By Grazie Pozo Christie
Hurrying on our way to the perfect happiness of Easter Sunday, Christians come to a sharp stop on Good Friday. It’s an odd name for the day in which we remember in vivid detail the torture and death of an innocent man.
Reading the gospel accounts in church or watching re-enactments of the terrible anguish of Jesus we are saddened and horrified—not only for Him but for us. We recognize it all too well, this suffering of an innocent at the hands of the ugly and ungovernable passions of his fellow men. It’s been done in some form to us, or to someone we love. Or just as bad, we remember and are stung with remorse for some cruel and selfish action, the one we wish we could erase from our memory, the one we can never put right.
So why in the world do we call it Good?