It’s early in the morning on Good Friday at Starbucks and Leonard Cohen’s voice is streaming through the speaker as two young Asian women speak softly while sipping their Venti dark brews. As I open the newspaper, I see a photo of a local clergy washing a woman’s feet in Monument Square on Holy Thursday. And then I hear Cohen’s deep voice singing: “…it’s a broken Hallelujah…” and I realize that Good Friday is a sacred day about a broken Hallelujah.
I reflect on Good Friday, closing my eyes and I am brought to the place where Jesus is carrying the cross. I stand in the crowd watching, not wanting to step too close. I see a strong man who appears exhausted. He looks my way, smiles at me and I am afraid. I wonder why he is smiling – I don’t know him yet he looks at me as if he knows me. It’s a knowing look of a friend. He stumbles forward as a solider pushes him. He gives the solider a similar smile.
All of a sudden, I wish I had smiled back at him. I was afraid – but why? What was I afraid of – recognition – or that someone would condemn me? I behaved like everyone else; it was a broken Hallelujah.
The music brought me back to my coffee and I listened: “…your faith was strong but you needed proof…maybe there’s a God above but all I’ve ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you…It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah…”
It’s Good Friday… and I await the joyful Hallelujah of Easter.
