Martyrs' Remembrance Night in Two Perspectives

In what I hope will be the start of a tradition, our church held Martyrs’ Remembrance Night on Good Friday. The invitation said we would meet by candlelight and, upon arrival, we should quietly find our seats. I really looked forward to the evening. In my youth, the courage of martyrs inspired me, even giving me a sense of nobility as if I too could do this if God asked it of me. Their deaths increased my faith.

But now I have young children.
 What if a candlelight service remembering Christian martyrs
inspired fear, not faith, in an eight-year-old?
Apprehension mingled with anticipation.

We fell behind in our cleaning jobs that Good Friday as I talked about martyrs with my children, trying to prepare them for the event. We talked death being a door to life. About heaven. At 3:00, we talked about Jesus' death. About the angels who must have inwardly strained to rescue Him from the cross. About the mounting anticipation in heaven that will culminate when the Father says, “Son, its time.” 

Time? I was suddenly aware that time was getting away. We scrambled to complete necessary cleaning and shopping before overnight guests came at bedtime. Our evening service was scheduled to start at 6:30, and the announcement had included a plea for everyone to be on time. 

I was not.
I ran late all afternoon.
Adrenaline pumping. Blood pressure rising.
John was partly responsible for the Communion portion of the service
and needed to leave before the children finished eating supper.
I stayed behind with a slow-eating child.
And with another child who misunderstood instructions,
delaying our departure still further.
Desperation set in.
Leave the guest room as is.
Drive as fast as you legally can.
Silently slip onto folding chairs in the back of a dimly lit church.
Breathe.

Once I was settled and calm, I tuned into the beautiful service. By flickering candlelight and a small light on the podium, five stories were told: Perpetua, a young mother who chose death instead of offering a single pinch of incense. Michael Sattler and his wife. John and Betty Stam, missionary martyrs who left a small child behind and the legacy, "Afraid? Of What?". A Romanian pastor who understood that ‘the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church’ and said to his captors, “Your greatest weapon is to kill. Mine is to die.” A martyr whose dying words became the song I have decided to follow Jesus. No turning back!

Their strength. Their faith. Their willingness to die. Their stories gripped me, and I felt my spirit reaching upward. Pressing in towards God.

The child on John’s lap was not inspired.
“Mom,” he hissed. “Why it be dark? I wanna go home.”

We stood to sing “Faith of Our Fathers." Tears pooled in my eyes. I will be true to thee, ‘til death. Death is only a passageway into life. No turning back! Glory awaits!

And then it was time for Communion. I glanced across the auditorium and sensed how meaningful this time would be for our congregation. Observing Communion on Good Friday at the close of a service where we remembered people who loved Christ more than physical life brought an almost-palpable sense of sharing in His suffering. It held the potential of being the most meaningful communion I have ever been to.

But my child was done.
The last straw was when his dad went forward to help the other deacons pass out the emblems of Communion. He fell apart emotionally and cried from the time John disappeared from view until we were on our way home. He flopped disconsolately across my lap.
My best mothering skills couldn’t quiet him.
The hurried afternoon, late arrival, an inconsolable child--
So much for nobility. I too was done. 
I decided I would leave as soon as I had participated in communion,
slipping out as silently as I had come.
But then the pastor said,
“Be very sure you do not eat and drink unworthily.”

The bread felt white hot in my fingers.
Which is worse?
To partake when you are in the middle of a parenting fail
with a crying child hanging off your right leg
and unsanctified emotions welling within you,
or to not partake at all
and need to dispose of the bread you are holding.
(Do you feed it to a gasping child?)
This was Communion. Holy and sanctified.
I partook but instead of reflective meditation on His sacrifice,
my thoughts were ones of grasping desperation, Lord, help me!

The child flopped against my arm when I held the tiny cup of juice,
threatening to bleed its purple contents down the front of my skirt.
I shook my head at his insistent,
“But why it be dark, Mom?”

Again, the pastor’s warning haunted me—
What does it mean to partake unworthily?

Lord, I need You!
A single swallow.

A whisper to my other children, “I’m going home. Wait for Dad.”

My son and I left. He wailed down the darkened corridor in the basement on our way to the vehicle. When I pulled into the driveway at home, our guests were waiting.
I would ask my husband later about that verse.

The next morning was better. The power of the stories still gripped my soul. None of my children had nightmares. The guests had clean beds and sufficient breakfast. And I had heard John’s thoughts on that troubling verse: “Eating unworthily is when you trust in your own righteousness.”

I tasted immediate relief and a portion of God’s graciousness, for in the middle of the Love Feast, trusting in my righteousness was not one of my many faults. I was desperately grasping for His.

I still hope Martyrs’ Remembrance Night becomes a Good Friday tradition. I need to hear gripping stories of real people who refuse compromise and find God’s grace sufficient—even in death. I want these annual reminders that God's grace is always sufficient.

Even for harried moms who slip, late, onto folding chairs in the back of the church.