In the Christian tradition I was raised in, the events of Good Friday were reduced to a transaction. “He paid a debt he did not owe/ I owed a debt I could not pay” were the lyrics to a song we sang that summed it all up.

That way of understanding the reasons for the death of Jesus isn’t without biblical merit. It is one of many theories we have pieced together to answer the question, “Why did Jesus die?” (Jarrod Hubbard touched on this yesterday in his GFM article on womanist soteriology.) 

Each different approach has caused broken churches, fractured relationships, and even war. I become less curious about these theories with each passing year. For those who see the Bible as a puzzle with pieces that fit together perfectly, this makes them furious.

“How can you not clearly see which theory is clearly the correct one, and that it is the one that I personally hold?” But anyone who has read the Bible at all (and is honest) knows that the pieces don’t click into place with as much ease as we hope. 

But as my theological curiosity wanes, my resonance with the drama of Good Friday increases. 

For many Christians who will remember and reenact the story today, our services will begin in light. With each turn in the narrative, a candle will be extinguished, and darkness will overtake the room, reversing the illumination of Advent. 

Jesus is condemned and a candle is extinguished.
The cross is placed on his back and a candle is extinguished.
He falls for the first time, and it gets darker.
He meets his mother, darker still.
Simon the Cyrene takes up the cross, a bystander wipes his face, he falls again, and the women weep–darker, darker, darker and darker still. 

Finally, Jesus is dead. The light of the world is extinguished, and we are in total darkness. 

If you’ve ever experienced a Good Friday service like this, you know the supreme dissonance between the moments when the last candle is extinguished, and we walk out of the sanctuary, and when we are all standing together in the foyer, quietly wondering, “What now?” 

The dichotomy between the two moments can be so absurd and humorous. But that is because, no matter how hard we try to remain in the moment, we know what is coming. 

It can be difficult to remember that the original people who lived the story didn’t know what would happen next. 

But in recent years, the “not knowing” isn’t as difficult to fathom. 

As I think about the pain in the world–families of Israeli hostages going to bed in anguish each night, children in Gaza coming out of the other end of bombings with burns all over their bodies, families escaping terror only to be met with razor wire–the darkness without any hope of light is easier to understand. 

For these and so many more, the darkness is complete, and Jesus is dead.