Good Friday Reflections on Mark 14:43-65

Shared by Dan Garcia, InterVarsity Christian Fellowship

We’ve been here before. I’ve heard this story. Watched it play out. Within me, my cynic shakes its head, projecting onto life a world-weary wisdom. The narrative is straightforward: the good person rises up; a good idea comes forth; a movement gains traction. There is hope. There is trust. The palm branches wave, and people sing.

But, my cynic shakes its head.

Time passes. Either from within or outside, things begin to crumble. Perhaps the solidarity is lost. Perhaps good intentions are sullied and motives become twisted. Perhaps the powers that be win the day. Reality, as it were, collides, leaving disillusionment, leaving embarrassment.

And my cynic shakes its head.

And joins in with the crowds yelling out “Prophesy!” Perhaps, spoken in anger, whispering, “To think I could have trusted you. I dare you to speak truth anymore.” Perhaps, spoken in jadedness, “Now, have you learned your lesson?

Friends betray and abandon.

Justice miscarries and fails.

And yes, power wins.”

But , my cynic shakes its head.

Surly Jesus knew this. How could he not? Every day of his earthly life he lived it, surrounded by Roman rule. Countless crosses for countless countrymen. He knew it from history, crying out, “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing.” He knew what would happen, he spoke of what would happen, and he affirmed it even now, “The Scriptures must be fulfilled.” So maybe, just maybe, my cynicism is left unexpectedly exposed, stymied, staring at itself in a mirror. Revealing itself as a faith in faithlessness, a trust in the untrustworthiness of life. “No,” it shakes “It can’t be. He’s insane. He’s confused. He’s . . . ” So, clinging with weakening fingers to a creedless creed, it watches Jesus leave the Sanhedrin, to go before Pilate.

And still, my cynic shakes its head.

Yet . . .

In spite of itself it can’t walk away; I can’t walk away.

I must know how the story ends.