Good Friday

by Kerry Blair

Every family should have a religious zealot. Ours was my Great Aunt Polly. While the rest of the family were the kind of Christians who went to church every other Easter—whether they needed religion or not—Aunt Polly read her Bible two hours every day and quoted from it the remaining twenty-two. (This is according to my grandmother who insisted that her youngest sister preached constantly, even in her sleep.) Fiery of hair and temperament, Aunt Polly was my idol. I was her only convert.

I had scarcely opened my eyes—the firstborn of my generation of cousins—when Aunt Polly set out to save my little soul. I knew “Jesus Loves Me” well before “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” and pretty much believed that all nursery rhymes and fairy tales were about Jonah, David, Daniel, et al. Sitting on my bedside table this morning are a tattered cloth Baby’s First Bible, a well-worn edition of Bible Stories for Children, and a now-antique King James Bible that has every word spoken by Jesus printed in red. I’ve thumbed through each of them this week, studying and praying . . . and remembering Aunt Polly . . . in preparation for Easter.

Easter and Aunt Polly will always be inseparable in my mind. Nothing so thrills a girly-girl than donning a frilly dress, white gloves, shiny patent leather shoes, and a beribboned Easter bonnet.

I lived for Easter Sunday.

I hated Good Friday. I saw nothing “good” about it. Aunt Polly’s church held a service called “The Passion” that lasted from noon until three—the time that tradition says Christ spent on the cross. We wore somber colors, sat outdoors on cold, hard folding chairs before a huge wooden cross, and observed a seven-point service based on the phrases uttered by Jesus during his crucifixion. I usually misted up at 12:15, started crying before one, sobbed inconsolably by 2:30, and didn’t recover until sometime Saturday afternoon. If then.

Good Friday? Puh-leeze.

Age, education and a better understanding of the atonement have (thankfully) changed my perspective. It helped immensely to learn in my teens that Good Friday is likely a derivative of “God Friday” just as good-bye has evolved from “God be with you.” What changed my paradigm most, of course, was being taught the gospel—the good news—that Jesus lives and that what I learned as a toddler is infinitely true: He does love me. That Jesus Christ, the Son of God, atoned and died for us is something upon which to reflect every day—not just once a year.

Another thing I learned along the way is that “passion” and “patience” come from the same Latin root word and mean to suffer or endure. When the Christian world talks of the Passion of Christ, they recall the suffering He endured on the cross. But we recall this (and much more) every week as we take the sacrament. Then, in remembrance of that eternal-life altering event, we take upon us His name and promise to undertake our small measures of passion every day of our lives.

When we serve someone who is difficult to love, forgive someone we think is unworthy forgiveness, or endure discomfort rather than imposing it upon others, we are in small ways embracing the principle of the Passion. We can never bear—nor even understand—what Christ bore for us, but we can endure cheerfully what we must for Him.

Easter is still my favorite day of the year, but Good Friday isn’t far behind. It is a day to commemorate one like no other in human history—the day when Our Father gave His Only Son; a day when Our Eldest Brother gave His life (after giving His all) because He too, loves us and wants us to be with Him again: forever to live, and finally to understand.

Happy Easter!