Good Friday

Good Friday? What’s so good about it? A completely innocent man dies and we deem it good? I mean, I understand it from the point of religious necessity. It is, after all – coupled with the coming Easter – the crux of most westerner’s faith. The one act that validates it all. But what really makes it good?

We fucked up. I mean we fucked up big time. From the crunchy bite of that first questionable apple, to that grave ‘moral error’ you farted out in your private bedroom last night. So, collect all that shit. All the genocide, lies, sexual abuse, arrogance, wars, senseless taking of lives – from all ages: past, present and future – until time has made its last stroke. Collect all that and dump it on one man. A perfect man. Bathed in humility and exuding love in bushel baskets full. Make all the white turn black one bitter afternoon across the side of a rock two thousand years ago. A singular slaughter of a willing innocent. A horrific and brutal execution. And we call it Good Friday. Good for who? Certainly not good for him. Don’t get me wrong. I realize the significance. But it just looks like – from the outside – a pretty bad Friday to me.

I used to work in the retail world, where the Friday after Thanksgiving was called (is, in fact, still called) Black Friday. Having to be out in the midst of these rabid, frenzied consumers, hopped up on whoring advertisements and beating the shit our of one another for a chance at a $25 dvd player, was not my idea of fun. The bleakness of that day was overwhelming. I knew why it was Black Friday to me. Having to enter a Walmart at 4:30 in the a.m., after a day full of turkey, football and family, was enough to make me want to kill myself. But, evidently, retailers came up with the name Black Friday because it marked the official emergence from the ‘red’ (negative) of their annual operating budget into the ‘black’ (positive). From this dark day in November, until around January 2nd, they would make enough blood money to balance out the rest of the year’s losses. Aha. Mystery solved.

So what’s the secret behind the name given to the Friday before Easter? It’s clear what’s bad about it. Where does the good come in?

For starters, somebody else got killed for all the shit I’ve done and all the shit I am bound to do. Evidently I deserve the death penalty. Evidently I deserve worse. But I got out of that one. Which makes me feel pretty guilty, but pretty thankful all at the same time. That’s good, right?

Then this guy – the guy for whom the holiday’s named – he came and influenced people for the better when he didn’t even have to. He told the truth when he could have lied. He was a man of convictions when he could have wimped out. He explained to his friends that he had something to do, and then, what do you know, he did it. Not only was he true to his word, but look at what it cost. He was a martyr, but he didn’t just die for an idea. He died for all of us self-consumed bastards who find it difficult just getting out of bed in the morning. That’s definitely good.

Finally – and I guess all of these things are kind of inter-connected – he made the future brighter. Actually, he turned the lights on for the first time. All because of one selfless act. Before he suffered to the death, we were all, pretty much, fucked. First you get shit on for roughly 75 years down here. Then you get shit on for an eternity in the after life. You might think it easy for me to knock something I have yet to experience, but “no thank you”. I’ll take my chances with the free gift. The unknown is a bitch. I may have to slip on some shades on my journey to the beginning, but I’ll be singing a new song all the freaking way. Fuck all that “on my own” shit. He died so that I could live. You give me that! That’s good.

I wont pretend to understand that I know how all this works or why today is really good. Some sources say that Good Friday came as a mispronunciation from what used to be called God’s Friday. In any case, it’s easier just to accept the name as it is. To receive it. Just as I am. So while I spend my days obsessing about women, dwelling in my excesses and making an ass out of myself continually, today I consider myself pretty damn lucky. And grateful. And humble. And that’s good. Even if I’m not.