Imagine

Imagine, if you will, actually being there on the darkest day the world had ever seen. The city is crowded, but no one seems ready for what is unfolding. A man is condemned. A cross is lifted up. Hope appears to be bleeding out in public. And all around Him are faces filled with fear, rage, sorrow, guilt, and confusion.

This is the day when the powers of the world did everything possible to snuff out the message of new life that Jesus had come to bring.

Imagine if we could step into their stories for a moment. Imagine if we could stand where they stood and feel what they felt. Because Good Friday is not only something to remember. It is something that still reveals our own hearts and character.

Imagine being Pilate.
He is the governor. A man of rank. A man used to control. A man trained to measure a threat, and then preserve order at all costs. Pilate’s job is to keep the peace, keep Caesar pleased, and make sure nothing spins beyond your reach.

And yet from the moment Jesus is brought before you, you know this is not a normal case.
You can see it in the faces around you. You can hear it in the accusations. You can feel it in the strange mixture of envy, panic, and urgency. The charges do not hold. The anger feels staged. The whole thing feels less like justice and more like theater. You know this man is not guilty in the way they claim.  This whole thing is just fear dressed up in religious language.

But Pilate also know how power works.

Crowds can turn quickly. Leaders can stir unrest. News can travel upward. One bad report can cost a man his standing, his future, even his life. Pilate knows how fragile power can be, and like so many before and after him, he chooses self-protection over truth.

Imagine having the authority to intervene and deciding instead to preserve your own position.

Imagine washing your hands in public and knowing your conscience is not so easily cleansed.

Imagine living with the memory of that morning.

Pilate is not the only one affected by the decision to send this man to a trial. Outside the doors of the court others are  waiting to see how everything will turn out.

Imagine being Peter.
You said you would never leave Him. Not you. Others maybe. The weaker ones maybe. The cautious ones maybe. But not you.

You were the one who spoke up first. The one who stepped out first. The one who promised loyalty with full confidence. You loved Jesus. That part was real. You believed you would stand when the moment came.

But then the night came apart faster than you could have imagined.

A garden. A rush of torches. A sudden arrest. Confusion. Fear. Thinking you are courageous by cutting off a man’s ear. But then hearing the gentle rebuke and seeing your friend save your enemy. The next thing you remember is the flurry of a courtyard. Questions from strangers. A servant girl looking at you too closely. A voice saying, “You were with Him too.”
And suddenly courage left your body.

You denied Him once. Then again. Then a third time. Not in some grand courtroom. Not in front of kings. In front of ordinary people. In the kind of moment that reveals what fear can do to a heart.

And when the rooster crowed, it was not just a sound. It was a knife. A tearing open of the soul. A moment you knew you could never take back.

Imagine the shame.

Imagine replaying every word.

Imagine wanting to run and also wanting to go back.

Imagine loving Jesus deeply and knowing that when He was handed over, you handed Him over too.

Peter isn’t the only one experiencing confusion on a night when you expected triumph and not a trial.

Imagine being Mary Magdalene.
Jesus had changed your life.

Before Him there was torment, darkness, confusion, and bondage. Before Him your life had been swallowed by forces stronger than your own strength. But then Jesus stepped into your story, and everything began to change. He did not look at you like a lost cause. He did not reduce you to your worst moments. He did not keep you at arm’s length. He saw you. He healed you. He restored your dignity. He gave your life back to you.

And once that happens, you never forget it.

So now imagine standing there on this Friday, watching the One who delivered you being mocked, beaten, and lifted up on a cross.

Imagine thinking, how can evil look this strong?

Imagine wondering how the man who cast out darkness is now surrounded by it.

Imagine the ache of loving someone you cannot protect.

And yet there she is.

Still near. Still present. Still grieving. Still faithful. Near enough to watch. Near enough to weep. Near enough to remember that even when the world calls Jesus defeated, those who have been healed by Him know better.

When the world is cheering on Jesus’ defeat, Mary is not the only one confused by the non actions of their Messiah. There is one who started the whole ball rolling for this most terrible night.

Imagine being Judas.
You walked with Jesus too. You heard the teaching.

You saw the miracles. You sat at the table. You were close enough to hear His voice without straining.

And somehow, somewhere, your heart went in another direction.

Maybe too many disappointments hardened your heart over time. Maybe greed got deeper hooks into you than anyone realized. Maybe you wanted a Messiah on your own terms. Maybe the kingdom was not move fasting enough, striking hard enough, or conquering the way you expected. Maybe all of it was there mixed together.

But now the betrayal is done.

The kiss has been given. The arrest has happened. The machinery has started moving, and it cannot be called back. What once may have felt calculated now feels monstrous. What once looked like leverage now looks like ruin.

Imagine the horror of realizing you have done something irreversible.

Imagine the weight of seeing Jesus condemned and knowing your hand is on it.

Imagine what regret feels like when it arrives too late to undo what has been done.

Imagine carrying that kind of despair into the dark.

What started out as a way of advancing and speeding up the work of this new kingdom turned into a victory for those who are overly self-righteous.

Imagine the religious leaders.
You tell yourselves this is necessary. You tell yourselves the nation is at risk. You tell yourselves this man is too disruptive, too dangerous, too unpredictable. He challenges the order that keeps everything in place. He speaks with an authority you cannot manage. He draws crowds you cannot control. He confronts the hollow places in your faith and exposes the difference between public religion and genuine holiness.

He overturns tables. He questions motives. He refuses to play by the rules that keep your power base stable. He speaks as though He knows God not merely by study, but by nature.

And that kind of person is impossible to tolerate when your identity is built on being the one who speaks for God.

So now you stand close enough to the cross to feel like order is being restored. At last this threat is being silenced. At last the crowds will settle. At last your place will be preserved.
But what kind of order needs an innocent man silenced?

What kind of righteousness feels threatened by mercy? What kind of religion cannot bear the presence of God when He stands right in front of them?

Imagine how far self-deception can go.

Imagine being so committed to protecting your place that you no longer recognize the God you claim to serve.

Imagine the sense of loss that that brings.

You determined you wouldn’t be the loser in this battle. Someone else was going to need to fill that spot.

Imagine being the other disciples, hiding in the city.
The streets feel dangerous now. Every footstep outside sounds like it might be coming for you. Every raised voice in the distance feels like a threat. The city itself seems to have turned hostile.

You replay the last few days over and over again.

The meal. The words Jesus spoke. The prayers in the garden. The arrest. The scattering.
The confusion.

You do not know what to do next because whatever you thought Jesus was about to do, this was not it.

You had left everything to follow Him. Jobs. Security. Familiar lives. You had built your future around Him. You were going to rule by His side. And now it looks like that future is collapsing outside the city walls.

Imagine the silence in those hiding places.

No speeches. No confidence. No brave plans for tomorrow. Just the sound of frightened people trying to make sense of shattered hope.

Imagine the terrible feeling that hope itself had been crucified outside the city gates.

They are the ones too scared to even go and scope out the crucifixion of their leader.
Some others, though, find themselves right in the middle of the madness.

Imagine being Mary, the mother of Jesus.
You carried Him before you ever held Him. You felt His first movements in your womb. You heard the promises of God before He had spoken a single word. You sang when He was still hidden within you. You treasured things in your heart when others did not understand.

You watched Him learn to walk. You watched Him grow. You watched Him work with His hands.

And now you are watching those same hands be pierced.

What does a mother do with a moment like that? How does she stand near a cross and not collapse under the weight of it? How do memory and grief survive in the same body?

Imagine hearing the hammer and remembering His first cry.

Imagine seeing the blood and remembering His birth.

Imagine looking at the face you once kissed as a child and seeing it bruised, torn, and broken.

And still she stays.

Because sometimes love cannot fix the suffering. Sometimes love cannot change the outcome in the moment. Sometimes the holiest thing a person can do is to remain. To stand near. To refuse to leave. To keep loving when all control has been stripped away.

Mary is not alone in this moment of madness. There are others that stay by her side at the foot of the cross.

Imagine being John.
You are the friend who stayed close. Not because you are fearless, but because love would not let you go far. You hear every groan. You see every labored breath. You feel the heaviness of the moment settling over everything.

There is nowhere to hide from it when you are this near.

And then Jesus speaks.

Not about Himself, but about His mother. About you. About care. About a future shaped by love even in the middle of agony.

In the middle of His own suffering, He is still full of compassion. Still taking care of His family at the foot of a cross.

Imagine receiving that assignment from your dying friend.

Imagine being entrusted with His mother while He is carrying the weight of the world. He is redefining what it means to be a family.

It’s one thing to watch your innocent friend suffer, it’s another thing to be hanging on the next cross as a condemned man.

Imagine being the thieves on the crosses next to Jesus.
Your life has come to this.

No more excuses. No more delays. No more pretending there will be time later to straighten things out. The cross strips all of that away.

You are guilty. Everyone knows it. You know it. The man on the other side knows it. There is no reputation left to manage. No future left to build. Nothing left to defend.

Just pain, exposure, and the brutal honesty of judgment.

And hanging there between you is Jesus.

At first both of you join the mockery of this would be Savior. Pain can make angry men cruel. Fear can turn into scorn. Despair often lashes out. Maybe one last insult feels easier than silence.

But then something changes in one of them.

He hears how Jesus speaks. He watches how Jesus suffers. He sees innocence where there should be rage. He hears mercy where there should be cursing.

And somehow, in that collapsing, dying moment, faith begins.

Not polished faith. Not the kind that has time to clean itself up. Just desperate faith. A plea. A hope. Reaching toward mercy. “Remember me.”

Imagine how astonishing it is that at the edge of death, mercy is still available.

Imagine realizing that no one is beyond the reach of grace who turns to Him in faith.

And then imagine the other thief.

He is just as close to Jesus. He hears the same words. He sees the same darkness gathering. He witnesses the same innocence, the same restraint, the same strange majesty in suffering.
But proximity does not always produce surrender.

One thief softens. The other hardens. One sees a king. The other sees only weakness.

Imagine being inches away from grace and still refusing it.

Imagine how tragedy deepens when the heart closes itself in the very presence of mercy.

And finally, imagine being there because it’s your job.
Imagine the soldiers carrying out their orders, doing the dirty work of the empire. Not glamorous work, but bloody work. The kind of work that leaves your hands stained and your mind troubled. The blood of the condemned. The cries of family members. The chaos of crowds. The ugly mess of death. Sometimes a rock thrown at the criminal misses and strikes you on the shoulder instead.

And yet even hardened soldiers find themselves unsettled by this man.
He does not beg like the others. He does not spit hatred. He does not curse the people who put Him there. He prays for them.

Imagine standing anywhere near that cross and not being shaken by what you see.

Imagine the sky turning dark in the middle of the day.

Imagine the earth trembling.

Imagine the horror, the confusion, the grief.

Imagine thinking that your empire has just claimed another victim.

Good Friday is not just the story of what was done to Jesus.
It is the story of what Jesus, in love, was doing for us.


Hebrews 10:16–25 CSB
16 This is the covenant I will make with them after those days, the Lord says, I will put my laws on their hearts and write them on their minds, 17 and I will never again remember their sins and their lawless acts. 18 Now where there is forgiveness of these, there is no longer an offering for sin. 19 Therefore, brothers and sisters, since we have boldness to enter the sanctuary through the blood of Jesus—20 he has inaugurated for us a new and living way through the curtain (that is, through his flesh)—21 and since we have a great high priest over the house of God, 22 let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed in pure water. 23 Let us hold on to the confession of our hope without wavering, since he who promised is faithful. 24 And let us consider one another in order to provoke love and good works, 25 not neglecting to gather together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging each other, and all the more as you see the day approaching.

So:
While Pilate was surrendering truth to protect himself, while Peter was drowning in shame, while Mary Magdalene was standing in grief and gratitude, while Judas was collapsing under the weight of regret, while the religious leaders were defending their power, while the disciples hid behind locked doors, while Mary stood in unbearable sorrow, while John remained in helpless love, while one thief believed and one thief refused, Jesus was bearing sin.

He was carrying the rebellion of humanity. He was entering our violence, our betrayal, our fear, our pride, our darkness, and our death.

Imagine standing there and not understanding it yet.

Imagine going home thinking the story was over.

Imagine waking up on Saturday with nothing but sorrow.

And then imagine what it would mean if this was not the end.

Imagine what it would mean if the cross was not failure but victory.

Imagine what it would mean if love had gone all the way down into death to bring us back to God.

Because that is what Good Friday is.
It is not only the darkest day. It is the day love refused to turn away. It is the day Jesus took the worst the world could do and answered it not with revenge, but with mercy. It is the day our sin was met by a deeper grace. It is the day the Lamb of God gave Himself for the life of the whole world.

Imagine that.

The Last Word
Good Friday is a reminder that the king of peace was subjected to the worst that the powers of this world could put him through. The powers used all the tools at their disposal, greed, corruption, ridicule, torture, lies, and ultimately death to try and silence the one who brought us the hope filled message of new life.

Jesus came and showed us what it meant to be truly human, what it looks like for image bearers to participate in God’s purposes and plans for humanity. Good Friday reminds us that the powers of this world will always try to destroy what God has said is good. Justice for those who are abused, compassion for those who are hurting, and new life for those who know that there is something better than what we are experiencing now. Jesus came to bring restoration for a broken world.

The day of the crucifixion is the day that the world thought it had won. Looking back we know that that isn’t the case. We know that we still have a hope for a bright future. A future where death is not the solution, but where we will experience new life because Jesus leads the way. Please join us Sunday morning as we celebrate the new life that came from Jesus’ victory over death!