Good Friday

In the name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.


When I was a kid,

My church really loved to sing some of those revival hymns

From the 19thcentury tent meetings.

Since I’ve become Anglican I don’t get that experience as much anymore,

But when you grow up

Singing those hymns,

Those catchy, upbeat hymns

Often intentionally set to drinking tunes,

They never really leave you.

And this week,

For some reason,

I’ve found myself whistling to Victory in Jesus.

I heard an old, old story,

How a Saviour came from glory

How he gave his life on Calvary

To save a wretch like me.

O victory in Jesus!

My Saviour forever

He sought me

And bought me

With his redeeming blood.

He loved me ere I knew him

And all my love is due him

He plunged me to victory

Beneath the cleansing flood.

The upbeat, triumphal tune to this song

Doesn’t at all match

The somber reflections we engage in today.

A dying man on a cross

Doesn’t at all match

What we think of

As victory.


From our earliest days,

Christians have struggled to articulate

What exactly Jesus’s death on the cross means for us.

It has always been a source of mockery –

Archeologists have discovered ancient Roman graffiti

Featuring a man with a donkey’s head on a cross

With stick figures worshipping him,

Basically saying “Look at these dum-dums.

They worship an ass on a cross.”

Jesus’s death doesn’t look much like victory.

It looks like defeat.

Human beings have always been captivated by the power of story,

We look to narrative to shape our understanding of events,

And this is not what the story of a winner looks like.

Jesus breaks the cycle

Of revenge and violence

By refusing to conform to our expectations of what winning should be.

He declines to kick butt and take names,

He refuses to hit back,

He stands silent when condemned.

And he wins.

He holds firm to his relationships,

Even when it appears that everyone he loves has abandoned him.

With his final breaths, he gives the disciple whom he loves and his mother to one another, making sure that she is taken care of, inaugurating a new family even as he is dying.

This is what victory looks like.

Not an eye for an eye

Not turning our hearts to stone

For the sake of some imagined prosperous future

That can only be gained by shutting out

Those who are a drain on our resources

Not making sure we get ours

And too bad everybody else who’s left behind.

Victory looks like reaching out

From within suffering

To knit together

Rather than to tear apart.

To look out,

Even at those who have hurt us

And call them brother.

Victory looks like rewriting the narrative

That has driven human society for millennia

And declaring that all our criteria for what counts as winning are worthless

For Christ alone

Has plunged us into victory

That we had previously believed to be loss.

As a great theologian has said,

“In the cross,

Jesus transvalues our values.

He turns them upside down.”

In other words, he tells us that we have been looking for victory

In the wrong direction.

The cross stands in judgment

Of all the achievements for which human beings strive

Of our continual quest for power over

Rather than power with.

The same theologian writes,

“The Christian knows that the cross is the truth.

In that standard he sees the ultimate success of what the world calls failure

And failure of what the world calls success.”

And so today, we acknowledge our failure.

We lay down our arms.

We give up on the idea

Of trying to be a success.

We stop trying to achieve a perfection

A victory

That the world defines

That we can never quite reach.

And in letting go

Of what the world calls success

We are plunged into Christ’s victory

Over death itself.