The Friday before Easter. Good Friday corresponds to the day Christ was crucified. The stock market closes on Good Friday. Roman Catholics do not have a real Mass on Good Friday; the service consists of prayer, scripture, a simple communion, and veneration of the Cross. The church has been stripped of all decorations, and the organ is not played.

"For you that once in sin and darkness stood,
'twas for you
that Good Friday
was good."

-- Johnny Hart, in a B.C. comic strip published on Good Friday

Good Friday is "good" because Jesus's death on the cross was him taking on the sins of the world and absorbing the punishment for those sins, in our place.

That's really all it is, until Easter comes along in triumph.

On a small planet circling a minor star in an insignificant galaxy

Michael lay on his back starring up into the blackness of the mountain sky.  From the position of Orion he knew it was past midnight and a tap on the dial of his watch confirmed in a ghostly glow that it was closer to 2:00 am.  Beside him, his son, Joshua made a small sound, the collapsing thud of escaping air as he turned over in his sleep. But for the minute crinkling of nylon from the thick down sleeping bags, the world was silent.

His eyes were completely adjusted to the darkness and as he looked into the clear night sky, it occurred to him that he was seeing as many stars as it is possible for a human to see at one time. He remembered reading somewhere that this number was closer to six thousand rather than the, "millions of stars," poets and storytellers were so fond of claiming. Six thousand out of the billions that comprise the universe he thought, marveling at the weakness of human perception.

He and Josh were on the fourth night of a six-day hike in the Sierras. They’d driven up from Independence  to the trailhead at Onion Valley and were walking south to Mount Whitney where they’d climb the summit, on Easter Sunday. In the afternoon they'd descend to Lone Pine and hitch a ride back to their car. It had been a good trip so far, long days of easy hiking and comfortable talk. Their relationship was at that sweet spot where he, as a father, had imparted all that he was capable of to a receptive son and they were getting used to each other as friends and equals. It was a transition that had gone remarkably smoothly and they both were settling into their new roles happily.

Michael felt a newfound freedom lately. The responsibilities of parenthood were slipping behind him at the same time as money and work became less of a daily concern. He was increasingly aware of his age though, mostly in annoying confrontations with limitations that had probably been creeping up on him for years but which were suddenly inescapable. He blinked again at the stars and wrinkled his eyes in an ironic grimace, if six thousand stars was the best anyone could do, he was probably only seeing a thousand or so.

He groaned slightly at the thought, appalled at his own limitations. That idea immediately led to another, more galling yet. If he were lucky, he might live another fifty years, and in the entirety of his life he would have only experienced a minute fraction of a percentage of the span of time that represented human existence. And that figurative blink of an eye was the sum and substance of all he had to work with in constructing his life.

It seemed so insignificant, and yet it represented all that he could ever know. Somehow the immensity of the space above him was comforting, a tangible confirmation of the disconnect between human scaled events and the crushing brutal vastness of the universe. The miraculous arrogance of human intelligence was its courage in facing that gap and attempting to make any sense of it all. How can the human mind even begin to develop an intuitive feeling for the infinite?

Easter was approaching in a few days. They planned to camp at Guitar Lake on the back side of Mount Whitney the night before and race to the summit for the sunrise on Easter morning. Neither he nor Josh was religious in any meaningful sense. Vanessa had bullied them into attending a Presbyterian service at Christmas or Easter on some years, but as a family, they’d more or less ignored the topic and the practice of religion over the years. When he thought about it at all, Michael supposed that he believed in God, as the original and eternal creator of all life out of chaos.  The paradox of life itself was a miracle enough and the notion of a strict God who peered into our hearts and kept a ledger of our thoughts and deeds struck him as unlikely.

He had a single prayer to offer to God and that was the word, "thanks." Anything more seemed pretentious. He didn’t believe that anyone really talked to God.  Not the Pope, not any of the Imams, or the Rabbis or the Wiccans or whatever. He didn’t doubt their sincerity but, at best, he felt that they were talking to themselves, listening to echoes of their own minds reflecting back answers to their prayers in a comforting voice that sounded suspiciously familiar. "Thank you for this life," that just felt right.

The part that galled him most about the whole program was the arrogance implicit in laying claim to God’s voice on Earth. Without exception, their answer to the obvious question of, "How could this be," was the most maddeningly unhelpful one: "faith, you’ve just got to believe." He’d been reading a few pages of Dante’s epic poem each night before they went to bed and the notion of organized rings and levels of Hell, laid out like suburban blocks in an exclusive gated community was at once oppressive and oddly comforting. The most haunting scene of all was the very first circle of Hell, Limbo, that is reserved for those whose fate was sealed simply because they were born in the wrong time or place and so, hadn’t had the opportunity to be baptized.

"Sore grief assail’d my heart at hearing this, for well I knew suspended in that Limbo many a soul of mighty worth." 

- Dante Alighieri, Divina Commedia, Canto IV

Michael shook his head slowly at the thought and rubbed his eyes. How could a God who was at once so magnificent and powerful as to create this vast and beautiful universe, also be bothered to record the pettiest of human foibles with a relentless efficiency that would make an IRS auditor jealous? There were so many ways to go to Hell that Michael concluded we’d all end up there one way or the other.

And worst of all, you had to swallow the thing whole or not at all. Faith, the ultimate retort for believers. It all comes down to faith, and if you don’t have it, then you are to be pitied by the congregation, but held outside the dialog. If you don’t have the faith, then there must be a defect in your soul and, literally, God help you because we can’t.

Michael found Easter to be a spooky holiday. The juxtaposition of chocolate bunnies, plastic grass, colored eggs and the crucifixion, had always felt vaguely macabre, much worse somehow then even the grubby commercialism surrounding Christmas. The sadness and brutality of the Easter story overwhelmed him and the joy and hope that he was supposed to find in the Resurrection hinged on believing that there was a resurrection and he didn’t. If Jesus Christ was the literal son of God, and he died for our sins, and the only way into heaven was to accept him as your personal savior, then Dante was right and most of the humans who had ever, or would ever live were going straight to Hell. How could anyone actually believe that?

In the language of mathematics, Jesus would be a Singularity, an event so immense in scale that it literally affects all matter in the Universe. The Big Bang in other words. And how likely was it really, that a human being who lived for less than thirty years on this tiny dust speck of a planet on the edge of a minor galaxy in a corner of the Universe was the singularity?

Michael remembered once walking down a long spiraling ramp at the Rose Planetarium in New York.  The ramp was constructed to depict the scale of astronomical time. The very top of the ramp represented the Big Bang, about 14 billion years ago, and as you walked down, the events leading to the present day were noted along the hand railing. After the big bang, nothing at all happens for a depressingly long time, then galaxies begin to form, suns fire up and planets start their spinning orbits. In the last couple of feet, at the bottom of the ramp, life appears on Earth. In a tiny slice, the thickness of a human hair, at the bottom end of the walkway, humanity begins.

The odds against Jesus, or Muhammad, or Joseph Smith or any other religious prophet being a singularity are infinitesimally small. Consider the short lifetime of one person divided by the 14 billion years since the universe began. You get pretty much the same answer for the probability that this one life was utterly unique among the many billions of other human beings who have ever lived. It gets worse yet when you consider our tiny planet as the home town of the singularity rather than the uncountable other prospects out there in the vastness of space. These are probabilities that are orders of magnitude too small to have a name. 

It’s difficult to imagine that a singularity has occurred at all considering how essentially little has really changed about humanity throughout our history. You’d expect a huge discontinuity, a Cretaceous comet wipeout or something.  Instead, despite the Internet and Armani Suits and a few trips to the Moon,  we're still pretty much the same basic contentious territorial hominid we've always been.

Perhaps it’s true Michael thought, blinking his eyes as a shooting star streaked across the sky. If it was, he didn’t feel it, not intellectually, or spiritually. He didn’t even think that he wanted it to be true emotionally. It would seem like such a betrayal to all the people and places that would never be touched by it. Despite the continued outpouring of missionary zeal, Dante’s first circle of Hell would be pretty damned crowded by the end of time.

Joshua began to snore softly, like an irritated rebuke to Michael’s thoughts, and Michael felt his eyes growing heavy against the cool mountain air. Tomorrow they’d walk and as the sun rose on Easter morning, they’d stand on top of the mountain and share in the grandeur for a moment before starting down again.

"Thanks," Michael whispered to the stars, "Thanks God."



God's Friday. With linguistic shift, it eventually became "Good Friday", the same way "God Be Wi' Ye" became "Goodbye".

It is the memorial and rememberance of Jesus' death. Not his resurrection, but his death.

There are many, many awful ways to die. Hanging, Drawing and Quartering, scaphism, terminal bone cancer. But there was no greater intersection of shame, ignominy, torture and casual brutality that was crucifixion. The medical aspects of it are documented elsewhere here. if you want to see a pretty good simulation of it, the torture porn that is Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ is almost there. But not even modern special effects could quite capture the brutality of the pre-crucifixion scourging, which would have left open wounds with entrails poking out between the ribs, the pressurized intestines forcing their way out through deep muscle tears. The Passion of the Christ also censored one key detail that The Last Temptation of Christ got right. You were crucified naked, left open for all to see, your life pouring out in blood and urine and feces that you would leak in public, with dogs and other opportunistic creatures chewing at your feet. (As an aside, this is a medieval detail - it wasn't because of prudery but because of the necessity to show Christ was circumcized, which could have led more observant and astute worshippers to ask if he was actually Jewish.)

What made this worse, in a sense, was the complete betrayal of him by his friends. The man who had been showered with palm fronds not even a week before, welcomed with Hosannas, had been betrayed by a close friend, and the others had immediately scattered to the wind. The one who dared witness what happened next hid his face and said very little, to disguise his accent. He denied even knowing who Jesus was three times. His message, his organization, and whatever political aspirations they read into his words were deader than a doornail. It was compeltely finished.

The entire force of the largest empire the world had ever seen before, and very very possibly since - had laid its full might on him. He was so insignificant to them his life and death hung on a mere word from the governor, and with one nod his fate was sealed. He was scourged, and flogged again enroute to a place of execution, nailed to a stake or cross, and left to die. It crushed him, and his entire followers - like a bug taken out by a sledgehammer.

To an outsider, it was a complete defeat in the temporal and worldly and physical sense. He was a literal plaything to soldiers who executed one of many people that day. He bled out and died. Nobody close to him would even acknowledge his existence. They ran, and they hid. They had no idea what to do, too scared to even try to claim or enbalm the body. That task they left to the women.

Of course, some came by to make a political point one way or the other. The Jewish elders argued with the Romans at the foot of the cross about the inscription above his head: "The King of the Jews." Pilate may have sacrificed him to a baying mob, but he was damn sure they were going to remember who was in charge. Some called out to him to save himself to mock the claims he had made. Others had called out to him in the vain hope that he would respond, and take himself off the cross. That it would go like an American screenwriter would script it - suddenly he'd grit his teeth and with a rebel yell yank his hand free, the nail passing through his hand as he climbed off, muscles rippling, suddenly growing fifty feet tall and killing every Roman in sight in an orgy of frenzied violence like Bruce Lee taking on an army of Japanese karate students. Because what they wanted was their Messiah - a King who would take up arms and rally the Jews to crush the Roman Empire and establish a permanent Jewish kingdom, lasting forever.

Those who hated him were triumphant to watch him expire. For the undecided and the hopeful, with his death, their entire hopes and dreams died. The Jewish scriptures were clear on two things: "Cursed is he who hangs from a tree", and that the Messiah would not die. The Greeks would later scoff at any suggestion Jesus amounted to anything - a cross was for thieves and slaves and the lowest dregs of society - not for anyone favored in any way by anyone. It would be the equivalent of trying to sell today a passive homosexual and a pedophile as savior, in terms of Greek public opinion of those who'd met that fate. As for his closest followers - even though he'd told them time and time again they were going to kill him - and one didn't need supernatural foreknowledge to know that going against the religious and political elites meant a cross - they did not realize, or want to realize - that it was going to end.

From a political perspective, Jesus was sacrificed to appease a baying mob. From a Christian perspective, either he was killed as a substitutionary atomenent, a proxy sacrifice and scapegoat - or he willingly gave up his life because he had to do so in order to share his message, you can even read the acts of Good Friday in a totally atheist way and not need the Resurrection to understand the sacrifice involved.

Jesus' body died that day. But also did the vain hopes and dreams of a populace who had in mind how things should end. Anyone who clung to any hope that God's plan was the Jewish idea of a powerful conquering King - one who'd rule THIS earth forever and ever - saw those hopes die.

Two things were unusual about Good Friday. And I'm not referring to the lack of any need to break Jesus' legs to hasten his death, him having expired hours ago. One unusual thing was the very rare exception to the rule, an exception made for Jewish customs and Jewish tolerance for bodies left unburied. The normal practice was for those condemned to die to hang there to rot and stink, unburied and unhallowed - to be eaten by crows and carrion birds and various other carrion scavengers and insects. For those who believed a body left unburied and unhallowed would find its soul would have no rest, the aftermath of the death was actually more horrific than the execution. But Jesus died in Jewish territory, and a rich man named Nicodemus had donated his own personal tomb to bury Jesus in. That he was buried at all, and not had his bones thrown into a ditch and pissed on once the flesh that held them together disappeared completely - was quite unusual.

The other... well for that you have to wait until Easter.

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