Good Friday

Whilst I’ve been questioning my relationship with religion more than I can ever remember of late, Good Friday never fails to fill me with an overwhelming sense of sorrow.

Don’t get me wrong, my faith in God is resolute; instead I question the necessity of the doctrine that organised Christianity builds its empire upon. It’s really just people’s opinions and memories of events told as stories for learning. Opinions that were crafted into guidelines for society 2,000 years ago don’t necessarily translate well today.

I feel such sorrow today, as I remember this incredible man who was prepared to act as an agent for social change knowing how unpopular his actions may be with those who held the power to control his life. And even then, it was the masses rather than the authoritarians who chose to end his life in such a barbaric way. Jesus died on Good Friday and every year I spend the day reflecting, unable to shake the sadness that society would not tolerate change and further inflict such pain on those who didn’t fit the mold.

I did smile this week when James (5) bought home his Easter work including a Hosanna banner. His version of a smiling Jesus superimposed on a cross on a bright yellow background is so delightful. I praised him for writing Hosanna so beautifully and remembering to draw Jesus’ fingers of course. I asked James to recount the story of Good Friday to me, it became clear that certain details hadn’t been of significance to him (such as Jesus himself being nailed to the cross) as such horror wouldn’t enter his beautifully naive mind.