Good Friday
Spoken Gospel podcast with a photo of David and Seth

Good Friday

About This Episode

1600 years ago Christians began calling the last days of Jesus’ life “Holy Week.” Seth and David talk about why Good Friday, the day Jesus was condemned by Pilate, crucified on a cross, and buried in a tomb is good news.

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The Cross as Coronation: Understanding the Crucifixion of Jesus

Show Notes

In this Holy Week special episode, David and Seth guide listeners through the events of Good Friday, the day Jesus was crucified. They explore the political maneuvering, the brutal reality of crucifixion, and the profound theological significance of Christ's death—a day so pivotal that calling it "good" barely captures what God accomplished.

From Jewish Courts to Roman Power

Good Friday begins with Jesus already battered and exhausted, having been beaten through the night after his arrest. The Jewish religious court had convicted him of blasphemy, but they faced a significant obstacle: under Roman occupation, only Rome could authorize capital punishment. This meant the religious establishment needed to reframe their charges in terms Rome would care about. Blasphemy meant nothing to Roman authorities, so the Pharisees fabricated accusations of tax evasion and insurrection—the two offenses most likely to provoke Roman action. Claiming to be "King of the Jews" positioned Jesus as a threat to the Pax Romana, the fragile peace Rome maintained through intimidation and force.

Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor, heard the case and reached a clear verdict: Jesus was innocent. Luke's Gospel emphasizes this conclusion emphatically. When Jesus explained that his Kingdom was "not of this world," Pilate correctly understood that Jesus posed no threat to earthly Roman power. The governor also perceived the religious leaders' true motives—they were attempting to weaponize Roman execution to serve their own agenda against Jesus. Yet Pilate found himself caught in a political trap. Simply releasing Jesus would ignite a riot and destabilize the delicate peace he was charged with maintaining.

The Wrong Son of the Father

In an attempt to navigate this impossible situation, Pilate offered what he believed would be a safe compromise. During Passover, it was customary to release one Jewish prisoner to the people. Pilate presented two options: Barabbas, a known terrorist who had actually committed murder and insurrection in violent attempts to overthrow Rome, or Jesus, whom Pilate knew to be innocent. The offer was calculated to expose the hypocrisy of the religious leaders—if they truly cared about punishing insurrectionists, they would never choose to free an actual insurrectionist over a peaceful teacher.

The theological irony cuts even deeper when one considers what the name "Barabbas" means: "son of the father." The crowd was presented with two "sons of the father"—one who sought to bring God's Kingdom through violence and wickedness, and one who would establish it through sacrificial love. They chose the wrong son. This pattern echoes through human history; people consistently choose a little force, a little self-reliance, over the peaceful way of Jesus. When Pilate pressed the crowd, asking about their king, the religious leaders uttered words of devastating self-condemnation: "We have no king but Caesar." In that moment, they publicly abandoned centuries of Messianic hope, throwing their allegiance behind Rome while their true King stood before them in chains.

The Horror of Crucifixion

Modern readers often miss the visceral horror that the word "crucify" would have evoked for first-century audiences. Crucifixion was not Rome's standard method of execution—it was reserved for criminals who needed to be made into public examples. The closest modern parallel might be the word "lynching," which carries connotations of public spectacle, deliberate shaming, and violence performed partly for the entertainment of onlookers. Rome's roads were lined with crosses displaying tortured bodies, some left hanging long enough for wild dogs to consume their lower halves. This gruesome display was how Rome maintained its "peace"—through the constant threat of unimaginable violence.

For the Pharisees to demand this most inhuman form of Roman execution against one of their own people represents one of Scripture's most scandalous moments. They wielded the cruelest weapon of their oppressors against the very Messiah they had been waiting for. The crowd's chant of "Crucify him!" would have shocked any reader of the time with its disproportionate bloodlust. How did they arrive so quickly at demanding the most extreme punishment available?

The Cross as Throne

Yet even as Roman soldiers mocked Jesus, dressing him in a purple robe, pressing a crown of thorns onto his head, and placing a reed scepter in his hand, they were unwittingly participating in a coronation. The Gospel writers describe Jesus being "lifted up" or "raised up" on the cross—the same language used when kings ascended to their thrones. Everything Jesus had done that week pointed toward this moment: riding into Jerusalem on the king's animal, being anointed by Mary for burial, and now receiving his crown, his robe, and finally his throne.

The cross, that instrument of public shame and humiliation, became the place of Jesus's enthronement. Above his head, Pilate ordered an inscription: "Jesus, King of the Jews." When the religious leaders protested, asking that it be changed to read "He claimed to be King of the Jews," Pilate offered his famous reply: "What I have written, I have written." Even this cowardly politician, in a moment of unexpected resolve, proclaimed Jesus's kingship to all who passed by. The device designed to shame Jesus became the placard announcing his reign. The death meant to destroy him became the victory that would define human history.

Forgiveness from the Throne

From the cross, Jesus demonstrated exactly what kind of King he would be. Rather than calling down judgment on those who tortured him, he prayed, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." To a fellow criminal being crucified beside him—someone guilty of actual insurrection—Jesus offered the promise of paradise: "Today, you will be with me in paradise." In his final moments, Jesus was surrounded not by his faithful followers, who had fled in fear, but by his tormentors, his executioners, and those responsible for his death. And to each of them, he offered mercy.

When Jesus declared "It is finished" and breathed his last, the curtain in the temple—the barrier separating God's presence from his people—tore in two. This was the same curtain behind which the high priest, Caiaphas, would sprinkle blood on the mercy seat once a year to atone for Israel's sins. The irony is staggering: Caiaphas had orchestrated Jesus's death, yet that very death became the true atonement, the blood sprinkled on the ultimate mercy seat. Jesus's sacrifice could even cover the sin of the man who condemned him, if Caiaphas would accept it.

God's Friday

The prophet Isaiah had written centuries earlier that the Messiah would be "pierced for our transgressions" and "crushed for our iniquities." But Isaiah added something remarkable: "by his wounds we are healed." Jesus's death does not simply return humanity to neutral, canceling out the debt of sin. It brings healing, resurrection life, a wholeness that would never have been possible otherwise. The crucifixion demonstrates that no one is beyond the reach of this mercy—not even those responsible for killing God himself. Paul, who murdered Christians before his conversion, was met by Jesus with the question, "Why are you hurting me?" and then forgiven, elevated, and used for the Gospel.

This is why Friday is called "good"—or perhaps, as some suggest, it was originally "God's Friday." This was the day God completed his work, the day everything Scripture had promised and foreshadowed came to fulfillment. When Jesus later walked the road to Emmaus, he explained how all the Law and Prophets pointed to this moment when the Messiah would die. Good Friday was God's day to finish what he had been planning since the foundation of the world: opening a path to mercy for anyone who would come, regardless of their guilt, regardless of what they had done. The tomb of Joseph of Arimathea received Jesus's body as the Sabbath approached, and all of creation waited in darkness for what would come next.

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