I’ve always had something of an ambivalent attitude towards John Updike. I’ve known his work for ages – he grew up in Shillington, PA, just a stone’s throw or so from where I grew up. He was raised a Lutheran, an upbringing that he seemed to struggle with as well as be marked by. I’ve loved his short stories as much as anything I’ve ever read, but sometimes been less than taken by even his celebrated novels. I don’t know why – perhaps they were too “earthy” for this kid. But it’s precisely the “earthiness” of “Seven Stanzas at Easter” that I love about...

When you think about it, it’s an incredibly odd name: Good Friday. This is, after all, the day on which Jesus was crucified, nailed to a wooden cross until he died. It is the day nearly two thousand years later on which we remember his suffering. It is the day we read the story of his trial, sentencing, crucifixion, and death. It is the day we hear of how all of his companions and friends either betrayed, denied, or abandoned him. How can this day be good? Because, we confess, that in and through Jesus’ life and death God acted in a unique way to save the world. For this reason, and for this reason only, do we make bold to call this...