Friday May Look Like Death, But It's Only A Prelude

​I’ve come to believe that the most terrifying part of Good Friday wasn’t the nails.

It wasn’t the crowd shouting for Barabbas, the crown of thorns, or even the betrayal from a close friend.

It was the complete surrender of control.

That’s what Jesus gave up when he stopped defending himself. When he remained silent before Pilate. When he didn’t call down angels. When he healed the ear Peter cut off instead of picking up a sword. When he looked at the one begging to be remembered and whispered, “I assure you.”

He surrendered control not just of his body, but of the story’s appearance.

He let it look like he lost.

That’s hard for me. Because like many of us, I want my story to look like a win. I want healing to look like wholeness, not a scar. I want redemption to look like applause, not crucifixion. I want transformation to look like triumph, not trauma.

But Good Friday is a bold declaration: God does his best work in the worst moments, and he rarely asks our permission to do it that way.

The hardest part of my own story hasn’t been the betrayal, the divorce, the failures, or the scars. The hardest part is accepting that healing doesn’t always come in the form of a miracle—but in the form of a cross I have to carry, in surrendering the narrative I’d rather write.

Jesus didn’t avoid Friday. He didn’t edit it.

He entered it fully.

Because he knew something we forget in our pain—Sunday was coming, but not without Friday.

We want to skip to the good part. Jesus didn’t.

He stayed in the hard part. He bled in the silence. He loved in the betrayal. He forgave in the pain. He assured a thief before assuring anyone else.

He knew what we’re still learning: that the worst thing is rarely the last thing.

So maybe today, the invitation is this:

Don’t rush through Friday.

Don’t numb it. Don’t theologize it away. Don’t skip to Sunday.

Let Friday do its work. Let it remind you that some of the best things come not by conquering the darkness, but by trusting God enough to walk through it.

Not with answers. But with assurance.

"I assure you," Jesus said.

That your brokenness isn’t too broken.

That your shame isn’t too deep.

That your worst isn’t your end.

That Friday might look like death—but it's only the prelude.