Good Friday
Isaiah 52:13-53:12
Psalm 22
Hebrews 4:14-16; 5:7-9
John 18:1-19:42
We read the Passion narrative from the Gospel of John every year on Good Friday, and every year, a different feeling bubbles up as I reflect on it. This feeling that bubbles up then forms into one of those big questions that the darkness of the world and the solemnity of this night demand that I ask, even if I can't find the answer. Last year, the question that formed was the one Pilate asked Jesus: What is truth? The events of the past few months have drawn my focus to John's account of Jesus' arrest and trial, and slowly but inexorably, a new question has formed in my mind: what is justice?
The prophet Micah calls out the unjust leaders of his time and the exploitation of the poor by the rich and powerful. He alternates pronouncing doom and hope, and he calls upon us to hear each time. In Chapter 6, he calls upon us to hear what God expects of us: "He has told you, O mortal, what is good, and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice and to love kindness and to walk humbly with your God?"
A friend betrays Jesus to a body of conspiring religious leaders who hold legal sway over the Jewish citizens of Roman-occupied Judea. The leaders question him, attempting to paint him as seditious. In response to their questioning, Jesus says, "If I have spoken wrongly, testify to the wrong. But if I have spoken rightly, why do you strike me?" They have no answer because they have no case.
Police abduct a father despite accusing him of no crime. Three days later, he finds himself in a different country, in a massive prison notorious for overcrowding and torture. Food and basic sanitation are scarce. Prisoners die in their cells, and their bodies are left for days. No one has ever been released from this prison. It is a death sentence by another name. When reporters ask the government how this deportation could have happened, a spokesperson shrugs it off as an "administrative error." When the highest court in the land unanimously orders that the government must facilitate this man's return, the government indicates it has no intention of doing so. His name is Kilmar Abrego Garcia, and he may never see his wife or three children again.
Is that justice?
The religious leaders take Jesus to Pontius Pilate, Judea's governor and chief legal authority. He asks those bringing Jesus to him what accusation they have against him. They answer, "If this man were not a criminal, we would not have handed him over to you." He's a criminal because we called him one. Our accusation is as good as a conviction.
A student is arrested. He, too, has been accused of no crime. When a judge hears a case against him, the evidence presented is not evidence of wrongdoing but rather evidence of what the government feels is wrong thinking. The statement the government provides even concedes that this student has done nothing unlawful. However, the government argues that that doesn't matter because one powerful man said that the student was "disruptive" and somehow "undermined the foreign policy objectives" of that country. One student, Mahmoud Khalil, supposedly undermined the foreign policy objectives of the most powerful nation on Earth because he had the audacity to speak out where he saw wrong.
Is that justice?
"You shall not spread a false report. You shall not join hands with the wicked to act as a malicious witness." So begins Exodus 23, a chapter titled "Justice for All."
Pilate questions Jesus but can find no case for wrongdoing against him. Pilate recognizes a custom of commuting one prisoner's death sentence on the Passover. The conspiring Pharisees provoke the crowd against Jesus. Instead of calling for the release of Jesus, the crowd calls for the release of Barabbas—a murderer, a bandit, an insurrectionist. Pilate attempts to release Jesus at least two more times, but he is more concerned about having a riot on his hands, so he caves to their demands. The crowds cry out for blood, and they do not care if it is innocent or not.
A young man flees his home, seeking asylum out of fear of persecution for being gay and for speaking out against his repressive government. He has a successful career as a makeup artist. He has no criminal record either in his home country or in the country where he seeks asylum. He has a crown tattoo on each of his wrists, with the words "Mother" and "Father" over each crown. He has these tattoos because he devoted himself to his hometown's famous Three Kings Day celebration. The tattoos are a local tradition dating back over a century. This celebration has been a core part of his life since he was seven years old, nurturing his faith and love of theatre. He designed and sewed the costumes. He did the makeup for all the women in the parade.
While trying to apply for asylum, he is sent to a detention center, where an agent says his tattoos are a gang identifier. The agent cites no evidence backing this claim. Based on this alone, the government deports this man to a country he has never been to before, to the same prison as Kilmar Abrego Garcia. This man is named Andry Jose Hernandez Romero. A photojournalist sees the look of terror on his face as he is processed into this prison. Andry pleads to the guards that he is innocent. He falls to his knees, crying and praying while they hit him and shave his head. He cries out for his mother. When those in his hometown learn what has happened to him, they fill the local church and hold vigils calling for his release. The church is named after St. Peter, who, in today's lesson from John, stepped forward to protect Jesus from being delivered into the hands of those who sought to take his life. Andry cries for his mother. His mother and his whole hometown cry out for him. And those with the power to free him choose not to hear.
Is that justice?
"As they led him away, they seized a man, Simon of Cyrene, who was coming from the country, and they laid the cross on him and made him carry it behind Jesus. A great number of the people followed him, and among them were women who were beating their breasts and wailing for him. But Jesus turned to them and said, "Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children. For the days are surely coming when they will say, 'Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bore, and the breasts that never nursed.' Then they will begin to say to the mountains, 'Fall on us,' and to the hills, 'Cover us.' For if they do this when the wood is green, what will happen when it is dry?"
Do justice. Love kindness. Walk humbly with your God. God calls us to this, and this is what we consistently fall short of. But it doesn't mean we stop trying. In January, Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde stood in Washington National Cathedral and asked the powerful to show mercy. Many belittled her act. Many others commended her bravery. But I think she would agree that she was doing what we, as Christians, are all called to do.
Tonight, I want to draw a parallel not to the suffering of Jesus but to the "justice" of Pilate. The "justice" of Pilate is warped to turn a crowd; it is bought and sold to win an advantage; it is falsely weighed on the scale because its arbiter believes that we are too afraid to point it out, too comfortable to be bothered, too detached to feel outrage, or grief, or indignation.
But the prophetic voice is born in the grief of the voiceless, and the weakness of Pilate's justice is that it only has the power to cause grief. It can cut us deeper and strike more of us, but each wound deepens and broadens the well of our grief from which we cry out, and each wound adds a new voice demanding to be heard. Amen.