The humanity of Good Friday

There’s a scene in The Book of Boba Fett where Luke Skywalker tells Baby Yoda he must choose between two paths: of the Jedi or of the Mandolorian. To become a Jedi he must forsake all attachments, desires, and emotions—Luke tells him he will likely never see his friend Mando again. To become a Mandolorian, on the other hand, means an iron-clad commitment to a group, a creed of loyalty. As the episode ended I asked my kids what they wanted Baby Yoda to choose. Though Jedi have been revered by those of us who grew up on Star Wars, everyone in my family wanted the Mandolorian path.

Just before I began to contemplate the Stations of the Cross this morning, my friend Andy brought up the question of God having desires. Did God’s choice to enter into humanity stem from something he was lacking, a desire that had been unmet? Very interesting question—and I honestly have no idea. It’s hard to for me to put myself in God’s shoes. But as I walked around this morning, I contemplated Jesus’ utter humanity. His physical pain—the feeling of a whip on the back or a thorn piercing skin. His deeply felt relationships, many of whom deserted him in his time of need. His profound emotional anguish, to the point of sweating blood. That overwhelmingly empty and hurt feeling when someone you love is disloyal to you.

I believe that God is love. But what does that mean? Love, as any of us know who are married or have kids or other close relationships, is a commitment, a continual choosing. It necessitates denying my own desires and needs. This is a rational choice. But another side of love is that it is felt. It is deeply emotional, beyond rationality. It is through a commitment to attachment that we subject ourselves to pain, to the possibility of betrayal and emotional suffering. The deeper the feeling of attachment, the deeper the possibility of pain and hurt. And vice versa. 

God could have stayed aloof. He could have chosen to remain a being who dispensed wisdom and judgement from on high. But by choosing to enter into our experience—our small pleasures and joys, our twisted ankles and scabs, our feeling of a good night’s sleep and need of friendship, our deep sadness when we lose someone we care about—he chose Love. Certainly Jesus needed his alone time, but ultimately he didn’t choose the way of the Jedi, because that would have taken away from what it means to be human. And without humanity, there is no real experience of love.

— Ryan Clark