Lectionary Commentaries for April 18, 2025
Good Friday

Nothing displayed Roman power like crucifixion, an act designed to publicly execute revolutionaries and slaves with utmost shame and disgrace as a means of punishment, cruel amusement, and deterrence for revolutionaries present and future. Josephus describes the crucifixion of thousands of Jews during the siege of Jerusalem (70 CE) in the first war with Rome, many of whom were starving refugees trapped in the city. They were deterred from foraging beyond Jerusalem’s walls by Jewish revolutionaries who would execute them and their families for desertion, yet were forced out by famine only to be captured and crucified by the Romans.

Josephus writes chillingly, “So the soldiers, out of the wrath and hatred they bore the Jews, nailed those they caught, one after one way, and another after another, to the crosses, by way of jest, when their multitude was so great that room was wanting for the crosses, and crosses wanting for the bodies.”¹

For the readers of John, written in the traumatic aftermath of this war and hurtling toward the cataclysmic second war (132–135 CE), the crucifixion of Jesus would be understood as a prophetic foreshadowing and in profound solidarity with all those non-combatants hungry for peace and life in the face of overwhelming death. John takes Jesus’ crucifixion, intended by Rome as a triumphant display of Roman power and glory over a humiliated enemy, and narrates it as the victory of God over the forces of death and dominion, a victory achieved by the self-controlled and unflappable martyrdom of Jesus. Today, in yet another time of war, famine, immense suffering, and death in Judea and Palestine (and elsewhere), we do well to return to John’s Passion for a renewed vision of peace, resilient agency, and life.

The lectionary passage begins under the cover of darkness with the arrest of Jesus at the hands of soldiers from both Rome and the chief priests and Pharisees (18:1–3), highlighting the alliance of powerful elites arrayed against Jesus. No identifying kiss from Judas is needed in John, and unlike in Mark’s Gospel, Jesus does not fall to the ground and plead that this hour might pass from him. Instead, the Light of the World (8:12; 9:5; 11:9; see also 1:4–5) steps forward and the cohorts of darkness fall back at Jesus’ invocation of the divine name: “I am” (18:4–7; see also 8:24; Exodus 3:14).

Rejecting apprehension (see also 10:17–18; 1:5), Jesus offers himself in place of his accompanying disciples (18:8–9; see also 17:12), and he affirms the anti-violent path of liberation given to him by God, rebuking Peter for his attack on the high priest’s slave Malchus (18:10–11). We see clearly here John’s insight that the power to overcome violence comes not from violence, but rather from sacrificial love (see also 13:1; 15:13) and from light that eschews both flight and fight.

From there, Jesus (bound and beaten, yet ever unbowed) is paraded before both high priests and Pilate, where his innocence is interrogated (18:23, 29–38) and repeatedly pronounced (18:38; 19:4, 6). These scenes are intermixed with episodes of Peter, and whereas Jesus actively responds when challenged—no silent lamb led to slaughter (1:29, 36; 19:14; see also Isaiah 53:7)—Peter denies being a disciple, three times responding, “I am not” (a bitter and tragic inversion of Jesus’ “I am”).

Jesus’ confrontation with Pilate, the face of empire in Judea and emissary of the imperial “ruler of this world” (12:31; 14:30; 16:11), displays most clearly Jesus’ distinct path of liberation apart from violent revolution. Jesus insists to Pilate, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over” (18:36). Rather, Jesus’ mission and power is his testimony to the truth (18:37), a revelation that unmasks the myth of violence and domination (see also 8:31–59).

Pilate, refusing to listen to this voice, cynically responds, “What is truth?” before sitting on the judgment seat (19:13) and presiding over this cosmic miscarriage of justice and sham of Roman “law and order.”

Jesus’ distinct path of liberation stands apart from the other postures toward Rome displayed as foils in this passage. Though united in their opposition to Jesus, we see starkly different sentiments displayed by the various Jewish groups depicted. On the one hand, we see the powerful chief priests aligned with Roman rule, who go beyond sending officers to join the Roman cohort at Jesus’ arrest (18:1–8) to ultimately proclaiming, “We have no king but the emperor” (19:15), an existential inversion of the zealous revolutionary cry “No King but God!”²

Conversely, the Judeans clamor for the release of Barabbas, the anti-Roman insurrectionist (18:40; cf. 10:8–10). Though divided in causes, all three parties (Pilate, the chief priests, and Judeans) are united in the perception of the threat Jesus’ path to liberation and life poses to them, a union begun in the raising of Lazarus that set in motion their resolve to kill Jesus (see also 11:45–53; 12:9–11; 18:14), and they join in sending him off to his wrongful execution. Jesus, however, remains in control until the end, pronouncing, “It is finished,” then bowing his head and handing over his spirit (19:30).

Notably, though Jesus’ anti-violent resistance to the forces of death is ultimately endorsed by God in the resurrection of Jesus as the true way of faithfulness (see also 14:6), his betrayal and crucifixion are both condemned as sin (19:11), making clear that God neither requires nor desires the death of Jesus to bring salvation (contrary to the penal substitution theory in Christian theology). In addition to the multiple metaphors of salvation in John (including spiritual union with God [17:20–23] and spiritual rebirth [3:3–8]; see also 1:12–13), John takes the death that Rome intended for shame and dominion and transforms it into a sacred sacrifice of liberation, evoking the Passover liberation by placing Jesus’ crucifixion at the same time as the sacrifice of the lambs for Passover (19:14).

The transformation of death into life is completed by the birth imagery evoked in the eruption of blood and water when Jesus’ side is pierced (19:34). For all who struggle and die in pursuit of peace, truth, and justice—especially peacemakers in Palestine, Israel, and throughout the world—John’s portrait of Jesus’ martyrdom shows the life, love, freedom, and rebirth that are possible in active resistance.

Notes

1. Judean War, 5.11.1.
2. For example, Josephus, War, 2.8.1.

Dawn comes while shadows still linger in the sky, and I realize there is no whole picture without light and darkness. The picture of the “Suffering Servant” in this Isaiah text is sketched with bright stripes of self-sacrifice, commitment, and purpose, and dark strokes of abuse, humiliation, torture, and death.

Isaiah 52:13–53:12, the fourth of the Servant Songs, shows how goodness interlocks with injustice, and how whether we like or not, for the time being, both coexist in our midst. The text is used during Holy Week referring to the suffering and passion of Jesus.¹ Interpreted as an individual who suffers innocently on behalf of others, but also as Israel’s collective ideal role model of sacrificial servanthood, the “servant” is a nameless figure who delivers Israel and transforms the world.²

The first section (Isaiah 52:13–15) introduces the servant’s wisdom, insight, and understanding, his exaltation and disconcerting impact.³ The second section (Isaiah 53:1–12), with a sober and dark atmosphere, details his rejection, suffering, and victory. Both sections are interwoven with repeating images and verbs associated with this outcast and afflicted figure (52:13; 53:11b).⁴ The passage also shines brightly with the servant’s determination and willingness to serve and to uphold his people, no matter the cost.

The servant’s capacity for understanding is central (52:13) and points out the ability to make sound judgment, based on a deeper analysis of reality, helping the servant to identify the motives of people and systems. But also, one must understand and accept the risks when seeking the well-being of the people.⁵ Although the servant is the “arm of the Lord,” his description is prone to produce repulsion. His unpleasant appearance (52:14; 53:2) is intensified by his low worth, insignificant presence, and submissiveness (53:6–7). People will not be attracted to him for worldly reasons like wealth, honor, power, success, or beauty. Instead, they are shocked by his lack of all these things (52:15).⁶

The theme of humiliation in Isaiah 50:4–9a is repeated here. Parallel to people abused, criticized, and robbed of their dignity, the servant portrays the gloomy image of the loser, the one all people despise and reject. The writer, like the exiled Israel (verses 3–4), is sick and in pain as someone smitten by disease, and carries such intense shame that he forces others to look away.⁷

In ancient Israelite society, guilt was understood not only as a personal or psychological state but also as a communal and covenantal issue. The guilt offering (Leviticus 5:14–19) was a crucial part of the sacrificial system, designed to restore the relationship between the offender and God, as well as between the offender and the community. A series of verbs and images develops the concept of sacrificial substitution, which becomes the way of this servant. The notion of bearing, lifting, or removing sin, expressed with the verb nasa’ (52:13; 53:4), includes accepting the responsibility or guilt, whereas forgiveness becomes the act that removes that burden. Consequently, the servant sprinkles his life in a cleansing act of atonement, embracing all the nations (53:15).⁸

The dissonance of verses 53:4–6, 8, and 10 is disconcerting. Torture, rejection, and death become instruments of darkness. The innocent servant is pierced and crushed for the sole purpose of taking up the pains and suffering of the people who reject and condemn him in a “victim-blaming theology.” The writer deepens this dissonance first by setting up two types of sheep in this sacrificial imagery: Israel and other sinners, and the “other sheep,” the servant who died in Israel’s place (53:11). Second, the text affirms that “it was the LORD’s will” to afflict, strike, and punish this innocent servant.

Finally, this “sheep” not only suffers death with bloodshed (verse 12) but by vanishing from history.⁹ Like the African American cemeteries disappearing from historical records, attempts to erase their presence in history, the servant’s burial with the wicked was intended to humiliate, belittle, and vanish his memory.¹⁰ Systems that fear the prophetic spirit rising in the people after the silencing of their prophets, disappear and discredit the deeds and lives of those who work for peace and justice.

Where are the sparks of light in this dark picture? The servant does something no one dared. He takes the iniquities of his people upon himself and shows their darker violent side.¹¹ This human mirror sets a path of opportunity to self-reflect, repent, and change our wicked ways. The servant’s sacrifice changes the destiny of his people so that new futures can be born.

The passage ends by acknowledging the servant’s sacrifice with promises of prosperity and offspring to continue the will of the Lord. His unique comprehension of the world, of himself, but also of the divine character and purpose, enough to trust the Lord in this journey, secures the justification of many. This selfless and life-surrendering act deserves his exaltation (53:12). The servant knew who he was, whom he served, and how the unjust world works. This knowledge enlightened him to stand up in complete solidarity with human beings.

The text’s description of the servant, alongside the language of oppression¹² and the lack of advocacy in verses 8–9, isn’t limited to the servant in Jesus-like mode. It is open to other interpretations of suffering, like disability or human trafficking, worthy of exploration. The servant shows us the way to live in solidarity, trusting that even when the Lord plays the long game and darkness seems to reign, like Jesus, we refuse to give up. In our commitment to the deep love of God, light comes forth, shining through the darkness.

Notes

1. J. A. Martin, “Isaiah,” The Bible Knowledge Commentary: An Exposition of the Scriptures, vol. 1, ed. J. F. Walvoord and R. B. Zuck (Victor Books, 1985), 1106.
2. Stephen Cook, “Isaiah,” Introducing Israel’s Prophetic Writings (Fortress Press, 2022), 111–113.
3. J. A. Motyer, Isaiah: An Introduction and Commentary, vol. 20 (InterVarsity Press, 1999), 376.
4. Joseph Blenkinsopp, “The Sacrificial Life and Death of the Servant (Isaiah 52:13–53:12),” Vetus Testamentum, vol. 66 (2016), fasc. 1.
5. J. Swanson, Dictionary of Biblical Languages with Semantic Domains: Hebrew (Old Testament), ebook (Logos Research Systems, Inc, 1997).
6. John N. Oswalt, “Isaiah 52:13–53:12: Servant of All,” The Holy One of Israel (Lutterworth Press, 2014), 148.
7. John F. A. Sawyer, Isaiah through the Centuries (John Wiley & Sons, 2020), 313.
8. Martin, 1107.
9. David M. Stark, Singing and Suffering with the Servant (Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2022), 156.
10. Lottie L. Joiner, “Why Are Black Burial Grounds Disappearing Across America?” Sisters from AARP, February 22, 2024, https://www.sistersletter.com/culture/why-are-black-burial-grounds-disappearing-across-america.
11. Oswalt, 149.
12. Sawyer, 318.

Born out of a gut-wrenching anguish, Psalm 22 is the cry of one who knows what it is to be bullied by his enemies, rejected by his community, and abandoned by God.¹

The threat for the psalmist is imminent as a “company of evildoers” surrounds him like bulls ready to attack and lions eager to devour. Bystanders despise and mock him. Even God seems to have forsaken him. The One in whom his ancestors trusted, the One he has worshiped since his birth, this One has also seemingly cast him aside. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” the psalmist cries. “O LORD, do not be far away! … Come quickly to my aid!” (verse 19). Yet in his time of trouble, God remains agonizingly silent.

The distress of the psalmist is palpable. With no one to help, the psalmist is consumed with a fear that debilitates him, exacting a physical and emotional toll. “I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax,” the psalmist murmurs (verse 14). For 21 verses, the psalmist voices his agonizing pain, his loneliness, his feelings of abandonment. God, where are you? “Deliver my soul from the sword … save me from the mouth of the lion!” the psalmist pleads (verses 20a, 21a).

Then rather abruptly, the threat is gone. The enemies who once circled around the psalmist have been replaced by a worshiping community. The psalmist’s fear of affliction has been redirected into fear of the Lord. Lament has turned to praise. The world, which was once a place of danger for the psalmist, has become a place of joy and blessing—not just for the psalmist but for the wider community as well, to whom blessings now flow.

“The poor shall eat and be satisfied; those who seek him shall praise the LORD” (verse 26a). All this, the psalmist tells us, is God’s doing. In the end, God did not despise the affliction of the afflicted but heard his cry, his desperate plea for help. God turned toward him. God answered and acted for his sake, one whom the community had stigmatized, marginalized, and cast off. The holy God, enthroned on the praises of Israel, stooped down and attended to the needs of one despised and rejected.

For those familiar with the Christian scriptures, it is almost impossible to read this psalm without calling to mind the events of Jesus’ suffering and death on the cross. “Eli, eli, lema sabachthani? … My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Jesus cried (Matthew 27:46; Mark 15:34). Certainly the gospel writers understood Jesus as taking on the experience of the psalmist and all who would pray this prayer, embodying the sorrow, the loneliness, and the abuse reflected in this psalm. Soldiers gambled for his clothes (see Psalm 22:18 and John 19:23–24). Passersby jeered at him (see Psalm 22:7–8; Mark 15:29, Matthew 27:39). Enemies sought his life. And God remained silent.

The associations between this psalm and the passion of Christ highlight how fully and completely Jesus entered into the suffering of humanity, taking the sorrow and anguish of those who are afflicted upon himself. So the writer of Hebrews can speak of Jesus as one who became like his sisters and brothers in every respect and who is able to sympathize with us in our weakness and suffering as he intercedes for God’s mercy on our behalf (Hebrews 2:17; 4:15).

But Jesus’ suffering is not just about solidarity and sympathy. Jesus not only suffered like us or with us; he suffered and even died for our sake. His is a redemptive suffering, a vicarious suffering, a suffering that marked the beginning of the end of all senseless and gratuitous suffering caused by human sin and evil. Jesus’ suffering brings about the new day described in Psalm 22:22–32, when all the families of the nations shall worship the Lord, and the poor shall eat and be satisfied, and the Lord will reign with justice and righteousness, and suffering and sorrow shall flee away.

As we consider this psalm on Good Friday, at least two avenues for reflection open themselves up to us. First, Psalm 22 reminds us that our faith is not rooted in a facile triumphalism. Christ’s was a hard-won, anguish-filled victory against all that the forces of evil could muster. He stared sin and evil in the face and put them to death in his own body.

This psalm, then, gives us a glimpse of what our redemption cost God, the Son submitting to the excruciating journey of the Via Dolorosa all the way to his brutal death on the cross; the Father, tormented by Jesus’ cries for help and overcome by grief at his last breath, all for the sake of our redemption. What wondrous love is this? What greater demonstration of love can there be than that God would lay down his life for us?

Second, it is not difficult to imagine those in our society who would pray this prayer—those who are the target of prejudice and injustice, those who suffer gratuitously on account of laws, policies, and social norms that fail to make space for them, those whom our society has pushed to the margins.

Good Friday is a day to join with Jesus in his fierce grief and sorrow over the sin of the world, to lament the forces of evil and cry out to God to bring healing to our sin-sick world. Through the cries of Psalm 22, we are reminded of the evil that still plagues our world and even resides in our own hearts, and so we lift up our voices in lament, awaiting the day when God will finally bring an end to all evil and pain.

“Come quickly, Lord. Do not be far away!”

Notes

1. Commentary published previously on this website for March 25, 2016.

As we enter this text from the letter to the Hebrews, we are late to church, showing up in the middle of the climax of a sermon. Up to this point, the author/preacher has been building a rather intricate doctrinal argument about the life, suffering, death, and high priesthood of Christ. As Fred Craddock suggests, “Once inside [the book of Hebrews], the reader never relaxes, never quite feels at home. The paragraphs are not written in such a way that they can easily be extracted for devotional or sermonic use; rather, they are carefully linked in one long sustained argument. The furniture seems permanently in place.”¹

And yet, we have gifted to us an excised pericope that bridges the conclusion of a section of doctrinal exposition into the beginning of a long section of application or exhortation. It is a climactic, yet odd transition point in the Hebrews homily. And to make this text selection even more interesting, the architects of the lectionary opted to place this reading on Good Friday.

While most preachers may select the Gospel story of Jesus’ trial and crucifixion as their primary preaching text (understandably so!), there is a strong case to be made for the inclusion and preaching of this text from Hebrews on Good Friday. At first glance, connections might be made to the Gospel story through the images and language of blood and the ripped curtain of the temple. However, there is something more significant happening in this text than the repetition or reappropriation of crucifixion imagery. At its heart, this text is a word of encouragement and pastoral care amid a world marked by death-dealing powers and crucifixion-shaped realities.

While the makeup of the original audience of this letter is debated among scholars, the content of the biblical text makes clear that this second-generation faith community was struggling. There are indications that some members were no longer gathering to worship regularly (10:25). The community seems to be demoralized as the writer warns against acquiescing to “drooping hands” and “weak knees” (12:12).²

The community was possibly wavering under the disappointment of the delay of the final return of Christ that had been promised (10:25, 35–39). While there is no indication that anyone in the community had been killed for the faith, the author does indicate situations of “persecution” (10:33), “hostility” (12:3), and “torture” (13:13). There seems to be apathy and disappointment within the community and pressure from beyond the community that made this path of faith seem less and less worth it.

Given these circumstances, the writer of Hebrews opts to respond with this christological, complex homily. But underneath the sophisticated Greek, Hellenistic theological constructions, and strong exhortative language, this letter/homily is, at heart, an act of pastoral care. The author knows the struggles of the community and fears that the community is tempted to abandon the faith. But the author also is confident that the community has the capacity to sustain compassion, generosity, and boldness in faith through present trials as they have in the past (10:32–36). And so the author offers them guidance and encouragement for the present and future, grounded in the person of Jesus the Christ as model and high priest.

The pericope begins with language borrowed from Jeremiah 31 that serves as a summary or capstone to the expository section of the sermon, reminding the community of the promise of the new covenant and full forgiveness that has been inaugurated by the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ, who now reigns as high priest.

After this expository summary, the author moves to unpack three key communal implications. In other words, the author moves to the “application” part of the sermon.

First, this final sacrifice and reign of Christ as high priest offer believers confidence that they can approach God with “a true heart in full assurance of faith” (10:22). This is a word for the present, reminding the community that, despite challenges and discouragements, they can approach God fully and without reservation. This is not because they are good or flawless, but because Christ has led the way on earth in his ministry and opened the way in his crucifixion and role as high priest.

There is also language in this admonition about having “our hearts sprinkled clean … and our bodies washed with pure water” (10:22), a reminder of their baptism and their identity as claimed by God. In short, the author is inviting the community to lean into the promises made in their baptism and the sustaining power of the crucified Christ. In so doing, they might sustain confidence in the faith when the ground seems to be shifting under them and their expectations remain unmet.

The second exhortation offered to the community is to “hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering” (10:23). This is a word for the future, again grounded in Christ’s presence and work (“for he who has promised is faithful”). Notably, this exhortation acknowledges that while Christ reigns as high priest, the world is still broken and, as Fred Craddock suggests, “the final results of Christ’s work are not yet and there are many enemies” (Hebrews 10:13).³ There is something honest about this exhortation for the struggling community to whom the letter is addressed (and perhaps for us!). While it is an exhortation to hang on to hope, it implicitly acknowledges that this is hard work done in a broken world, thus requiring trust in Christ’s steadfastness.

The third exhortation in this pericope is to “consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds” (10:24). The word translated “to provoke” in the New Revised Standard Version might even be translated “to pester.” If the first two exhortations were about how to position ourselves in disposition toward faith in a broken world, this exhortation is about action in everyday life. And it doesn’t simply call the community to do something, but to pester one another to do something—to engage in shared life, ministry, and worship. Put another way, our response to Christ’s life, death, and reign is not a solo effort but done in community. Christ’s “once and for all” work on the cross has communal implications for daily life.

In the end, the author of Hebrews knows that the community was growing tired and disillusioned under the stress of external persecution and internal disappointment. And while they invite the community to respond, it is never a call for them to lean on their own strength. The exhortations to have confidence in faith, hold on to hope, and pester one another toward love and communal care are all grounded in the person and work of Jesus Christ, the crucified high priest.

While this text might necessarily take a back seat to the Gospel text on Good Friday, I want to suggest that it should not be disregarded. Just perhaps, this is a word our communities need right now. After all, so many of our communities are struggling with political divisions, nonstop news cycles, disappointment about the state of the world,  or natural disasters, concern over climate change, fear over economic realities.⁴ We are ministering and preaching among people who are growing weary and are increasingly pulling away from others, finding themselves lonely and separated from community.

Perhaps we need this sermon from Hebrews to hear proclaimed again an invitation to faith, hope, and love that is grounded in who Christ is and Christ’s sacrificial love for us. Perhaps, on this Good Friday, we need to be reminded that the life, death, and person of Jesus Christ still matter for our present, future, and everyday lives.

Notes

1. Fred B. Craddock, “Introduction,” New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. 12 (Abingdon Press, 1998), 5.
2. While used metaphorically to speak of the community’s spiritual condition, this is clearly ableist language that would need to be addressed, unpacked, or acknowledged by the preacher or interpreter.
3. Craddock, “Hebrews 10:19–25 Commentary,” New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. 12 (Abingdon Press, 1998), 121.
4. Kimberly Wagner, “When Good News Is Harder to Proclaim: Preaching amid Trauma,” Working Preacher, June 20, 2023, https://www.workingpreacher.org/culture/when-good-news-is-harder-to-proclaim-preaching-amid-trauma.