Don't Skip to the Good Part

A reflection and spoken word poem for Good Friday

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Today’s post is a story and a spoken word poem. Make sure to check out the video for the Good Friday poem. Hope you enjoy :)

Much love,

Tanner

Don’t Skip to the Good Part

A few years ago, my wife and I traveled back to Florida to spend Easter with my family.
On Good Friday, we attended a service at my childhood church, sitting in the same pew my family has filled for decades.

Before the service began, I noticed a service dog resting beneath a pew at the feet of its owners.
Its tongue flicked against the cold tile as it settled in.
Even those who bring comfort need to get comfortable.

Then, the bell rang.
And it kept ringing.
It rang thirty-three times, once for every year of Jesus’ life on earth.
The dog’s head lifted, ears alert, trying to locate the sound.

As the bell echoed again and again, a quiet montage played in my mind:
Jesus as a baby.
Jesus learning in the synagogue.
Jesus as an awkward teenager.
Jesus in the workshop with his earthly father, Joseph.
Jesus laughing with his friends.
Jesus sharing meals.
Jesus preaching, healing, turning water into wine, restoring sight to the blind.
Jesus hanging on the cross.
Jesus lifeless in the tomb.

For the next hour, we reflected on the life and death of Christ, how He came to save us and usher in a new kingdom.
We read Scripture, we sang, we prayed.
We paused to remember the day the world changed forever.

This isn’t an easy story to sit with.
It doesn’t shimmer with the warmth of Christmas or resound with the celebration of Easter morning.
This isn’t a story wrapped in joy, life, or light.
It’s a story of betrayal, agony, blood, silence.
Of broken bodies and broken hearts.
Of friends who fled and a Savior who stayed.
Of a cross raised high and a sky gone black.

It is a story drenched in sorrow, heavy with grief, and shadowed by death.
And yet, this moment in history is essential.
Because without Good Friday, there is no Easter Sunday.
Without the cross, there is no resurrection.
Without death, there is no victory.

This story forces us to get uncomfortable as we slow down to sit in the ache, to confront the weight of our sin and the depth of His love.
It reminds us before there was hope, there was heartbreak.
Before there was light, there was darkness.
And before the stone was rolled away, there was silence in the tomb.

We don’t like to linger here, but we need to.
We cannot skip to the good part.
Because this story, as painful and dark as it is, changes everything.

The silence of the sanctuary was broken by quiet sniffling.
Everywhere I looked, someone was crying.
Had you looked at me, you’d have seen tears too.
I found myself wishing the dog would come sit by my feet or curl up in my lap.

With every passage of Scripture we read, a candle was extinguished.
After every Amen, the lights were turned down.
By the end of the service, we sat in complete darkness.
I could no longer see the dog sitting a few rows ahead.

The world often reminds us darkness and death are never far off.
You can’t outrun it.
You can’t dodge it.
In the end, death comes for us.
Eventually, the lights go out.

While hanging on the cross, Jesus cried out, quoting Psalm 22: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

In His suffering, He asks His Father a raw and honest question.
Jesus lamented in the dark.
He cried out.
In Jesus’ question, there was trust.
He knew the Father was as close as breath.
He knew how the Psalm ends.
He knew this was happening for something more.

And then He said, “It is finished.”
And if Jesus says it, it’s true and worth holding onto.

The silence of the sanctuary broke one final time with the slam of a door—signifying the tomb being sealed.
Everyone jumped.
Even the dog.

To close out the service, we whispered the Lord’s Prayer.

And in that moment, I was reminded again: hope doesn’t let the story end.

Hope breaks into the darkness like light.

That’s what hope does.

I’m learning to trust hope isn’t a feeling or a fleeting thought.
Hope is the deep assurance that God is with us, even when everything goes dark.

Hope isn’t an emotion we just carry in our hearts.
It’s something we hold in our hands.
It points us and ties us to the resurrected Jesus.
Hope isn’t fragile or soft.
It’s fierce.
It brings comfort to the chaos.
It shines light into the shadows.

Hope acknowledges this isn’t how life is meant to be—
But still, it assures us: this isn’t the end.

Hope isn’t blind.
It sees the pain.
It doesn’t say, “Cheer up” or “Move on.”
At just the right moment, in just the right way, it whispers,
“Everything is going to be okay.”

Because somehow, some way—it will be.

And on Sunday, Jesus will walk out of the tomb and say,
“Ring the bell again.”

The story doesn’t end with death.

The cross, once a symbol of suffering and shame, is now a reminder of victory and hope.
It doesn’t mark the end.
It reminds us of a new beginning.

Hope gets the final word.
Hope always gets the final word.

Because of Jesus, the darkness runs and the lights are turned back on.

And everything changes.

Even Me (a poem)

How could it be?
That you would do this for me?
Even me?

Your back bloodied and body bruised.
Your hands pierced and love abused.
Your head ripped with thorns; kicked to the floor.
I can’t imagine the pain you bore.
Swollen, somber and sore, yet You refused.

You refused to run all so we could become
… All so we could become Yours.
You knew that through it all this was for something more.

More than teaching and miracles.
More than water becoming wine.
More than sight for the blind.
More than could meet the eye.

This was to bring the dead alive.
This was to stomp death with resurrected breath.
This was for us to be washed white.
This was for us to be given hope and eternal life.

How could it be?
You died for me.
Even me.

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