Forty Good Fridays

In my late teens and early twenties I would spend Sunday mornings studying a cracked sanctuary wall. The crack ran behind a wooden cross, which had warped ever so slightly as the building settled and stressed.

It seemed the cross held it all together.

During those Sundays, particularly around Easter, I wrestled with questions. The brutality of the cross and the mystery of the resurrection challenged me. Once, my pastor, a man whose wisdom and perseverance in faith moves me still, told me "Troy, I don't have all the answers. I'm not even aware of the questions." At the time, his acceptance of  mystery perplexed and frustrated me.

I thought by my fortieth Good Friday, I would have more figured out, but it doesn't seem to be the case. The mysteries of faith are still mysteries to me- I question like Thomas.

However, as time has passed, I find myself perplexed but less frustrated. The cross is still brutal, but I realize more and more that the world is too. And it is unjust and lacking in selfless love. If there is any justice or unconditional love, I find it only in the cross. Time has given me opportunity to consider this.

Time has also given me opportunity to share life with folks who have been transformed by The Gospel.

I carry the image of an elderly man in Southeast Kansas with weathered skin who labored each Sunday up the steps to the pulpit to say, "Let's stand and praise the lord." His words delivered with the clipped accent of the reservations near by, he led the congregation in the Doxology with striking gentleness.

At a Methodist Christmas Eve service in Arkansas, a pastor, whose body bounced during hymns and face smiled during the homily, placed a piece of bread in my daughter's mouth as I held her in my arms. He looked into her dark eyes and said, "Eat this and think about Jesus." He was joy filled.

Lately on Sundays, I find myself spending my mornings with a woman who is blind. Every Sunday she is first to volunteer to read scripture and there is a power and peace that resonates from the braille, through her hands, to her voice.

And for four years I had a unique perspective to watch a tribe of twenty somethings, who often looked like they crawled out of tents at a music festival, step out daring acts of faith, turning ashes into glory for kids in foster care. To me they will always personify the greatest, Love.

I enjoy the company and fellowship I find in all stripes of communities, but the encouragement and inspiration I find among believers is unique.

Those who know me best know all the ways my walk is flawed and my faith is fragile. My Thomas faith still wrestles with questions, but I am still compelled.

With this Thomas faith I will pause on Friday, and with it I will wait with anticipation for Sunday.