April 3, 2026

Good Friday, Year A

Mark 14:1—15:47

Epiphany, Winnipeg

There’s so much going on this week that is so human, so everyday.

Someone somewhere, maybe this was you, had a good good meal with friends this week. Maybe a workday lunch, or a dinner that lasted late into the evening, around the table, with good conversation, maybe some laughs, maybe an argument or two. All over the world the Jewish community have gathered this week around millions and millions of tables to celebrate Passover, that liberating event that finally convinced a king to let them go and find their freedom. And then changed his mind a few days later – leaders are like that.

There’s so much going on this week that is so human, so everyday. Like when Jesus and a few of his friends, all faithful Jews, gathered for a Passover dinner, like they had for centuries and like they will for millennia to come. Breaking bread at the table. We all know it. It’s so…so good.

Someone, somewhere this week, has shown great love for a friend. Maybe it was you, maybe it was someone you know. Someone this week his done something generous for another and expected nothing in return, even if it costs them something, even if the people around them think that it was maybe a bit too extravagant. Maybe even irresponsible. Someone foot the bill for the meal and everyone at the table said, “You shouldn’t have.” Or a passerby on the street stopped, said hello, and dropped more change than usual, maybe even a few bills, into a panhandler’s Tim Horton’s cup, and someone called it throwing money away. A parent bailed out their much-beloved child who had gathered up too much student debt, and they knew they’d never see that money again.

There’s so much going on this week that is so human, like when a woman comes into a home where Jesus is eating, and she pours out a jar of expensive perfume, imported from the Himalayas thousands of kilometres away. She does it as a way of showing her love for Jesus, maybe expressing her grief because she knows something bad is going to happen, maybe just because she knows this is the last time they’ll be together. And someone at the table says it’s a waste of money. Someone says it could have been used for something else, something more responsible. And Jesus says, “She’s generous; she’s loving. Leave her alone.”

There’s so much going on that is so human this week. Somewhere a friend turned against another because they decided that money was more important than friendship, and another did the same thing just to protect themselves or to stay out of trouble. Like when Judas takes a handful of silver in exchange for Jesus. Like when Peter, who would one day have churches named after him, tiny churches in the country all the way up to the biggest church in the world, like when Peter says, “Jesus? I never knew that guy.”

So much so human going on. We watch as terrible and unjust things happen all around the world and close to home, and you and I can’t do anything to stop it. Like when a few women look on as Jesus is crucified and they know it would just happen whether or not they do anything. But they stay close and won’t let it be forgotten.

So much so human. Someone puts themselves or their reputation in harm’s way to show respect and honour to another, like when a respected leader named Joseph gives Jesus, a convicted criminal, the honour of a decent burial.

On Sunday I wondered if it seemed kind of strange that Jesus stays so silent once his trial begins. From arrest to trial to execution all that Jesus says is “You say so,” and “My God, why have you forsaken me?” He’s just carried along by the events, as though everything is out of his control. Just like so many, so many, countless many people, suffer under things that they cannot control.

Maybe Jesus stays silent because he doesn’t want to draw all the attention to himself. He looks and sees so much going on all around him, so much that is so human, and he calls us to notice. He sees so many who support him, so many who care about him, so many who turn against him and even so many who have never heard of him…all of these ones matter the world to him, and he holds them all in his outstretched arms and his oversized heart.

He calls us to notice all that is so human all around us: All this world and this life, all these people with their suffering and sorrow and their joy and celebration…all of us with our suffering and sorrow and our joy and celebration. All of this world with all these pieces of life. All this life that Jesus cares for so deeply.

And he quietly takes his place right in the middle of all this life. As though the angel really meant it when they said that Jesus’ name would be Emmanuel, which means “God is with us.” Like Jesus really meant it when he said “Where two or three are gathered in my name, I am with you,” or “whatever you do to the least of these, you do to me (Because I am with you).” He meant it when he said, “Remember – I’m with you always, even to the end of time.”

This day, this day thousands of years ago, this day right here and right now, this day, all the days to come, with all this life that was and is and will be…this is where Jesus makes his home. And today we hear a mystery: that as Jesus breathes his last breath, new life is being breathed into all that is. Even into us, into this place…into everything that is so everyday, so human. on Friday morning, Jesus will just go silent for awhile. No more righteous anger, no more encouraging word, no more wisdom or head-scratching parables. Jesus will just go silent, and we’ll follow Jesus – remember what he said to us? Follow me? – we’ll follow Jesus into the silence and wait.

Wait with the women who watch the cross from a distance and wait with disciples who fled and just can’t bear to think about what’s been going on. We’ll wait with everyone who waits and hopes, and we’ll wait with everyone who wonders if God will ever speak again. We’ll even wait with some Roman soldiers, the last ones we expected to speak good news to us: “This is God’s son,” they said.

We’ll follow Jesus into the silence and wait.