Lesson 3: Food Friday
Journey Through the Shadows
The air hangs heavy, thick with unspoken tension and the scent of oil lamps. We often rush through Holy Week, eager to get from the palms to the alleluias. But Good Friday invites us, even compels us, to linger. To sit in the shadows, not as mere observers of an ancient story, but as participants entering into the profound mystery of suffering, sacrifice, and a love that defies comprehension.
Imagine that borrowed upper room. The familiar Passover meal, yet utterly transformed. Jesus, knowing what awaits, speaks of betrayal. Can you feel the disciples' shock, their protests – "Surely not I?" Peter's bold declaration, so quickly followed by Jesus's heartbreaking prophecy of denial. We see Judas slip into the night, a shadow detaching from the flickering light. And then, the bread broken, the cup poured – "This is my body... This is my blood." Words that echo through millennia, offered with a weight the disciples could only begin to grasp. A new command given: "Love one another as I have loved you." A love demonstrated even as the path led towards ultimate darkness.
Follow Jesus out into the quiet olive grove, Gethsemane. The peace of the garden cannot soothe the storm within Him. "My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death." We witness the raw humanity of the Son of God, falling to the ground, pleading, "My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me." Yet, through the anguish, through sweat like drops of blood, comes the surrender: "Yet not as I will, but as you will." He finds His closest friends asleep, the spirit willing but the flesh weak – a poignant reflection of our own struggles to remain watchful in times of trial. Then, the flicker of torches, the clang of swords, the betrayer's kiss. Peter's flash of violence, met by Jesus's healing touch and resigned acceptance: "Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?" The disciples scatter. Darkness reigns.
The night unfolds with hurried injustice. False accusations fly in the high priest's house. Jesus, calm amidst the chaos, finally speaks the truth that seals His earthly fate: "You will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of the mighty one." Blasphemy, they cry. Mockery, spitting, blows follow. Outside, by a charcoal fire, Peter faces his own trial. Three times, the denial comes, escalating in fear until the rooster's crow shatters the night and his heart. Their eyes meet – Jesus, bound and bloodied; Peter, crushed by shame. He flees, weeping bitterly.
Morning brings no relief, only a transfer of authority to the Romans. Pilate, caught between political pressure and a sense of Jesus's innocence, washes his hands. The crowd, swayed and volatile, chooses Barabbas. Their cry echoes with chilling finality: "Crucify him!" The brutal scourging, the crown of thorns, the scarlet robe, the mocking jeers – "Hail, King of the Jews!" He endures silently. Then, the agonizing walk, the weight of the rough-hewn cross on torn flesh. Simon of Cyrene, pulled from the crowd, shares the burden. Women weep, and even in His agony, Jesus speaks to them, turning their sorrow towards the future.
Golgotha. The place of the skull. Stripped, laid upon the wood, spikes driven through wrists and feet. The cross is raised. Yet, from this epicenter of human cruelty comes an unbelievable prayer: "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they are doing." He hangs between two criminals, one mocking, the other pleading, "Jesus, remember me." The promise given: "Today you will be with me in paradise." He entrusts His mother to John's care.
Then, a profound darkness falls at noon, silencing the crowd, as if creation itself grieves. From the depths of physical and spiritual agony, the cry: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" A whisper: "I thirst." And finally, the triumphant shout, not of defeat but completion: "It is finished." With a final prayer, "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit," He breathes His last. The earth shakes, the temple curtain tears, a centurion confesses, "Surely this man was the Son of God."
In the fading light, Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus, once secret followers, act with courage. They gently take down the broken body, cleanse it, wrap it in linen, and lay it in a new tomb. A heavy stone is rolled into place. The women watch, planning to return. Silence falls. The disciples are scattered. Hope, it seems, lies buried beneath the earth, sealed in the darkness.
We sit here now, in the echo of that silence. Good Friday is not easy. It asks us to confront the reality of sin, the depth of suffering, and the cost of love. It invites us to bring our own brokenness, our betrayals, our griefs to the foot of the cross, knowing He carried it all. We linger in the sorrow, allowing the weight of His sacrifice to settle upon our souls, because only by walking through this shadow can we truly grasp the light that is to come.
Questions for Discussion
Which moment in the Good Friday narrative resonates most deeply with you personally, and why?
Peter's denial is a powerful moment of human weakness. When have you felt the conflict between your intentions and your actions, especially under pressure?
Jesus prays, "Not my will, but yours be done." How do you grapple with surrender and trust in difficult circumstances?
Consider the theme of betrayal – by Judas, by the crowds, by the authorities. How does Jesus's response challenge our understanding of how to react to betrayal?
"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they are doing." What does this prayer teach us about the nature and possibility of forgiveness, especially towards those who inflict pain?
How does witnessing Jesus's profound suffering and vulnerability in Gethsemane and on the cross impact your understanding of His divinity and humanity?
The narrative contrasts moments of intense cruelty with acts of compassion (Simon helping, the women weeping, the repentant thief, Joseph and Nicodemus). Where do you see these contrasts playing out in the world today?
What does the tearing of the temple curtain symbolize to you?
What burdens, griefs, or sins do you feel invited to "leave at the foot of the cross" after contemplating this story?
Even in the finality of the tomb, the women plan to return. How does the story of Good Friday, despite its darkness, plant seeds of hope?