I woke up to a beautiful morning today—warm air, sunny skies, birds chirping. It is Good Friday, one of the holiest days in the Christian calendar, traditionally marking the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. A solemn day for those who take their faith to heart.
And so the day began for me about sixty years ago, on Good Friday in the year of our Lord, 1966.
I was a third-grade student at Saint Paul the Apostle Catholic School in Joliet, Illinois, just south of Chicago. My school days were filled with readin’, writin’, and ’rithmetic, along with catechism classes that taught us the Catholic faith that many of us were born into back then. There was a lot to absorb. We learned about Jesus, Mary, and Joseph; the apostles and the saints; heaven and hell; sin and confession. We learned about nuns, priests, bishops, cardinals, monks, and the Pope.
It was a lot for a kid who spent most of his time staring out the window, wishing he were outside playing baseball or riding his bike.
During Lent—the forty days leading up to Easter—we learned about sacrifice and meatless Fridays. Eating meat on Friday was a sin. No bacon, no burgers, no exceptions. I didn’t mind all that much. It meant Friday nights at the Knights of Columbus fish fry, where I could gorge myself on deep-fried whitefish, which I loved. Beyond that, I’d dutifully give up something like avocados—something I never ate anyway.
Good Fridays, though, felt different. Mysterious. Heavy. We got the day off from school, but at 3:00 p.m. we were expected in church for a service entirely devoted to the suffering and crucifixion of Christ. Everything about it drove home the same point: Christ died for our sins.
In my nine-year-old brain, that translated to something much simpler—and much heavier. It was my fault. If I hadn’t screwed up so much, maybe Christ could have lived a long life, retired, and spent the rest of his days telling great stories in the temple. That was probably not the intended takeaway. But it was mine.
Good Friday in 1966 arrived sunny and warm—a welcome break from a long, gray winter. It was a perfect day to hop on my bike. My partner in adventure was Butter Lennon. “Butter” was short for Butterball, which his older sisters had christened him as a baby. He preferred it to Arthur, his given name. He was a year older than me and a well-known source of mischief in the neighborhood. He went to public school, which I suspected was a mob of mostly unruly, troublemaking Protestant or Jewish kids. A suspicious crowd. I liked them, which probably made me a backsliding Catholic, even then.
Off we went, just Butter and me, looking for fun—or trouble—whichever came first. After riding around for an hour or so, we ended up at McDonald’s, home of the glorious 15-cent hamburger. I had no money, but Butter had a crumpled dollar bill and enough change to buy us each a burger, fries, and a small Coke.
It was glorious. Two men of the world, enjoying fine dining on a perfect spring day.
I took a bite of that burger—juicy, flavorful, perfect. I chewed. I swallowed.
And then it hit me.
Good Friday.
Not just any Friday—the most important meatless Friday of the entire liturgical calendar.
I had just committed what had to be an unforgivable sin. No confession, no priest, no number of Our Fathers or Hail Marys could get me out of this one. I was nine years old and, as far as I could tell, damned for all eternity.
The guilt was overwhelming. I carried it for years. I couldn’t tell anyone. Only Butter knew the truth.
The one small consolation was that he finished his burger—and the rest of mine—so at least I was less of a sinner than he was.
I held onto that guilt for a long time. Eventually, as a teenager, I drifted away from the Catholic Church, convinced I was deeply flawed—never quite good enough for heaven.
Years later, as an adult, I met a man who shared the Gospel with me. Through that, I came to understand grace and forgiveness. The burden I had carried for so long was lifted. I began to see that we are all flawed, all broken—and all offered grace anyway.
These days, I see people loudly professing Christian beliefs while embracing ideas that seem completely at odds with the Gospel. You can’t claim to follow Christ on one hand and threaten to bomb another country back to the stone age on the other. That’s not faith—that’s a distortion of it. And yet, people believe it. Defend it.
I find myself shaking my head, wondering what Bible they’re reading. Pope Leo, another good Chicago boy, called them out publicly on Palm Sunday, less than a week ago. I hope that people heard that. I’m praying for them. I’m praying for us – all of us. I think we all should, before it's too late.
I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Have you ever had an experience like mine? How did it affect your life of ideas about faith? Let me know in the comments. The questions are open to people of any faith or no faith. I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive.
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Thank you for reading—and for walking this road with me.
