The goodness of a Friday

Matthew 27:45–56

45 From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land. 46 About three in the afternoon Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” (which means “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”). 47 When some of those standing there heard this, they said, “He’s calling Elijah.” 48 Immediately one of them ran and got a sponge. He filled it with wine vinegar, put it on a staff, and offered it to Jesus to drink. 49 The rest said, “Now leave him alone. Let’s see if Elijah comes to save him.” 50 And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. 51 At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split 52 and the tombs broke open. The bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life. 53 They came out of the tombs after Jesus’ resurrection and went into the holy city and appeared to many people. 54 When the centurion and those with him who were guarding Jesus saw the earthquake and all that had happened, they were terrified, and exclaimed, “Surely he was the Son of God!” 55 Many women were there, watching from a distance. They had followed Jesus from Galilee to care for his needs. 56 Among them were Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Joseph, and the mother of Zebedee’s sons.

Today, we do not gather to celebrate. We gather to remember. We come, not to decorate the sanctuary, but to strip away every pretense and stand in the shadow of a cross that still bleeds. Good Friday is not comfortable. It never was. It is a day that resists applause, that silences music, that hushes the soul. It asks us not to explain, but to behold. To stand still and let the weight of the moment press in. It is the one day in the Christian calendar that says clearly, “Don’t look away.” In Matthew 27:45–56, we are drawn into the darkest hour in human history, not just because a man died unjustly, but because the Son of God entered death willingly. The sky goes black. The earth trembles. And yet, somehow, in this chaos and silence, God is accomplishing His most beautiful work. We return to this place not out of duty, but because we know this is where love finally speaks without disguise.

Long before this moment, John Wesley had spoken of Jesus, had preached the gospel, and had served as a priest and a missionary. But it wasn’t until May 24, 1738, that the cross became more than theology to him. Sitting in a small room on Aldersgate Street, listening to someone read Martin Luther’s introduction to Romans, Wesley recorded these words: “I felt my heart strangely warmed. I felt I did trust in Christ, Christ alone, for salvation.” That moment was not an emotional flare; it was the holy encounter of a soul that had finally allowed grace to reach him. The cross had found a home, not in his mind, but in his heart. And that night, something changed. A life turned fully toward Christ. A movement was born, not through clever strategy, but through the surrender of a heart to the crucified Christ. And that’s what Good Friday invites us to: not information, but transformation.

“From noon until three in the afternoon, darkness came over all the land. About three in the afternoon, Jesus cried out… ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’” These words ring out with aching intensity. Here is Jesus, the One who had always been in communion with the Father, now feeling the full absence of that presence. This is not poetic language; this is the cry of One who bears every ounce of separation that sin brings. The heavens, it seems, are closed. The Light of the World is plunged into darkness, and the silence is deafening.

This is what theologians call substitutionary atonement, not simply that Jesus died for us, but that He died instead of us. And it’s not a sterile transaction; it is a brutal, soul-wrenching act of mercy. Jesus carries what we could not: shame, guilt, alienation. He doesn’t die simply to model forgiveness; He dies to make it possible, to make new life inevitable for those who trust Him. In the Free Methodist tradition, this moment is central. Not because it is dramatic, but because it is decisive. The cross is not an accessory to our faith; it is the very heart of it.

“And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment, the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.” For generations, that curtain had stood as a divine boundary, a barrier separating the people from the holiest place, the presence of God. Only one man, once a year, could pass through. It was sacred, but it was also a reminder: you do not belong here.

And then, God tears it apart. From top to bottom, as if heaven itself could no longer tolerate separation. The death of Jesus not only removes sin, but it also opens a path. We no longer live outside the presence; we are invited in. For Wesley and for us, this is what grace means. Not just that our past is forgiven, but that our present is transformed. The cross brings us home, not someday, but now. We are not just saved from something, we are saved for something: a holy life, filled with the Spirit, marked by love.

“The earth shook, the rocks split and the tombs broke open…” These verses are mysterious, unsettling, even strange. But they reveal something profound: creation itself cannot remain still. The ground groans. The stone cries out. The graves release their dead. Even in death, resurrection is already stirring. This is no ordinary death; it is the death of death itself.

It is a quiet, powerful reminder that even in your darkest night, God is already preparing Sunday morning. That Good Friday is not the final word. The earthquake is not destruction, it is birth pangs. Life is pushing through. The same Spirit that raised Jesus is already moving, even when we don’t yet see the empty tomb. And as Free Methodists, we must proclaim not only Christ crucified, but Christ victorious. We are people of the cross and the resurrection. The tomb will not remain closed.

“Surely he was the Son of God.” These words come from the most unlikely source, a Roman soldier. A man who lived by violence, who likely helped crucify Christ, now becomes the first voice to proclaim what others were too afraid to say. In the shadow of the cross, he sees clearly. Not a criminal. Not a fool. But the Son of God.

This is what the cross does: it confronts us, convicts us, and calls us. We do not stand over the cross in judgment; the cross stands over us and tells the truth. And the truth is this: we need a Savior. We cannot rescue ourselves. And when we look, really look, we see Him, bleeding, praying, loving us to the end. At the foot of the cross, theology becomes worship. Words become tears. Pride becomes surrender.

So what does it mean to face the cross? It means standing in the light of its love and the weight of its cost. It means admitting we need grace, not once but every day. It means laying down our attempts to fix ourselves and embracing the One who was broken for us. It means saying, like the centurion, “Surely, this is the Son of God.”

In every corner of this broken world, in hospitals and shelters, in boardrooms and refugee camps, the cross still speaks. It speaks of love that suffers. It speaks of a Savior who knows rejection, poverty, injustice, and pain. And it still asks the question: “Will you trust Me? Will you follow Me?”

Good Friday doesn’t promise comfort. But it does promise redemption. It doesn’t erase the pain, but it redeems it. It doesn't offer easy answers, but it offers a Savior. So don’t rush through this day. Don’t hide from the sorrow. Let it do its work. Let it uncover what needs to be healed. Let it draw you into the mystery of love stronger than death. Let us stand before the cross, quiet, broken, and open, for here is where everything begins again. Amen.