Good Friday Was The Worst Friday

Today is Good Friday. At least, for some reason that’s what we call it. You might get off from work or school. You might sleep in. You might go out for waffles with your crew, ask for extra bacon and maybe—just maybe—you won’t get charged for it. What a glorious day.

At least, that’s what we call it. Somehow, we have the nerve to call it a “good” day. We have the audacity to look at a day when the worst things happened to the very best person—and yet hardly any of us can take a moment to pause, to breathe, to mourn the coming and passing and coming again of a Christ who changed humanity’s outcome. Good Friday was the absolute worst of any Friday.

We tend to focus on Sunday. We remember the victory more than the pain. We forget about the sweat that perspired from Christ’s brow as he was dragged to his death on a hill. We aren’t nervous for the disciples as they hid from the Pharisees. We don’t have compassion for Jesus’ family as they mourned his torture. We can’t (or won’t) imagine the sun as it beat down on his back and burnt his bleeding shoulders.

And that makes sense, right? Now that we can see the truth of that day—that it would lead to so much more—we tend to look back in celebration, not defeat. Now that we’ve seen the outcome, we can’t fixate ourselves on the red and pain and blood of that so-called “good” Friday. We have to be all at once in the glory and might of a God who defeated death.

And that makes us sit down and hope. Maybe one day, all of our worst days will be Good Fridays. One day, we’ll be able to look back on a day that hurt so incredibly bad. A day where all we wanted to do is mourn and cry, and yet—we can’t. Because we can see the good that a gracious God provided.

Maybe one day, all of our worst days will be Good Fridays.