I can remember when I was a youth in Sunday school being shocked to learn that after Jesus was nailed to the cross he still spoke. And not only that, but the things he said as he was dying: these words were truly striking. At such a moment as that, to be concerned about the forgiveness of one's tormentors, seeing to it that Mom is taken care of, assuring a thief that he will go to heaven—it seems unimaginable. Where did he find the strength?

But now we approach that time when Jesus will give up his spirit into the Father's hands.

Where there had been unspeakable pain, there would be a kind of peace. It's intriguing, isn't it, how death can be both foe and friend. All our lives we fear it, but then there comes a time when we might embrace and welcome it. Francis of Assisi seems to have befriended this dreaded one, and affectionately called her Sister Death. The promises of God revealed in Christ are meant to transform our view of life in this radical way.

The shadows of evening were stretched out. We can imagine his family and friends, not so much wracked with grief, as emotionally exhausted. They didn't have any more strength for guilt and sorrow, for weeping—these things take a lot of energy. They had wept all afternoon. They were completely drained. We can assume they had been up all the previous night. Yes, there were some who slept a bit in the Garden of Gethsemane, but still—after the soldiers took Jesus, there was probably little rest for anyone—and especially throughout Friday, until 3:00 p.m.

But now we approach a different time, an in-between time. The crucifixion was nearly over, the resurrection not yet accomplished. A time of shadows and mystery, and the first glimmers of hope. What happened in this interval between death and new life?

There's an old hymn which has these words:

Sometimes a light surprises the Christian while he sings,
It is the Lord, who rises with healing in his wings:
When comforts are declining He grants the soul again
A season of clear shining, to cheer it after rain.

Where there has been great loss, there sometimes comes that season of clear shining. A word from the Lord himself, that is more than words, but a spiritual feeling, what Paul calls the peace that passes all understanding. When the Lord speaks deep in our soul, it reaches more than the intellect, more than the logical mind, and brings sweet certainty, an inner assurance to our core person. "Come unto me, all you who are worn out by the hard work of grieving, and I will give you rest."

The thirteenth century mystic, Julian of Norwich, heard the transformative Voice of God in a time of crisis in her own life. The Voice said, "All will be well, all will be well, and all manner of thing will be well." The profoundness of it lies not in the words themselves, but in who spoke the words. The Holy One of Israel. The sovereign Lord. This time after loss was a time of ministering to the friends of Jesus. Though they had fled for their lives—many of them—we know that they must have regrouped, embraced one another as we do at such times—shared the stories of old, and remembered his life-giving words.

Matthew tells us that strange and unnatural occurrences accompanied the moment of death, as though the earth itself had been thrown into a kind of creative chaos. The temple curtain was torn in two from top to bottom, graphically announcing that by his sacrifice, Christ had opened the Holy of Holies, the dwelling place of God, to all. As the book of Hebrews says, "Now we have confidence to approach the very throne of God." There was also an earthquake, boulders split in half, tombs opened and the dead who had been buried in them rose. The natural order of things had gone topsy-turvy—the gospel's way of saying, this event has implications for the whole universe. Those keeping guard at the cross—Roman soldiers—were terrified, and made their own awe-struck confession of faith. "Truly, this was God's Son." They must have been thinking, "What have we done?" But they were among those who recognized him. And, although some of the disciples seem to have made themselves scarce, their mothers were there. Sometimes our mothers have much to teach us about faith, and about faithfulness. And mother Mary, of course—she would become the symbol of the church in her care for disciples. She was there. And Mary Magdalene. It seems she was a friend to the Lord at a time when rabbis didn't have women friends. She was loyal and brave and true—she was there at the cross, and she was there at the tomb. Throughout history she has been misrepresented as a woman of questionable character, but if we look carefully, we see that she is a beautiful example of faithfulness. Jesus said, "Judge not lest you be judged." The measure that you give shall be the measure that you get. It was a varied collection of people, there at the cross.

Think with me now about the change that began to occur almost as soon as Jesus breathed his last. The Cross itself became transformed. It changed from dreaded instrument of death to the very means of our salvation. In eastern orthodoxy, it is sometimes depicted as sprouting fresh green leaves—the tree of life. The familiar hymn captures the change: Never shall the cross forsake me—Lo! It glows with peace and joy. From the cross the radiance streaming adds more luster to the day.

We don't often think of the cross as glowing—streaming with radiant light. Yet that is what happens, beginning even this night, this Friday that we call good. It becomes, eventually, the triumphant symbol of faith. It also becomes the means of our transformation: in the new Testament theology, we are crucified to the world, and the world to us. By the life-giving work of the cross within us, sin loses its hold on us, and we are set increasingly free, to become at last, genuinely good people.

April 14, 1865 was also a Good Friday. It's the day Abraham Lincoln died. A stricken nation naturally drew parallels between the death of the Savior and the death of the man who had saved a nation: many Americans began to recognize we had had among an exceptionally good man, of a sort in the annals of history not often found in positions of great power. We rejoice that Christ died for our forgiveness—and we also realize that the line from the Battle Hymn of the Republic is true: Christ died to make us holy. May his sacrifice have its intended effect in us.

By faith, we are one with that small collection of humanity that was there at the cross. Our anthem tonight asks the haunting question, "Were you? Were you there when they crucified my Lord?" Spiritually speaking, we can answer yes. There is an ancient custom of the Greek Orthodox church: worshippers come forward to the cross. There, they offer a brief prayer of thanks to the Lord for His sacrifice; the prayer is given in the silence of the heart. The choir will sing now, then we will read the final word from the cross, and the Christ candle will be extinguished. Then, we are invited to come forward and for one brief moment, linger in prayer before the cross. Simply and silently, say what's in your heart. Then we can simply make our way out to our cars, reflecting on the indescribable gift of God, and looking toward the promised resurrection.