Good Friday 2025

Jesus is bowed and bloody; 110 pounds of lumber is

strapped across his shoulders. The weight of the rough wood

proves too much as it grinds against the lacerations left by

the Roman scourging. Pain explodes like light in Jesus' brain.

And he crumples under the beam.

When he comes to, Jesus feels somehow weightless and he

realizes that the wooden crossbeam has been cut from his

back. Another man is carrying it now, a dark man whose face

he cannot see. But he does see the face of another.

Mercifully, a Roman centurion bends and takes Jesus under

the arm to lift him gently to his feet again. Jesus looks up and

holds the soldier captive in his gaze. The victim’s eyes do not

pierce the centurion with the hatred he expects. Instead, he

finds love in those eyes. Love mingled with pain, yes —

brokenhearted love — but love nonetheless. And not a love

excited by one mere act of kindness. This love preceded the

moment. This love preceded his existence. This love

preceded the existence of the world. Somehow the centurion

knows that these are the eyes of Eternal Love.

Jesus holds the soldier’s gaze as long as he can. But the

blood that dripped off the ends of his hair to the ground when

he was bent low under the cross now drops into his eyes.

The blood mixed with sweat stings, and Jesus blinks.

By this time Friday, Jesus is familiar with that sting. But it was

a new sensation on Thursday night in the garden.

There, in the garden, he walked with his friends singing

hymns and speaking quietly. They passed through the city

gate and walked up the hill of Gethsemane through the olive

trees. But there were only eleven friends with Jesus—not

twelve. One of the twelve chosen proved no friend at all.

Satan already held Judas, the betrayer, by the hand then and

now he has him by the neck. Judas hangs pale and gasping

swinging from the end of his belt under the limb of a tree. The

flames of hell are already lapping at his feet. It would have

been better if he had never been born.

Eleven remained then. But soon there would be none. Not

one friend would stay. Strike the Shepherd and the sheep will

scatter. One would run terrified out of the garden naked and

the rest would follow.

Jesus fell on his face in prayer. He tasted the dirt as he

fought for the eternal destinies of his eleven sleeping sheep a

stone’s throw away.

“Let the cup pass,” he cried. “Father, if possible, let the cup

pass!”

The Father gazed lovingly at his Son and the Son stared

back knowingly.

“Your will be done, Father,” whispered the Son.

And the Father held out the cup and Jesus looked in. What

he saw there flung him into the throes of agony. He pressed

his forehead deep into the dirt, which softened into mud

when mingled with his tears. Jesus felt several small

explosions of pain underneath the skin on his face. His tiny

capillaries in the sweat glands burst under the stress and

blood flowed through his pours and dropped into his eyes.

And it stung.

Jesus lifted his head to the sky and cried out, “I will drink

from this cup, Father. I will drink from this cup so that your

glory may be vindicated and my name may be glorified. And

so that the sheep that you have given me will see our glory

and enjoy it forever. I will drink on behalf of our rescue

mission.”

Just then, through blurry eyes, Jesus saw the line of torches

slithering like a snake up the hill to the garden. The mob

arrived. Judas kissed. Friends fled. Soldiers arrested. And

Jesus’ world became a swirl of torment and mockery.

His trial was a sham as liars lied and mockers mocked. God

claimed to be God, and it was called blasphemy. And the

face that Moses longed to see — the face that he was

forbidden to see — was slapped and spit on. More blood in

the eyes; more stinging.

As he was dragged from the High Priest’s house, Jesus

managed a bloody-eyed glance at Peter. This friend ran from

the garden, but this friend followed. And this friend had done

the unthinkable three times. This friend denied the Friend of

friends. This friend denied the Friend of sinners. He invoked

a curse to lend credence to his denials. And now the cock

crowed. And Jesus held Peter in the gaze of Eternal Love.

But Peter looked away and ran. Just outside the city gate he

stumbled and fell to the ground heaving sobs and considered

joining Judas on his tree. But he pleaded to the Father for

forgiveness instead. And the Father looked a few hours into

the future to Friday afternoon, and, on behalf of what he saw

there, he granted Peter the forgiveness he requested.

The Governor of Judea was up early this cold, gray, wet

Friday morning. The city still slept as the priests and soldiers

led Jesus to the palace of Pontius Pilate. But soon the priests

would have a sympathetic crowd as news of Jesus’ arrest

passed from house to house.

They leveled their charges: “This man forbids us to pay

tribute to Caesar and he calls himself a king.”

Pilate stared intently at Jesus. He questioned him. And found

no guilt. Neither did King Herod. So Pilate offered to release

Jesus to the swelling crowd. But they chose freedom for the

murderer Barabbas instead.

“Then what should I do with Jesus of Nazareth?” Pilate

shouted to the mob.

The mob thundered back: “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

And their voices prevailed. Pilate washed his hands and

delivered the Innocent One to death.

Next, Jesus was stripped and his hands were tied above his

head to a post. A large, shirtless Roman legionnaire stepped

toward Jesus fondling a short whip. Several heavy, leather

thongs hung off the handle weighed down by the small balls

of lead attached near the ends of each. The muscles in the

legionnaire’s back and arms bulged as he brought down the

heavy whip with full force again and again and again across

Jesus’ shoulders and back and buttocks and legs.

The Jews would have been more merciful — no more than

thirty-nine lashes. But the Romans extended no such mercy.

And the balls of lead yielded large deep bruises. Then the

bruises were eventually broken open by the endless blows.

The thongs cut through the skin and then they cut deeper

into muscles. From behind, Jesus no longer looked human.

His skin hung in long, bloody ribbons of tissue.

Fearing they had gone too far and killed Jesus before it was

time, the soldiers cut him loose. He fell in an unconscious

heap at their feet.

As Jesus came to he was forced to stand. A purple robe, not

his own, was wrapped around him and clung to his open

wounds. They made him hold a stick — a mock scepter. And

now the King of the Jews needed a crown. One of the

Romans picked up a thorn branch from a pile of firewood and

braided it into a circle. Never did thorns compose so rich a

crown — or so painful a crown. Another soldier took the

scepter from the hand of the King of kings and beat the

crown into his skull. Bloody sweat blinded him. And his

stinging eyes momentarily took his mind off the pain in his

back.

But then the purple robe was torn from Jesus. And ribbons of

flesh that adhered to the cloth were ripped off with its

removal. Each wound had a voice of its own to shriek its

pain. And Jesus collapsed again.

Now Jesus is dressed in his own clothes. And before the

merciful centurion can move Jesus along behind the dark

man now carrying the cross, an old woman approaches and

wipes Jesus’ face with a linen cloth. Jesus looks her in the

eyes and then looks to the crowd of weeping women behind

her.

And he says, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me,

but weep for yourselves and for your children. The days are

coming when they will say, ‘Blessed are the wombs that

never bore and the breasts that never nursed.’ Then they will

say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us,’ and to the hills, ‘Cover us.’”

And to the old woman he adds, “If they do these things when

the wood is green, what will happen when it’s dry?”

Then Jesus walks on beyond the city gates. It’s nine o’clock

in the morning, Friday.

Through the steady rain Jesus glances up from the base of a

rocky hill. It’s named Golgotha — the Skull.

At the top he sees several posts fixed in the ground. Three of

those poles stand ready to receive their crossbeams and the

tattered body of Jesus and the two criminals carrying their

crosses behind him.

At the top of the hill the merciful centurion hands Jesus a

cup. Jesus sniffs the liquid. It’s wine mixed with myrrh, a mild

narcotic to dull the pain. But Jesus is meant to feel all the

pain. So he hands the cup back. This is not the cup of the

Father.

A soldier strips Jesus. Again his back is set on fire as skin

tears away with the cloth.

Jesus now lays naked in the dirt. The dark man places the

crossbeam by Jesus’ head. This time Jesus sees his face. It

is Simon of Cyrene. Jesus knows him by name and did

before there was time.

The beam becomes his pillow now. Two men take hold of his

hands. The soldier on his left yanks his arm as far as it will

go. But the soldier to his right is gentler. Jesus turns to him.

It’s the merciful centurion again. He picks up a cold spike and

places it to Jesus’ wrist. Then he picks up a hammer. Their

eyes meet. Eternal Love shines forth again, and the

centurion is undone. He looks away and lifts his hammer.

In that moment Jesus hears his own word of power: the word

of power that holds the merciful centurion in existence, the

word of power that causes the hammer to be. He’s speaking

it all into being: the soldiers, the priests, the thieves, the

friends, the mothers, the brothers, the mob, the wooden

beams, the spikes, the thorns, the ground beneath him, and

the dark clouds gathering above. If he ceases to speak they

will all cease to be. But he wills that they remain. So the

soldiers live on, and the hammers come crashing down.

Jesus is lifted on his crossbeam to the post. He sags held

only by the spikes in his wrists. Jesus designed the median

nerves in his arms that are working perfectly now. The pain

shoots up those nerves and explodes in his skull as the

crossbeam is set in place.

His left foot is now pressed against his right foot. Both feet

are extended, toes down, and a spike is driven through the

arch of each. His knees are bent.

Jesus immediately pushes himself up to relieve the pain in

his outstretched arms. He places his full weight on the spikes

in his feet and they tear through the nerves between the

metatarsal bones. Splinters from the post pierce his lacerated

back — searing agony.

Quickly waves of cramps overtake him — deep, throbbing

pain from his head to his toes. He’s no longer able to push

himself up and his knees buckle.

He’s hanging now by his arms. His pectoral muscles are

paralyzed and his intercostals are useless. Jesus can inhale,

but he cannot exhale. His compressed heart is struggling to

pump blood to his torn tissue. He fights to raise himself in

order to breathe and in order to speak.

He looks down at the soldiers now gambling for his clothes.

He pushes himself up through the violent pain to pray aloud,

“Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they do.”

Then he sags back into silence. But the crowd is not silent,

though he can barely hear their taunts through the din of his

pain.

“He saved others, let him save himself!”

“If you’re the Christ, come down off the cross!”

“Save yourself, King of the Jews!”

The criminal on the cross to his left joins the mockery. But

the thief to his right repents. Jesus pushes himself up to say

to him, “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in

paradise.”

It’s noon now. The rain falls harder and the clouds blacken.

Jesus looks down through wet strands of hair into the familiar

face of a woman. A new pain grips him — greater pain than

all the whips and spikes in the Kingdom of Rome. It’s his

mother. She’s sobbing so hard that her breathing is as

labored as his. Without words she looks into his eyes and

begs to know why. He longs to hold her and to tell her that

it’s all for her. He pushes upward and says, “Woman.” Then

he looks his friend John in the eyes. John is standing behind

her supporting his own weeping mother. “He is now your

son.”

Then to John Jesus murmurs, “And she is now your mother.

Take her away from here.”

And he sags back into silence, back into countless hours of

limitless pain.

Then Jesus is startled by a foul odor. It isn’t the stench of

open wounds. It’s something else. And it crawls inside him.

He looks up to his Father. His Father looks back, but Jesus

doesn’t recognize these eyes. They pierce the invisible world

with fire and darken the visible sky. And Jesus feels dirty. He

hangs between earth and heaven filthy with human discharge

on the outside and, now, filthy with human wickedness on the

inside.

The Father speaks:

Son of Man! Why have you sinned against me and heaped

scorn on my great glory?

You are self-sufficient and self-righteous — consumed with

yourself and puffed up and selfishly ambitious.

You rob me of my glory and worship what’s inside of you

instead of looking out to the One who created you.

You are a greedy, lazy, gluttonous slanderer and gossip.

You are a lying, conceited, ungrateful, cruel adulterer.

You practice sexual immorality; you make pornography, and

fill you mind with vulgarity.

You exchange my truth for a lie and worship the creature

instead of the Creator. And so you are given up to your

homosexual passions, dressing immodestly, and lusting after

what is forbidden.

With all your heart you love perverse pleasure.

You hate your brother and murder him with the bullets of

anger fired from your own heart.

You kill babies for your convenience.

You oppress the poor and deal slaves and ignore the needy.

You persecute my people.

You love money and prestige and honor.

You put on a cloak of outward piety, but inside you are filled

with dead men’s bones — you hypocrite!

You are lukewarm and easily enticed by the world.

You covet and can’t have so you murder.

You are filled with envy and rage and bitterness and

unforgiveness.

You blame others for your sin and are too proud to even call

it sin.

You are never slow to speak.

And you have a razor tongue that lashes and cuts with its

criticism and sinful judgment.

Your words do not impart grace. Instead your mouth is a

fountain of condemnation and guilt and obscene talk.

You are a false prophet leading people astray.

You mock your parents.

You have no self-control.

You are a betrayer who stirs up division and factions.

You’re a drunkard and a thief.

You’re an anxious coward.

You do not trust me.

You blaspheme against me.

You are an un-submissive wife.

And you are a lazy, disengaged husband.

You file for divorce and crush the parable of my love for the

church.

You’re a pimp and a drug dealer.

You practice divination and worship demons.

The list of your sins goes on and on and on and on. And I

hate these things inside of you. I’m filled with disgust, and

indignation for your sin consumes me.

Now, drink my cup!

And Jesus does. He drinks for hours. He downs every drop

of the scalding liquid of God’s own hatred of sin mingled with

his white-hot wrath against that sin. This is the Father’s cup:

omnipotent hatred and anger for the sins of every generation

past, present, and future — omnipotent wrath directed at one

naked man hanging on a cross.

The Father can no longer look at his beloved Son, his heart’s

treasure, the mirror-image of himself. He looks away.

Jesus pushes himself upward and howls to heaven, “My

God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Silence.

Separation.

Jesus whispers, “I’m thirsty,” and he sags.

The merciful centurion soaks a sponge in sour wine and lifts

it on a reed to Jesus’ lips. And the sour wine is the sweetest

drink he ever tasted.

Jesus pushes himself up again and cries, “It is finished.” And

it is. Every sin of every child of God has been laid on Jesus

and he drank the cup of God’s wrath dry.

It’s three o’clock, Friday afternoon, and Jesus finds one more

surge of strength. He presses his torn feet against the spikes,

straightens his legs, and with one last gasp of air cries out,

“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!”

And he dies.

The merciful centurion sees Jesus’ body fall far forward and

his head drop low. He thrusts a spear up behind Jesus’

ribs—one more piercing for our transgression—and water

and blood flow out of his broken heart.

In that moment mountains shake and rocks spilt; veils tear

and tombs open.

And the merciful centurion looks up at the lifeless body of

Jesus and is filled with awe. He drops to his knees and

declares, “Truly this man was the Son of God!”

Mission accomplished. Sacrifice accepted.