Good Friday Year C
April 2, 2010
Isaiah 52:13-53:12
Psalm 22
Hebrews 10:1-25
John 19:1-37
George came to us when the scent of our female dog lured him to the back door. And he stayed, and stayed and stayed, long after her scent faded. For some reason, he chose us to be his people. George was a straggly, not at all handsome, mutt of a dog. It was obvious though, by his appearance and the way he behaved, that he had some German shepherd somewhere in his line.
We lived out from town, sort of in the country. Unfortunately people often dumped dogs out there. We were used to strays showing up but they seldom stayed around like George did. When he first came, the kids and I went outside to make sure we got between him and our little girl dog. Right away we knew something of his personality. He wasn’t like those untamed, one-track-mind dogs that came and went. He was eager to get along with us. He loved people. Over time we discovered he’d eat anything; biscuits burnt to a charred crisp on the bottom; watermelon rinds; and leftovers that could have been science experiments. He answered to any name. And we tried several on him. George just seemed to fit. So that’s what we called him.
George was a humble creature. He nearly smiled at us when he saw us. He’d fold his body around like a half-moon, lower his head a little, and wag his tail without raising it as high as he could. He wasn’t wimpy when he chased away cats and possums at night. Just humble, that’s all there is to it. He had a good, strong, Shepherd bark. And he was a shepherd by instinct. He shepherded the kids, not just ours, all the kids in the neighborhood.
One summer day, the neighborhood kids left on their bikes headed down the road a half mile or so to the power lines. That was their favorite place to ride. There were tall mounds of red clay dirt there. They could ramp their bicycles over those mounds and cheer and laugh at each other when they fell down. Each time one fell, George went over and touched his nose to their cheeks. It was his way of nudging them back on their feet. His shepherd instinct, I guess.
The story as I heard it was on this particular day, one of the boys ramped the hill and fell in the red dirt. All of a sudden George started barking. The hair stood straight up on his back and he was barking to beat the band. He bolted right past the boy to a pile of snakes. Copperheads. His incessant barking got the boys’ attention. The boy on the ground hollered, “Whoa, copperheads!” and they all got on their bikes and rode as fast as they could back to our house. George wasn’t far behind them. After the kids had a glass or two of cold Gatorade, they went off to do something else. But George didn’t go with them this time.
A few hours later I started to go outside for something and I nearly tripped over George at the back door. His head was resting on the threshold. He was panting fast and hard. I knew something was terribly wrong. I offered him water and petted him but he didn’t respond. That was unlike him so I called out for our oldest son. He came and told me what happened with the snakes at the power lines. I suspected George had been bitten so I took a good look at his body. I found bloody pierce-marks of snake bites on his nose, the top of his head, his neck, one of his hind legs, and his belly.
It was early evening by then. The local vet’s office was closed. After an agonizing debate with myself whether to put him in the car and make that thirty minute drive to Little Rock to the emergency animal hospital, I decided against it. I’d done that before with pets and still had to drive back home and bury them. My son asked me if George was going to die. I told him he was. “Well what are we going to do, then?” he said.
“We’ll make him as comfortable as we can and wait.”
“Poor ol’ George” he said.
We tried to move him to another place where he might be more comfortable. But he wouldn’t budge. Neither of us could bear to watch him suffer. I tried again to give him water. But he wouldn’t take it. Not knowing what else to do I left him and went inside. I cried and paced the floor, asking myself whether he might have lived if only I’d discovered him sooner, if I had taken him to Little Rock, wondering if there was still time and then slapping myself with the reality that there wasn’t. He was dying. I could see that.
I prayed it would be over soon. I went out to him a couple of times to try and comfort him. Each time his breathing was more labored. I busied myself inside while I cried and prayed for death to come and release him from his suffering. I was so very thankful George had been there to protect the kids. It could have been one of them who had gotten bitten like that.
And a wave of guilt washed over me. George had given his life to protect those kids according to his shepherd instinct. And we hadn’t loved him well enough! We took minimal care of him. We fed and watered him;
Spoke to him when we passed by; but other than that he was just there. We weren’t utterly committed to him, as he was to us. He ran loose in the neighborhood. He was free to leave at any time. We might not have missed him if he had. Now he was dying for the sake of the little ones and there was nothing we could do but wait.
I feel today much like I did on the day George died. I always do on Good Friday. It’s amazing how that straggly, Shepherd dog’s life and death reminds me so much of Jesus’ life and death – how he humbled himself before us and loved us; how he settled for so little from those he shepherded; (He still does for that matter.) and how, like George, he was the Good Shepherd who laid down his life for his sheep. I am utterly grateful for his sacrifice for all of us. And guilt still creeps up on me because for all Jesus has done for me, I fear I have not loved him well enough either. I have not appreciated his humility as something to imitate. Instead, for myself I have desired perfection. I have not loved everyone as he loves me and my faithfulness measures about a thimble full compared to his full and overflowing cup. I don’t say these things about myself today to bemoan my humanity or condemn myself for my sinfulness like medieval Christians did with their self-flogging on Good Friday. That was as senseless then as it is now. It’s just the kind of truthful self-reflection that comes with looking at the One who suffered for my sake, feeling thankful and guilty at the same time.
You and I both know the story of Our Lord’s suffering is not over. The good news is just around the corner. But let’s not rush after it until we’ve spent a little while looking at the bloody pierce marks on the body of our Good Shepherd; the One who chose us for his own, loved us even when we didn’t love him back, and finally put himself between us and death.
Oh sweet Jesus, thank you for all that you’ve done for your people. And to ease our hearts on this day, forgive us, we pray, when we haven’t loved you well enough.
Copyright. 2004. 2010. The Reverend Pamela S. Morgan
