Last weekend my youth group performed the passion play for Palm Sunday. Having some semblance of a beard, I was asked to play Jesus. Now that it’s over, the staggering scandal of what we portrayed has stuck with me. The bishops and cardinals of the day conspired to kill Jesus. The congregation — the people who only days before had cheered as Jesus paraded into town — turned against Him. The soldiers mocked Him with scorn and derision. All of that built up to the fateful cry, “My God, my God! Why have you forsaken me?” All of that confusion and loss we so ironically call Good Friday. As blasphemous and unholy as it seems, it is necessary. But when the sun rises on Sunday morning, it is a new day.