Good Friday has passed. I have never understood why this day is called “good.” It was the saddest day in history from a human perspective.
Eleven years ago, I spent Easter week in England with a group of teens from The Kings Christian School in Cherry Hill, NJ. The Saturday before Easter was a cold, rainy – and snowy day, typical for England during this time of year. We were serving in the tiny village of Enderby. Our teens and the youth group from Enderby Mission Church partnered with another local church for a special “Good Saturday” outreach for the children of the community. At least one hundred children came, and there was an outdoor barbeque (even in the rain!) There were games, candy, and a program for the children. After the festivities, we went inside the historic Enderby Parish Church, first built around the year of 1230, where our team led in worship and presented a puppet show, followed by a clear presentation of the gospel story. It was a good day.
But that Saturday following the crucifixion of Jesus, the Sabbath for the Jewish people, was anything but good. The disciple’s rabbi was dead. Mary’s child had been brutally “killed”. Mary Magdalene’s Savior and Lord was gone from her life. All of those who loved this great Teacher, who believed He was the Messiah were devastated. He was dead. He was gone. Hope was gone. It was the worst Sabbath that they could ever have imagined.
By Saturday morning, the initial shock of the crucifixion had become the tragic reality of their lives. When they woke up that morning, they realized it wasn’t a bad dream. It was real. Jesus was gone. The horrible Friday had turned into an even worse Sabbath. Their hope of Messiah was dashed, like a glass struck against a stone.
As the grief stricken followers of Jesus went through the motions of the Sabbath day, I wonder if the ancient words of the psalmist in Psalm 22 or the message of Isaiah 53, penned by the prophet and copied by the scribes through the centuries of Jewish history, briefly swept across their minds.
Did any of them remember, even for a single moment, the words spoken by Jesus just days before. He had taken his disciples aside, away from the crowds, saying to them, “Behold, we are going up to Jerusalem, and all the things which are written through the prophets about the Son of Man will be accomplished. For He will be handed over to the Gentiles, and will be mocked and mistreated and spit upon, and after they have scourged Him, they will kill Him…” (Luke 18:31-33) Did any of them think, “Could He have been describing Himself? Was He trying to prepare us for this moment?”
If He was speaking of Himself, if the psalmist and the prophet were describing what would happen to Jesus, then He was truly the Messiah. But, what did He mean when He finished describing His own death, when He said, “and the third day He will rise again?” Was it possible that He would come back to them?
If they did think of this at all, they would have remembered the events of the past three years. He had raised the little girl who had died, even if no one believed she really was dead. What about the young man whose body was being taken for burial? Jesus had raised him up. They had seen it with their own eyes. And of course, there was Lazarus. Jesus had spoken just three words, “Lazarus, come forth.” And Lazarus came forth all wrapped up in the white burial cloth. He came hopping out of the grave and they had to unwrap him so he could even walk.
But Jesus was dead. How could He raise Himself? It couldn’t be true. He must have been speaking about the final resurrection, like Martha had mentioned to Him prior to Lazarus’ resurrection. But it couldn’t be true, could it?
Jesus was gone, and His family and His disciples could not understand. Somehow, with all that Jesus had taught them, “the truth was hidden from them, and they did not comprehend the things that were said.” (Luke 18:34)
It was not a good Friday or a good Saturday, but Sunday was coming, and everything would change!