Good Friday.

For the longest time, I did not understand how this particular Friday could be labeled as good.

To be beaten, flogged and scourged to nearly unrecognizable;
to have a crown of thorns pressed into my head;
to be nailed to a tree with spikes through my wrists and feet;
to die by crucifixion alongside common criminals…
No. None of this, I’ve imagined, could be good if I would have had to experience it.
I didn’t have to, but I knew Jesus had experienced it all.
How could it be that we’d wind up called this a “good” kind of Friday when He had to go through that?

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I attended a Presbyterian church as a child. Church was something we did on Sundays, and during my high school years, I also attended a youth group during most weeks. I was raised with good morals. We were taught to…