Long Friday

A Reflection on the Suffering of Christ

“The soldiers also twisted together a crown of thorns, put it on His head, and threw a purple robe around Him. And they repeatedly came up to Him and said, ‘Hail, King of the Jews!’ and were slapping His face.”

— John 19:2–3 (HCSB)

I have often wondered about the name we give to this day—the day we remember the crucifixion of our Savior, Jesus Christ. Good Friday.

In my own spiritual journey, I have wrestled to avoid the wilderness—the place of difficulty, suffering, and isolation. And yet, it seems that the pathway of following in the footsteps of Christ inevitably leads us there. In my flesh, I desire what is easy. I long to remain beside streams of abundance, under bright skies, untouched by hardship or sorrow.

But this is not the way of the Christian life.

Just last week, we celebrated the Messiah King as He entered Jerusalem, not in victorious power with armies and weapons to overthrow His enemies, but in humility. He chose the way of descent, riding on the foal of a donkey, ushering in a kingdom of peace. And yet, that path would lead Him into the final hours of His life, hours marked by agony, betrayal, and the cross.

In several regions of the world—such as Norway, Sweden, and Germany—Good Friday is called Long Friday. A fitting name. A day marked not only by time, but by weight. A day that carries the heaviness of immense suffering.

In my own pilgrimage, this has become deeply meaningful.

Do not be so quick to move past this day—this long day. It is a day to pause, to reflect, to remember all that Christ has done on our behalf. To place ourselves there. To imagine watching Him—falsely accused, yet never retaliating. To see Him suffer with humility and grace. Blood streaming down His head as the crown of thorns is pressed upon Him. Mocked. Beaten. His face struck. His body torn.

As I sit in this place, I feel the weight of it.
Despair. Heaviness. My heart aches deeply.
This is my Christ. My King. My Savior.

What is happening? Why must He endure this? Why does He allow it? Is He not the Messiah?

“Standing by the cross of Jesus were His mother, His mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw His mother and the disciple He loved standing there, He said to His mother, ‘Woman, here is your son.’ Then He said to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ And from that hour the disciple took her into his home. After this, when Jesus knew that everything was now accomplished that the Scripture might be fulfilled, He said, ‘I’m thirsty!’

A jar full of sour wine was sitting there; so they fixed a sponge full of sour wine on hyssop and held it up to His mouth. When Jesus had received the sour wine, He said, ‘It is finished!’ Then bowing His head, He gave up His spirit.”

— John 19:25–30 (HCSB)

I try to place myself within this scene.

Who am I?

Am I one of His accusers?
One of the disciples who fled?
Or the one who stayed near, yet denied my allegiance to Him?

And then we see them—the women.

His mother. Her sister. Mary the wife of Clopas. Mary Magdalene.

I can only imagine what they were thinking and feeling as they watched this unfold. What words did they share with one another? I picture deep sorrow etched across their faces, tears streaming down as they held onto one another in grief—watching Jesus suffer, watching Him die.

Heaviness.
Deep sorrow.
Pain.
Lament.
A longing for a different reality.
A quiet, aching wonder.

This is the crucifixion of our King.

Deserted. Broken. Hanging upon a cross.

Entering the Weight of the Day

Long Friday.

This year, perhaps more than any other, I feel invited not to rush past it—but to enter into it.

To sit in the suffering of Christ.
To behold Him.
To long to be like Him.
To endure suffering in a way that demonstrates deep love for God and sacrificial love for others. To remain faithful.

And I find myself drawn to these women—their quiet strength, their steadfast presence. They did not flee. They remained. They bore witness to His suffering.

There is something deeply admirable here. Something sacred.

A Prayer in the Valley

Lord, as I sit in this valley—this place of darkness, heaviness, and sorrow—I offer to You the lament of my heart.

Lord Jesus, come.

In the midst of confusion, bring clarity.
In the midst of sorrow, bring comfort.
You are the Messiah. Come and deliver us.
Renew us. Restore us.
Usher in new life in the fullness of Your Kingdom.

How deeply we long for You.

Amen.