” So that life may go on.
My failure is followed by an “and”.
This “and” takes time.
Long days pass between being buried “and” rising again.

During this time, God works, changing our attitude towards failure. God lifts us up and grants us the experience of “and”.
This does not mean the wounds are healed straight away. Certainly not the scars.
Yet God works in such a way that we may once again receive our lives with open arms and hearts and preserve our humanity.

May the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, guard our hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. Amen