Good Friday
There’s a hill near where my parents live that stands up out of the plain. It’s probably an old volcanic cone. An old family trust owns it and from time out of mind there have been three crosses on the top and the local Catholics hike up there on Good Friday. This year my father and a few of his cronies in the ward are going to join them.
Like this
Good Friday as the traditional name for the day of the Savior’s death is a bit ironically named given the traditions surrounding the day. In medieval Christendom, all Fridays were considered to be dark and unlucky because of Good Friday. They didn’t eat meat on Fridays, as a form of mourning fast. In their church services the candles were snuffed out. The processions were woeful.
Which was and is entirely appropriate. The rhythm of mourning on Friday and rejoicing on Sunday is right and natural. We are joining the early apostles and saints in their sense of defeat after defeat on Friday, with the wholly unexpected shattering victory on Sunday. Even with our knowledge that Christ’s agony and cross were essential to his work, you can’t easily think of death and torture as good.
But there is an important sense in which today’s Friday is Good Friday. There is an extremely important sense in which on this day Christ won victory after victory and Sunday is not an unexpected reversal but the climax win of a Man who has won and won and won again.