What is good about this strange Good Friday?

Why do we call this day Good Friday? At some point today one of my boys will ask me this question. And in the middle of this unsettling time when nothing feels good or normal, I will struggle to answer. He will keep pushing the question, though, “What is so good about Jesus dying? Shouldn’t it be called Bad Friday?” I will be tempted to agree with him.

And in my haste to spin the day along, I will not answer well. I will push past the darkness and jump straight to the light. “Well,” I will probably stumble, “Jesus did die, but he rose again; so all will be well. Jesus will win and that is good.” It will suffice as an answer, and the boy will run off about his day.

I will think about it later, though, and wish I had answered differently.

Because if I am being honest, this good day, gets me too. It is difficult to look at, and I want to rush through it so that we can get to the really good day –– the happy ending; the empty tomb. I don’t want to sit too long in the darkness of Friday.

Here in this strange season where gatherings have been forbidden and weeks have passed since we have worshiped together in our sanctuary, Good Friday comes on a Tuesday night. Just a few of us staffers gather in the dimly lit sanctuary to film our worship service. Our words ring out hollow, echoing into the emptiness of the room. And I feel like the darkness has descended on the week too soon.

Yet, as the Scripture is read, filling in the spaces between us, I marvel at how the Spirit feels so close. Even in this darkness. Even in this strangeness. He. Is. Near. When blackness descends completely by the end of the service, I catch my breath. It all feels holy and sacred; sweet communion cloaked in sadness. Why do we call this day good? How can it be both good and sad?

The truth is I don’t know. But as my heart tries to hold both the sadness of this season and the goodness of a God who would draw near to a few people attempting to create a space of worship in an empty room, I find a meaning I never imagined existed.

This good day is difficult to look at. Much like I want to run straight through these days of the world being shut down, I want to hurry away from the shadow of the cross and stand in the light of Sunday morning. But maybe, I wonder, as I put away the candles and close the doors on the dark church, maybe that’s not the point at all.

So here’s my prayer for us as we make our way from Friday to Sunday; as we journey through a season that we know will end, but we can’t see how or when. May this prayer be our guide.

Dear Lord,

Slow our hearts today. Help us resist the urge to run through the falling darkness. Good Friday evokes in us this desire to cover our eyes and just wait for the scene to be finished. Don’t let us do that.

Remind us that we need to stand in the dark and feel its blackness. We need to hear the driving nails and the agonizing screams; to see the bloody and the brutal. Oh Lord,  the way you suffered is hard to watch. But hold our eyes there a bit.

Because there’s something you know about this day that we are quick to forget. The light of Sunday means nothing if we do not feel the dark of Friday. The empty tomb is just a cave full of air if it wasn’t ever filled with death. 

We forget that this matters. We forget that death cannot be conquered if it is not first experienced. We want the joy of the resurrection without the pain of dying. And Lord, you know that will not sustain us in our days.

You know how these days have disoriented us. You know the places we stand, the things we miss, and the way our love is often misdirected. And you know how we need to remember the weight of those words you said to your disciples in that Upper Room.

“This is my body broken for you … this is my blood of the covenant poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.”

Those aren’t just dead letters on a page. Good Friday is good because you, Our Lord and Creator, broke yourself and poured out your own blood for the love of us. 

We need to look. We need to see. We need to feel. Lord, slow us down in this day. Let the weight of the cross settle on our shoulders. This is hard. This is heavy.

But. This is what salvation looks like. This is God coming to save his wayward people. I will be their God and they will be my people. This is what it cost you to come and get us.

Lord, let us stay in the dark awhile on this Good Friday. Let us remember the price you paid; the road you walked. You know what it means to suffer. And we need to understand that you get this. Over gravestones, next to bedsides full of crippling sickness, in broken hearts, busted dreams and deep loneliness, help us hear you whisper, “I know. I’ve stood there too.”  

May the darkness of this day remind us that light shines best in the blackest hour of the night. Hold our hearts in this space and let us hear you say it, “I have loved you with an everlasting love. A love deep enough, wide enough and strong enough to endure the cross for the sake of your heart. Sunday is coming, but I need you to see Friday, first.”

And when we are tempted to look away, help us remember that we are children of the living God. A God in whose economy the way up is down, the last are first, the weak are made strong, the meek inherit the earth and the darkness of Friday is indeed declared … good.

Even when Good Friday must come on a Tuesday, you, Lord, are ever-present with us; showing us the way. Alleluia. Amen.

“Keep your eyes on Jesus, who both began and finished this race we’re in … he never lost sight of where he was headed—that exhilarating finish in and with God—he could put up with anything along the way: Cross, shame, whatever. And now he’s there, in the place of honor, right alongside God. When you find yourselves flagging in your faith, go over that story again, item by item, that long litany of hostility he plowed through. That will shoot adrenaline into your souls!” (Hebrews 12:2-3 MSG)