And then, it was Friday

Before our 6 PM family service tonight, one of our little four year old theologians asked why this is called Good Friday. This is the same little girl who has recently begun to deliver Children's Sermons to her family. She uses my name and a microphone. None of these sermons relate to what I said on the previous Sunday or any Sunday before. They are her own creation. She is already preaching. (I admit that I relished in this thought this week as I have somehow managed to inspire little girls to play in the pulpit.)

And yet, when she asked this question tonight, I didn't want to offer an answer. I thought that the question was enough. I thought that this was enough to ponder on this day. My colleague offered an answer. I admit that I didn't listen to what he said.

It was enough for me to think about her question -- one that I'm sure I have asked before. However, today, nothing felt good. I was missing hope. I was missing something. Even though I was grateful for hearing the story from the Gospel of John (and not Matthew) tonight, I still feel like something was missing. I wanted something more.

I admit that I want this to be a funeral. I want to grieve. That's all I want for tonight. I don't want to make sense of what happened on Good Friday. I don't want logic. I don't want anything that relates to atonement -- because this does not help my healing. It does not help me in planting seeds of hope. And even though I want to mourn tonight, I want there to be hope. I just don't want it explained for me. Just let it be.