GOOD FRIDAY REFLECTION 3 APRIL 2026

The Cost of Love in a World of Power

By Rev Dr Fei Taule’ale’ausumai

Have you ever wondered why a tragic day like today is called Good Friday?  Apparently while marking a tragic day of suffering, the name emphasises the “good news” and liberating outcome rather than the pain.  The readings from Isaiah 52:13–53:12 and Gospel of John 18:1–19:42 draw us into this story of cruelty, it is one of the most profound and unsettling moments in the Christian story. Good Friday is not a day for easy answers or quick resolutions. It is a day that invites us to slow down, to sit with discomfort, and to reflect deeply on the nature of suffering, power, and love. These texts do not offer us a neat theological explanation; rather, they confront us with the reality of human violence and the quiet, and the enduring presence of divine solidarity within it.

The passage from Isaiah introduces us to the figure often described as the suffering servant.  One who is neither admired nor celebrated but instead dismissed and rejected. “He had no form or majesty that we should look at him,” the text tells us. “He was despised and rejected… a man of suffering and acquainted with grief.” This servant does not embody the kind of strength or authority the world typically values. There is no outward beauty, no commanding presence, nothing that draws admiration. Instead, there is vulnerability, fragility, and an almost unbearable familiarity with pain. What is striking is that this suffering is not self-inflicted, nor is it the result of failure. Rather, it emerges from the way others perceive and respond to him. He is misjudged, misunderstood, and ultimately crushed under the weight of collective human action.  One week the crowd were shouting Hosanna, Hosanna and the next week they are shouting Crucify Him, Crucify Him.  Had we been there would we have joined the throng, I wonder where we might have stood?

In John’s account of the Passion. Here, suffering is no longer metaphorical; it takes on flesh and form in the person of Jesus. The story  unfolds after the Passover meal Jesus is arrested in a garden, betrayed by one of his own, and brought before a series of authorities who represent both religious and political power. He is questioned, mocked, and beaten. A crown of thorns is pressed onto his head, a cruel parody of kingship, and he is led to his execution. What becomes evident is that this is not an isolated act of violence, but the result of a system at work. Religious leaders seek to protect their authority, political figures aim to maintain order, and the machinery of empire moves forward with chilling efficiency.

In the encounter between Jesus and Pilate, the Roman governor, we see a moment that captures the tension at the heart of the story. Pilate asks Jesus about kingship and truth, probing for clarity, perhaps even for justification. Yet when Jesus speaks of truth, Pilate responds with a question that has echoed through history: “What is truth?” It is a question that reveals both curiosity and evasion. Truth, in this moment, is not an abstract concept to be debated; it stands confrontingly before him, wounded, vulnerable, and unarmed. Yet Pilate cannot or will not, recognise it. To acknowledge truth would require him to confront the injustice of the situation and to challenge the very structures he represents. And so, instead, he hands truth over to be crucified.

Isaiah’s servant suffers in much the same way, not because he is guilty, but because those around him fail to see clearly. “Surely he has borne our infirmities… yet we accounted him stricken, struck down by God, and afflicted.” There is a tragic misreading here, a tendency to interpret suffering as deserved or divinely ordained. This misinterpretation allows people to distance themselves from responsibility, to believe that the suffering of another is somehow justified. In doing so, they become complicit in that suffering. The texts invite us to recognise how easily we, too, fall into this pattern how often we explain away injustice or remain silent in the face of it.

Good Friday, then, is not simply about an event that took place long ago. It is a mirror held up to the world and to ourselves. The dynamics at play in these readings are not confined to ancient history; they continue to unfold in our own time. Wherever systems prioritise power over people, wherever truth is suppressed for the sake of convenience, wherever the vulnerable are marginalised or silenced, the story of Good Friday is being retold. It is present in the realities of war and displacement, in the persistence of poverty and inequality, in the ongoing struggles for racial and gender justice. It is also present in the quieter moments of everyday life in the choices we make, the voices we ignore, and the ways we protect our own comfort at the expense of others.

And yet, within this stark portrayal of human failure Jesus is not depicted as entirely passive or powerless. There is a sense of a quiet resistance in his actions. When he is arrested, he steps forward. When he is questioned, he speaks with clarity and purpose. Even on the cross, his final words “It is finished” are not a cry of defeat, but a declaration that something has been brought to completion. What is completed is not the triumph of violence, but the full revelation of love. In the face of betrayal, injustice, and suffering, love remains steadfast. It does not retaliate, it does not withdraw, and it does not abandon.

This is perhaps the most profound insight of Good Friday: that love, when lived fully and truthfully, will inevitably confront systems of power. And those systems, when threatened, often respond with resistance and even violence. But the cross reveals that such violence does not have the final word. What is exposed is not only the depth of human cruelty, but also the depth of divine presence. God is not distant from suffering, nor is God the author of it. Rather, God is found within it, alongside those who are broken, rejected, and abandoned.

The words from Isaiah, “by his wounds we are healed,” are not an endorsement of suffering as something good or necessary. Instead, they point to the possibility of transformation that arises when suffering is acknowledged and shared. Healing begins when we refuse to look away, when we name injustice for what it is, and when we stand in solidarity with those who suffer. It is in this shared space of vulnerability that new possibilities can emerge.

At the foot of the cross in John’s account, we are given a small but significant image of this kind of solidarity. A few individuals remain Mary the mother of Jesus, Mary Magdalen his beloved friend, and a handful of others. They do not have the power to change the outcome, nor do they offer solutions or explanations. What they do is stay. They bear witness. They refuse to abandon love, even in its most vulnerable form. Their presence becomes an act of quiet resistance against the forces that seek to isolate and destroy.

Good Friday does not resolve the tension it creates. It does not move quickly to hope or restoration. Instead, it ends with the body of Jesus placed in a tomb, with silence and stillness settling over the scene. It is a moment that invites us to pause, to sit with the weight of what has occurred, and to reflect on what it means for us today. The question that lingers is not simply about what happened, but about how we will respond. Will we recognise truth when we encounter it? Will we stand with those who suffer? Will we embody a love that persists even when it is costly?

In the quiet of Good Friday, we are left with these questions, and with the invitation to carry them with us. For it is in this space of reflection and honesty that the possibility of transformation begins not through grand gestures, but through the small, faithful acts of presence, courage, and compassion that shape our lives and our world.  Amen.

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