Dear brothers and sisters in Christ,
Today is Good Friday—a day drenched in sorrow, silence, and sacred awe. A day that confronts us with the mystery of love through suffering. We come here not to celebrate, but to remember. Not to rejoice, but to kneel in wonder. And in a world that often tries to avoid pain at all costs, Good Friday dares us to look directly into it—into the battered face of Christ, crowned with thorns, rejected, mocked, broken.
But here’s the strange thing: we call this day Good Friday.
Why? What’s good about betrayal, false accusations, bloody scourging, nails hammered into hands and feet? What’s good about the cry, “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46)
It’s good because love never looks more real, more raw, more selfless than it does on the cross.
Let’s bring this closer to home.
Some of you here today are carrying your own crosses. Silent ones. Heavy ones. The cross of family breakdown, the cross of depression, the cross of financial struggle, of chronic illness, of loss. And sometimes it feels like God is silent, like Friday’s darkness will never lift. You’re not alone in that. Jesus felt it too. He was abandoned by His friends. Denied by Peter. Betrayed by Judas. Rejected by His own people. Even heaven seemed silent as He hung between life and death. And yet—He remained faithful.
St. Paul tells us in Philippians 2:8, “He humbled himself and became obedient unto death—even death on a cross.” What kind of God chooses to save the world this way?
A God who is not distant, not aloof, but deeply involved in our mess. A God who suffers with us and for us. Who knows what it means to be wounded, humiliated, misunderstood. A God who says, “You don’t suffer alone. I am with you. I have walked that road before you.”
Isaiah prophesied, “He was pierced for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon Him, and by His wounds we are healed.” (Isaiah 53:5)
There it is—the healing we so desperately need doesn’t come from avoiding pain, but from facing it with Jesus. From standing at the foot of the cross, next to Mary, and saying: “This was for me. This is love.”
And the truth we sometimes don’t want to admit? We are part of that crowd. The ones shouting “Hosanna” one day and “Crucify Him!” the next. We are the fearful, like Peter. The indifferent, like Pilate. The disillusioned, like the disciples who fled. The proud, like the Pharisees. But still—He loved us. Still—He gave Himself up for us.
And that is the scandal and the beauty of the Cross. It isn’t just a symbol. It’s the doorway to mercy, forgiveness, and a love that will never walk away.
Today, we don’t celebrate the Eucharist. Instead, we venerate the cross. We look at it, not as jewellery, not as a decoration—but as the battleground of grace. A sign that no matter how deep our wounds, no matter how far we’ve fallen, Jesus went deeper. He fell farther.
Because that’s what love does.
And let’s not rush to Easter just yet. Today is a day to sit in the silence of Friday. To enter into the suffering of Christ. To ask ourselves: What in me still needs to die? What selfishness, what sin, what fear needs to be nailed to that cross with Jesus?
As we leave here, let’s carry this with us: He did this for you. He saw your worst and still chose the Cross. He bore our pain, our infirmities, our shame—so we might live not just for ourselves, but in Him, and for others.
May we never take lightly the price that was paid.
And may we, like the centurion who stood before the cross, be able to say from the depths of our hearts: “Truly, this man was the Son of God.” (Mark 15:39)
Amen.