Introduction: Why
Good Friday Still Matters in a Violent World
Every year, as Good Friday returns, we are invited
into a mystery that is both ancient and deeply contemporary. We remember the
suffering and crucifixion of Jesus Christ—a man betrayed, condemned,
humiliated, and executed. At first glance, it seems like a purely religious
memory, something confined to liturgy and prayer. For many, this remembrance
risks becoming a ritual, a sacred story repeated across generations. But if we
pause and look closely at our world today, we realize that Good Friday is not
just a memory of the past—it is a mirror held up to the present.
We live in a time marked by wars, political
tensions, systemic injustices, and deep divisions. Nations justify violence in
the name of security. Leaders speak of necessity. Media shapes narratives that
often soften or obscure suffering. In such a world, the cross is no longer
distant—it is painfully relevant. The story of Jesus’ Passion reveals not only
divine love but also the patterns of human behavior that continue to shape
history.
Good Friday invites us into what Christians call the
Paschal Mystery—the suffering, death, and resurrection of Christ. Yet no amount
of study can fully explain its depth. It is a mystery that must be
contemplated, entered into, and lived. The question is not only what happened
to Jesus, but how we see ourselves in the story. Are we like Judas, betraying
truth for convenience? Like Peter, denying when it is costly to stand firm?
Like Pilate, washing our hands of responsibility? Or can we become like Simon
of Cyrene, who helps carry the cross, even if reluctantly at first?
This reflection explores Good Friday through three
movements—images, thoughts, and sentiments— while bringing its meaning into
dialogue with our modern world while connecting it to the moral and social
realities: a world of unjust wars, moral confusion, and deep longing for truth
and freedom.
1. The Stripped
Christ and the Exposure of Reality
We begin with a stark and unsettling image: Jesus
hanging naked on the cross. Not partially clothed, not dignified, but
completely stripped—outer garments and inner tunic taken away. He is left
naked, exposed to the gaze of soldiers, crowds, and the sky itself. This is not
artistic exaggeration; it is theological truth. This detail is often softened
in art and imagination, but historically and theologically, it matters.
Crucifixion in the ancient world was designed to
degrade completely- was meant to humiliate completely. It was not merely a
method of execution but a public display of humiliation. The stripping of
garments was part of that process, meant to expose the victim entirely, to
remove dignity, identity, and protection. It was not only execution—it was
exposure and public shaming.
And yet, in this act of total stripping, something
unexpected happens- something profound
is revealed. The cross becomes a place of revelation. Everything is laid bare.
The violence of power is no longer hidden behind
political language or religious justification—it is visible in the wounded body
of Christ. The fear of leaders, who feel threatened by truth, is exposed. The
complicity of the crowd, which shifts from admiration to condemnation, is
revealed. Even the weakness of the disciples, who flee in fear, becomes
evident.
But above all, the love of Christ is unveiled in its
purest form.
There is nothing left to conceal it. No robe to
symbolize authority. No miracle to display power. Only a body given, a life
poured out.
This nakedness takes us back to the beginning of
human existence. In the Book of Genesis, Adam and Eve were naked and unashamed,
living in a state of transparency and trust. They received life as a gift,
without fear or defensiveness. But with the entrance of sin, that transparency
was lost. Fear entered the human heart, and with it came the need to hide, to
protect, to control. Clothing became a symbol not just of covering the body,
but of concealing vulnerability.
On the cross, Christ returns to that original
nakedness—but transformed. He is not unaware of evil; He has fully encountered
it. Yet He chooses not to defend Himself against it. His vulnerability is not
imposed alone—it is embraced.
In this way, the cross reveals a profound truth:
real freedom is not found in self-protection, but in self-gift.
This insight is echoed in the life of St. Francis of
Assisi. At the end of his life, Francis chose to die naked on the bare earth.
This was not an act of despair, but the culmination of a lifelong journey of
“stripping away.” He had renounced wealth, status, and security, discovering in
the process a deeper freedom. For him, nakedness symbolized reconciliation—with
God, with himself, and with creation.
Both Christ and Francis show us that to be stripped
is not necessarily to be diminished. It can also be revealed. It tells us that
true freedom is not found in what we accumulate, but in what we are willing to
surrender.
2. Moral
Disengagement and the Logic of Violence
If the image of the cross reveals truth, it also
forces us to think critically about how violence operates in human societies.
The crucifixion did not occur because people openly
embraced evil. It happened because they justified their actions.
The religious leaders convinced themselves that
eliminating Jesus was necessary for the stability of the nation. Pontius Pilate
avoided responsibility, choosing political convenience over justice. The crowd,
influenced by prevailing narratives, participated without fully understanding
the consequences of their actions.
This dynamic is not unique to the first century. It
is deeply embedded in human behavior.
Modern psychology helps us understand this through
the concept of moral disengagement, developed by Albert Bandura. Moral
disengagement refers to the ways individuals and groups justify harmful actions
so that they can act against their own moral standards without feeling guilt.
This process operates through several mechanisms:
- Moral justification: Harm is framed as serving a greater good
- Euphemistic language: Violence is softened through neutral terms
- Diffusion of responsibility: No one feels fully accountable
- Dehumanization: Victims are seen as less worthy
- Blame shifting: Victims are blamed for their suffering
Harmful actions are often framed as serving a
greater good, such as national security or economic progress. Language is used
to soften the reality of violence—terms like “collateral damage” replace the
harsh truth of civilian deaths. Responsibility is spread across institutions,
making it difficult to hold any one person accountable. Victims are dehumanized
or blamed, reducing empathy and making harm easier to justify.
When we look at the crucifixion through this lens,
we see all these mechanisms at work. And when we look at our world today, we
see them on a global scale.
Wars are rarely presented as acts of aggression.
They are framed as defensive measures, peacekeeping missions, or necessary
interventions. Media narratives often shape public perception in ways that
minimize suffering or justify violence. Institutions use technical language
that obscures ethical responsibility.
The result is a world in which violence persists not
only because of power struggles, but because of the ways it is rationalized.
The cross challenges this entire system.
On Good Friday, there is no euphemistic language. No
abstraction. No distancing.
A man is tortured and killed in full view.
The rawness of the event strips away all
justification. It forces us to confront the reality of what violence does—to
bodies, to communities, to truth itself.
This insight aligns with the thought of René Girard,
who argued that societies often maintain order through scapegoating. By blaming
and eliminating a chosen victim, communities create a false sense of unity.
In the crucifixion, Jesus becomes that scapegoat. He
is sacrificed “for the good of the people.” But the resurrection reveals a
shocking truth: God identifies not with the crowd, but with the victim.
This overturns the logic of violence.
It means that any system built on exclusion,
domination, or harm is fundamentally opposed to the kingdom of God.
3. The Cross and
the Reality of Unjust Wars Today
The relevance of Good Friday becomes especially
clear when we consider the wars and conflicts shaping our world today.
Across nations, violence is justified through
carefully constructed narratives. Leaders speak of protecting borders,
preserving identity, or maintaining order. These goals may contain elements of
truth, but they are often used to mask deeper realities of suffering.
Civilians—especially the poor and vulnerable—bear
the greatest cost. Families are displaced. Children grow up amid fear and
instability. Entire communities are reduced to numbers in reports.
Language plays a crucial role in this process. Words
are chosen not only to inform, but to shape perception. Bombings become
“operations.” Bombing becomes “precision strikes”; Occupation becomes
“stabilization”; Civilian deaths become “unintended consequences”; Civilian
casualties become “collateral damage.” Torture becomes “enhanced
interrogation.” Such language distances us from the human reality of suffering.
Media framing, as explored by thinkers like Erving
Goffman, influences how we interpret events and assign responsibility. By
highlighting certain aspects and minimizing others, media narratives can
reinforce existing power structures and justify harmful actions.
The cross stands as a radical challenge to this.
It refuses to allow suffering to be hidden. It
exposes the cost of violence in the most direct way possible. It reminds us
that behind every statistic is a human life, a story, a dignity that cannot be
reduced.
In this sense, Good Friday is not only a religious
observance—it is a call to ethical awareness. It invites us to question the
narratives we accept, the language we use, and the systems we support.
4. A Different
Kind of Power: The Way of the Cross
In a world that often equates power with dominance,
control, and force, the cross reveals a radically different understanding of
power.
Jesus does not resist arrest with violence. When one
of His disciples attempts to defend Him with a sword, He tells him to put it
away. He does not argue His case before Pilate in a way that would secure His
release. He does not call upon divine intervention to escape suffering.
Instead, He remains faithful to His mission of love.
This is not passivity. It is a deliberate choice.
It is the strength to remain rooted in truth even
when truth leads to suffering. It is the courage to forgive in the face of
injustice. It is the freedom to entrust oneself completely to God.
This form of power is often overlooked because it
does not conform to conventional expectations. It does not dominate or coerce.
It does not impose itself through force. Instead, it transforms from within.
We see echoes of this power in the lives of those
who work for justice without hatred, in individuals who speak truth despite
risk, who build communities of care, and who refuse to respond to violence with
more violence. It is a power that arises “from below,” rooted in solidarity and
compassion.
This power does not make headlines, but it changes
lives. It is the power of the cross. Such power may seem fragile, but it has
the capacity to change the world in profound ways.
5. From Fear to
Freedom
Standing before the cross, we are invited not only
to reflect intellectually, but to engage emotionally.
At first, there is discomfort. The nakedness of
Christ confronts our own tendency to hide. We build layers of protection—social
roles, achievements, ideologies—to shield ourselves from vulnerability.
We fear being seen as we truly are. We fear losing
control. We fear exposure.
But the cross speaks gently into this fear.
Christ is stripped of everything—yet He is not
diminished. In fact, He is most fully Himself. His identity as the beloved Son
is not dependent on external signs or protections. It is rooted in His
relationship with the Father.
This reveals a profound truth, a paradox: our worth does not come from what
we possess or how we appear, but from who we are in relationship—with God and
with others. The most humiliated becomes the most revealed. The most vulnerable
becomes the most powerful. The one who loses everything becomes the one who
gives everything. Slowly, our emotions begin to change. Sorrow becomes
gratitude. Fear becomes trust. Defensiveness becomes openness.
As we remain with this image, our emotions begin to
shift.
We feel gratitude, recognizing that nothing has been
held back. We feel trust, seeing that even in abandonment, Christ remains
faithful. We feel courage, realizing that we too can let go of our defenses.
The cry of Jesus—“My God, my God, why have you
forsaken me?”—resonates with our own experiences of suffering and doubt. It
reminds us that faith does not eliminate struggle, but transforms it.
And His final words—“Into your hands I commend my
spirit”—invite us into surrender.
Conclusion: The
Freedom of Transparent Love
Why is this day called “Good”?
Because in the naked, stripped, crucified Christ,
the deepest truth is revealed.
God does not hide behind power. God does not justify
violence. God does not protect Himself at the expense of others. Instead, God
gives everything.
In a world marked by deception, justification, and
fear, the cross stands as a place of radical transparency. It reveals both the
brokenness of humanity and the boundless love of God.
And in that revelation, we find freedom.
Not the freedom of control, but the freedom of
trust. Not the freedom of domination, but the freedom of love. Not the freedom
of possession, but the freedom of surrender.
Good Friday invites us to step into this freedom—to
live without hiding, to love without calculation, and to stand for truth even
when it is costly.
Because in the end, real love—like the love revealed
on the cross—is always naked, always transparent, and always free.
