Greeneville, TN
Good Friday
April 3, 2026
The cross is where we are invited to linger today. Not to rush past it. Not to explain it away. Not to tidy it up with easy answers. But to stay. To stand still long enough for it to begin to speak to us.
Last night, on Maundy Thursday, we were left in the shadows of Gethsemane. In that quiet, heavy place where Jesus asked his friends to remain awake, to watch, to pray. A place where fear and love collided. Where uncertainty hung in the air. Where the weight of what was coming could already be felt.
And maybe, if we're honest with ourselves, we all know something about that place. That place where something feels like it's ending… or unraveling… and we don't yet know what comes next. But today, everything changes. The stillness of the garden gives way to movement... fast, relentless movement.
The story unfolds almost breathlessly. Judas steps forward. A kiss becomes betrayal. Peter follows, but only at a distance, and when the moment comes, he falters. Three times he says, "I do not know the man."
Pilate wrestles, hesitates, and questions, and then caves in to the pressures of the crowd. And we feel the crowd itself shifts and swells... The voices rising, and anger building, "Crucify Him – Crucify Him!"
And Jesus... Jesus is handed over, stripped, mocked, beaten, and led to the place of execution. It is a story we know so well. We know every turn. We recognize every character. We can almost recite the lines by heart. But, because we know it so well, there is a danger. The danger is not that we will forget it, but that we will stop feeling it. That it will become something so familiar, so contained and safe, that it becomes sterile... and begin to seem like a story that belongs to another time, another people, another world.
But Good Friday refuses to stay there. This story will not remain at a distance. Because if we take it seriously... if we allow it to be more than memory, it begins to ask us uncomfortable questions. It asks us not just to observe, but to recognize. Because somewhere in this story, we are present.
We know what it is to betray. Maybe not with a kiss in the night, but in quieter ways. Maybe when we choose self-interest over love... when we compromise what we know is right... when we abandon what we once held sacred.
We know what it is to deny. Like Peter, we may not even intend to... but fear has a way of shaping our choices. Fear of standing out or being judged. Fear of speaking up. Fear of losing something we value. And so we step back. We grow silent. We say, in one way or another, "I do not know the man."
We know what it is to see injustice... to get that deep feeling stirring in us that something just isn't right, and yet feel unsure, unable, or unwilling to act.
We know what it is to feel like Pilate... caught between what is right and what is expedient. And we know what it is to be part of a crowd, swept up in the noise, in the peer pressure, caught up in the momentum of voices louder than our own.
This is not just their story. It is ours. And that is what makes this day so difficult. Because the cross doesn't simply show us what was done to Jesus, it reveals something about the human condition itself.
It shows us how easily love is rejected. How quickly truth is silenced. How often power is misused. And how frequently fear wins. And if we look at the world around us, we still see it.
We see it in our social and political divisions that run deep... fracturing communities & families, straining relationships and eroding trust. We see violence that leaves us heartbroken and weary... Horrible news stories that come so often they risk becoming background noise. We see injustice that persists... sometimes loudly, sometimes quietly, but always with real human cost.
And in the face of all of this coming at us, it is easy to feel overwhelmed. To feel small. To feel as though nothing we do could possibly matter. To feel the temptation to step back and disengage, to protect ourselves. To wash our hands and say, like Pilate, "This is out of my hands."
But the cross of Christ will not let us go there so easily. John's Gospel does something powerful. It does not just tell us what happened. It invites us to look. "Look on him whom they have pierced." Not quickly. Not casually. But deeply. To really see. To see the suffering, the physical pain, the humiliation, and the abandonment.
But John's Gospel also invites us to see something else. To see great love. Not a sentimental kind of love. Not a comfortable kind of love. But a love that remains. A love that does not turn away, even when abandoned. A love that does not retaliate, even when wronged. A love that does not give up, even when everything seems lost. A love that gives itself completely. This is what hangs before us today.
And it is almost too much to take in. Because it challenges everything we think we know about strength, about power, and about victory. Here, strength looks like vulnerability. Power looks like surrender. And victory looks like loss.
And yet… this is the place where God is most fully revealed. Not in avoiding suffering, but by entering into it. Not in standing above it, but in bearing it. Not in destroying enemies, but in loving them.
And that is why we cannot rush past this day. Because while we know that Easter is coming, we are not there yet. Today is not about resolution. It is about presence. It is about standing at the foot of the cross with the women, with the beloved disciple, and with all those who did not turn away.
It is about allowing ourselves to feel the weight of what we see. To grieve what is broken... in the world, in others, in ourselves. And at the same time, to begin to see something else.
Because even here, especially here, there is hope. Not loud or triumphant. But quiet, persistent, and unyielding hope. The kind of hope that doesn't depend on circumstances, but is rooted in love.
And so we are, in a profound way, a privileged people. Because we know that this is not the end. We know that the story continues. But before we move toward Easter, we must first allow Good Friday to do its work in us. We must look. We must stay. We must let the reality of this love... this costly, self-giving, unwavering love, sink deep into our hearts. Because only then can it begin to change us. Only then can we begin to carry that love into a world that so desperately needs it. Only then are we ready to move toward resurrection.
So today… Stay at the cross. Stay with the questions. Stay with the discomfort. Stay with the grief. But above all, stay with the love that refuses to let go. And let it meet you here, in whatever place you find yourself. Because even now, even here, God is at work.
