Easter
It’s Holy Week. I remember being confused by so many pieces of Easter when I was young. Why was it called Good Friday if Jesus died? Wasn’t that BAD Friday? Why did we eat so much fish? Ick. Why did it always seem to be a gloomy, rainy, week? Did God do that on purpose? How could Jesus ride into the city of Jerusalem with such fanfare on Sunday and be beaten so brutally just 6 days later? As I’ve grown in my faith and age, I understand so much more. When Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ played in theaters, I went to see it. My sobs could hardly be heard over the sobs of others. This wasn’t a movie where you munched on popcorn and sipped a soft drink. This was a chore—a duty as a Christian to come face to face with the brutality endured by our Savior. To come to terms with what He experienced so that I could, what? Show up late to work with no excuse? Watch movies with foul language? Tell the occasional lie and not suffer the consequences? Was it worth it? What jus