I can almost picture the mood, the atmosphere, on that Friday many years ago. We call it “Good Friday” in hindsight, but at the time, it would have been anything but good. The followers of the radical teacher that had changed everything was dead. They were so confused and scared. For three years they followed Him everywhere, watching as He conquered every obstacle. Every sickness, every illness was subject to Him. Every man-made traditional gave way to His God-breathed teaching. Governments feared Him. People worshipped Him. And now He was dead.

But how could Jesus be dead? At one time, Jesus told a man that had been dead for 4 days to get up and walk out of his grave. He called the man by name, Lazarus, because if Jesus would have simply walked into the graveyard and said “come forth,” the entire graveyard would have obeyed his command and come out of their graves. So He gave a very specific command to a very specific person. He did what only God could do by raising the dead. And now, God was dead?

The disciples must have been terrified. They hung on His words and marveled at His miracles. When Jesus demanded that the wind and sea obey Him, they couldn’t help but question what kind of man He was. Who can tell the wind to stop? What kind of man, indeed. The God-man fearlessly faced every opponent with a humble bravery that silently communicated his divine origin. His disciples as empowered, emboldened by His fearlessness. They most certainly posited that as long as they were in close proximity to Jesus, they were safe. Now that He was gone, they were afraid of how the religious leaders and the government would respond to them. Afterall, if they could kill Jesus, their God-man leader, they could assuredly kill His followers.

The disciples were no longer brave. Most of them proved that when Jesus was arrested. When the mob came for Jesus, led by the traitor, Judas Iscariot, the disciples ran and hid. History tells us that only John was there for the events that would unfold. Peter was sort of there, but he kept his distance and showed his fear when questioned by a slave girl around a camp fire. We all know how that went. John, the disciple that Jesus loved, was there. But now that Jesus was really dead, the landscape is silent. Jesus said that if people didn’t praise Him the rocks and the trees would cry out in worship. The wind and sea previously obeyed Him and, it appeared that all of creation was subject to His voice. But now that He was dead, an eerie silence ruled the land. The clouds parted, the storms moved on, the wind retreated and nature seemed to indicate that God was indeed dead. This Friday was anything but “good.”

We don’t know much about what the disciples did in the hours and days after Jesus was killed and buried. Maybe that’s the point; maybe they didn’t do anything. Perhaps they were so afraid that they simply hid. Maybe they were so distraught that they couldn’t function and stayed in their houses. It could be that they went back to the scrolls to see if there was any indication that their champion, their God wasn’t really gone, that He would be back. Certainly Jesus was frustrated when Peter tried to stop Him from going to the cross. It seems Peter, and the other disciples didn’t really understand that Jesus needed to die. He was so frustrated with Peter that He called him “Satan.” Ouch. And now, the ones that promised to go with Jesus all the way, even to death, were nowhere to be found.

The streets must have been strange. The environment odd, as religious leaders walked with noses pointed into the air down the street as if to remind the people that radicals come and go, but they were there to stay. These arrogant hypocrites that knew the Scriptures better than most still had no idea what they’d done and what was coming. Judas knew. He realized quickly that he made a mistake. His sin was so heavy on his shoulders that he could only commit suicide. But the Pharisees were too proud, too arrogant, far too narcissistic for that. I can see them smiling smugly, proud of their accomplishment. All the while not knowing that while it was Friday…Sunday was coming.

We look back and call it “Good Friday” because we have the advantage of history. We know the rest of the story. We know exactly why it was indeed a “good” Friday those many centuries ago. The disciples didn’t think it was good. Mary, the earthly mother of Jesus no doubt didn’t think it was good. Her son, the boy she gave birth to and raised had been murdered by religious hypocrites and a complicit government. Any parent that has lost a child can empathize with the pain and agony Mary felt. Maybe she knew more than the disciples and believed that Jesus would rise from the dead. Maybe her hope wasn’t in Friday but waited for Sunday. Maybe. But that doesn’t diminish the torment she felt watching her child cry out in pain from the cross. Friday wasn’t good for Mary. But Sunday was coming.

That day in the first century was anything but good. Their leader was gone. Their teacher had been killed. Their hope had died. As the body was taken down from the cross and wrapped in burial clothes sadness would have overtaken them. The tension would have been so palatable, suffocating. When the body was laid in the tomb, a borrowed tomb offered by a rich man too afraid to stand at the cross, tears would have soaked the dusty ground. And when the stone was rolled in front of the tomb, signifying that this nightmare was happening in real time, the pangs of despair would have overshadowed their hearts. There was nothing good about Friday. Friday was the worst day in history for those that witnessed these events. Friday was the nightmare they didn’t understand and didn’t want to believe.

But Sunday was coming…