Good Friday
This day is so difficult.
There were around 40 of us at the first Walk of Witness. A good number, really. Margie read from Luke—Jesus promising the kingdom to the penitent thief. She read it beautifully.
I read later, at the final station: Luke 23:50–56. Joseph of Arimathea and the women from Galilee.
That moment between Joseph and Pilate—it’s never quite sat comfortably. That request for Jesus’ body. The unspoken weight of it. The risk, the reverence. The cost of doing what was right.
About 25 people came to the second Walk of Witness, followed by a very solemn service at St Andrew’s in Dent. Quiet, reflective, no unnecessary words.
I walked with others. Slowly. Silently. Purposefully. Prayerfully.
It’s been a gentle day. Quiet. What contrast to what this day must have been like the first time round. There was something about us, ‘the crowd’, that made me feel very very uncomfortable. What would we have done?
And through it all, the simple truth: Jesus went through all of this for us.
He could’ve asked his Father to stop it all—and it would’ve stopped. But he didn’t. He knew. To secure our freedom, he had to go through with it.
The weather felt right—not historically, but spiritually. Not dramatic, not stormy—just cold, grey, unsettled. Gusts of wind sweeping through at just the right moments. Slivers of sunlight cutting through the clouds like a whisper.
It felt as if God was there. Seeing it. Holding it. With us through it.
