Good(?) Friday

I had thought of lots of things that I could write on this Good Friday, 2012. But I'm not sure that there's anything worth adding to what the Scriptures have already said. So, today, on this Good Friday observance, I will post something for Sean. You see, Sean thinks the Bible was written to support the stories of the disciples, so that they could have power and recognition. But this is an odd story to write. It's not the story I would write. I would not create a weak god. He would not suffer. He would demonstrate power, not servitude.

But my god would whimper before this God. This God was not created by clever tricksters of the first century. This God revealed His coming to men, more than 500 years before He came, weak like an infant. Read Eugene Peterson's translation of Isaiah's prophecy of the death of Jesus. This is not the story that men would write. Therefore, it is infinitely more glorious. Read it and reflect. Easter is coming, full of light and hope and life. But let today be Good Friday. Let it be our darkest day so that His light may shine all the brighter. S

Isaiah 53 - The Message Paraphrase
Who believes what we've heard and seen? Who would have thought God's saving power would look like this?
The servant grew up before God—a scrawny seedling,
a scrubby plant in a parched field.
There was nothing attractive about him,
nothing to cause us to take a second look.
He was looked down on and passed over,
a man who suffered, who knew pain firsthand.
One look at him and people turned away.
We looked down on him, thought he was scum.
But the fact is, it was our pains he carried—
our disfigurements, all the things wrong with us.
We thought he brought it on himself,
that God was punishing him for his own failures.
But it was our sins that did that to him,
that ripped and tore and crushed him—our sins!
He took the punishment, and that made us whole.
Through his bruises we get healed.
We're all like sheep who've wandered off and gotten lost.
We've all done our own thing, gone our own way.
And God has piled all our sins, everything we've done wrong,
on him, on him.

He was beaten, he was tortured,
but he didn't say a word.
Like a lamb taken to be slaughtered
and like a sheep being sheared,
he took it all in silence.
Justice miscarried, and he was led off—
and did anyone really know what was happening?
He died without a thought for his own welfare,
beaten bloody for the sins of my people.
They buried him with the wicked,
threw him in a grave with a rich man,
Even though he'd never hurt a soul
or said one word that wasn't true.

Still, it's what God had in mind all along,
to crush him with pain.
The plan was that he give himself as an offering for sin
so that he'd see life come from it—life, life, and more life.
And God's plan will deeply prosper through him.

Out of that terrible travail of soul,
he'll see that it's worth it and be glad he did it.
Through what he experienced, my righteous one, my servant,
will make many "righteous ones,"
as he himself carries the burden of their sins.
Therefore I'll reward him extravagantly—
the best of everything, the highest honors—
Because he looked death in the face and didn't flinch,
because he embraced the company of the lowest.
He took on his own shoulders the sin of the many,
he took up the cause of all the black sheep.