I tried to wish someone a “Happy Good Friday” today, but it just didn’t sit right with me. Despite understanding His death (and resurrection) accomplished my justification, it’s always struck me as a bit awkward to use the word “happy” when we commemorate the day because of Jesus’ dying on the cross. Then I realized (making it even harder), Good Friday isn’t just about Jesus dying on the cross; it’s about His excruciating agony through the early morning.
Hours of abuse, verbal and physical, pummeled him from all sides, from those He created and loved and longed to rescue. As I ponder this, I’m trying to recall a time in my life where I suffered greatly. It isn’t too difficult to come up with some memories I’d rather not dwell on, but the emotions and sensations return thoroughly enough for me to cringe. Those times when you don’t know what’s going to happen, how it’s all going to come out, but the pain is increasing as your resolve is weakening. It was all I could do to just grip my identity; holding on became my only thought. The pain truly felt like it would never end, or at least not before I was torn apart in my soul. And perhaps that was the point. And though I can identify somewhat, it’s a pale reflection.
Jesus knew what was going to happen; at least, He knew He would be hurt and mocked and killed on the cross. That was the Father’s plan for saving us, and Jesus knew that when He left the Father’s side. But the glimpse we’re given into His heart, His human heart, in the garden the night before tells me knowing didn’t make it easier; I believe it made moving forward a hundred times more difficult. Is it easier to be hurt against your will or to step into the pain voluntarily? Consider all that was taking place in His mind. Add the disappointment of seeing your closest friends on Earth dozing just feet from you as you struggle through the most desperate, awful moments in your life, and I feel sick. I can’t imagine how alone He must have felt with Satan derisively berating Him. The Son of Man battled dismay and despair to the point of even asking the Father to find another way! Yet, He held on while friends, those He’d minutes before embraced as brothers, snored away, abandoning His command to pray. The master of mental deception clamored his lies and thrust daggers into Jesus’ faith as His own creations approached, again as throughout their whole history, to reject Him.
Buried beneath this crushing, unbearable agony as if the heavens were pouring burning embers over His body, Jesus gripped the one thing He knew would never crumble: the Father’s hand. And, in the end, the Father brought Him through it. In the end, Jesus emerged, proven obedient.
But I don’t want to kid myself; it hurt Him to the core. He held on for my sake, not His. And it blows my mind as I realize now He hadn’t even been arrested yet. I imagine the Father was preparing Jesus’ soul and mind and heart for what His body was about to endure at the end of its days, but this severity of physical suffering I can’t begin to imagine. Maybe you can.
I am stunned, considering all of it: The love He’d given freely to all; His road, that path He walked willingly from the garden to lying on His beaten back on the harsh wood of the cross; waiting for the final sting of the nails, knowing He’d done it, He’d been faithful and now only a few hours remained. As His family and friends gathered around Him grieving, standing alongside those who despised His “weakness,” He knew the Way was nearly made complete. I imagine His will pushing through saturating pain to gaze with thrilled joy upon those who loved Him. I imagine Him thinking, Just wait, my friends. Wait until you see me again! Oh, it won’t be long now..
Happy Good Friday.





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Powerfully written, Jeff, thank you for sharing this.