Good Friday

Since I was little, I have always struggled to understand why today is called "Good" Friday. I mean, sure, in a very roundabout way, today is good. Christ saved us with his death, and there can be nothing better than that. But -- my God -- he died. God died. What can be less "good"?

Last night I went out for a walk, barefoot in the cold, wet grass. It was green and lovely. But all I could think about was Jesus, alone. Those whom he loved so dearly couldn't grasp the incredible burden Jesus was taking on that night. They slept. Slept! While Jesus was in agony and fear, their own thoughts were peaceful. It was Passover. They had a nice meal, sober, but nice. Now they walked with Jesus to a peaceful grove, as I'm sure they'd done so many times before. Jesus was walking out alone to pray, as he'd done so many times before. So they slept.

But tonight was not another night, like so many before. God's Son was in torment. He was afraid.


Today in chapel they gave us each a nail, and later in the service there was the sound of a pounding clanking; the sound of nails pounded before we sang "Were You There". I could hardly stand it. All I could think of was me, in the crowd, spitting on his face. After all, I do it every day. His hands are tied, and he can't even wipe it off. It stays there, as he drags himself to the hill. Then, there I am. I am holding a nail, which I push against his flesh as I raise a mallet high over my head. I swing down, and I hear that clank, clank, clank, clank.

I couldn't help it. I put the nail back in the basket at the end of the chapel.

It doesn't feel like a good day.