Why Do We Call It Good Friday?

I am betting the followers of Jesus didn’t see it that way. Just days before they had followed him through the streets to shouts of ‘Hosanna!’ A song of adoration, shouts of salvation echoed along the way as he rode a donkey – the sign of a king, the sign of a Messiah, the sign of a savior – into a Holy City under martial law. He was there to deliver them. Hopes were high. Spirits soared.

But today… Today he hangs alone on a cross of crucifixion. The shouts today are angry, hard, taunting. “Savior, come down and save yourself.” There is a new sign, a new symbol in this cross of crucifixion; it is the death of an outsider, a traitor, an imposter who would be king. All hope has been dashed to the ground. Blood streams from his head bearing a thorned crown, from his back bearing the stripes of sin, from his hands where God has tattooed us onto his palms, from his feet that have walked both dirty roads and heavenly places. He bleeds on a foreigner’s wooden cross in anguish.

Why do we call it Good Friday?

The night before this Jesus had celebrated Passover with his closest friends. He broke the bread; he blessed the wine. Last night my neighbors gathered around a table to share their Passover meal, to sing their Passover songs and to say their Passover prayers. The generations still gather to remember that God, in the darkness of night, can smear blood on the doorway and defeat the angel of death. 

Eat your meal with your cloak and shoes on, ready to leave the table at any moment. It is night. But the morning is coming.