I’m thinking about this day we call Good Friday. And how it felt anything but good at the time.
It was dark and heavy.
A day with more questions than answers.
More confusion than peace.
More doubt than faith.
Despair hung thick in the air, hearts crushed and despondent. The soul-depth disappointment in God was palpable and suffocating.
How could He? Why would He? What do I do now?
None of it made sense. It didn’t line up with all they had seen and heard and experienced. The miracles… the teachings… the love… it all hung in the balance of two wooden beams on a hillside.
Everything they thought their Messiah would be, died that day.
All their hopes and dreams shattered with His nail-split hands. They’d given up everything to follow Him — families, careers, homes — and now this. A horrible, wretched death.
Of their hearts.
Of their hope.
They didn’t know what we know now, looking back thousands of years later. That life comes out of death. That new beginnings spring forth from the worst of endings.
That hope rises.
To me, this Friday is so very good because of the mere fact that it was so very bad.
It reminds me that the dark and heavy times of my life are not devoid of Him, even when I can’t see Hm or feel Him. That doubt doesn’t nullify my faith. And that questioning isn’t wrong.
It reminds me to let everything I think my Messiah should be, die. Because He is so much more than my imaginary version of Him, made in my own image. He loves, redeems, and saves me in ways I would never expect and could never imagine.
And it gives me hope that someday… Someday I may even call my darkest Friday “good”.