Good Friday 2026: Year A - Why is Good Friday so Good? - John 19:1-11

(The following was first preached on Good Friday 2026 at the 8th Street Church, Oklahoma City, USA)

Good Friday – John 19:1-11

MOVE 1: A Different Question

The question most people grapple with is:

What am I going to do with my life?

It’s always there, humming beneath everything.

What career? What path? What legacy?

Shoot—I turn 49 years old on Sunday, and I’m still asking that question.

We know—whether we say it out loud or not—that we’ve been given a limited number of days. So we better make something of it. We better get it right.

But Good Friday interrupts that question.

It doesn’t answer it.

It replaces it.

Because when you stand in front of Jesus in this moment—beaten, mocked, standing before Pilate—you realize that Jesus is not asking, “What will I do with my life?”

He’s asking something far more unsettling:

What am I going to do with my death?

That is a profound question in a world where death is both inevitable and all-consuming.

And Good Friday becomes a history-altering day because it forces us to ask it too:

What happens when the world turns violent?

What happens when truth costs everything?

What happens when power closes in and squeezes God’s most beloved out?

People often ask why we call this day “good.”

And honestly, it sounds strange.

A good execution?

A meaningful injustice?

A beautiful death?

It feels like the wrong word.

Because there is nothing good about what is happening here.

And yet… we still call it good.

Which means the goodness must be deeper than what we can see on the surface.

So as you move just a little closer toward the cross, ask:

What makes Good Friday so… good?

MOVE 2: Here Is the Man

Pilate has Jesus flogged.

The soldiers twist together a crown of thorns and press it into his head. They throw a purple robe over his shoulders like a cruel joke. They slap him. They mock him.

“Hail, king of the Jews!”

Then Pilate brings him out and says: “Here is the man.”

Not a king.

Not a Savior.

Just… this.

Beaten.

Bloody.

Broken.

Here is the man.

And something about that moment should feel familiar—uncomfortably familiar.

Because this isn’t just about first-century Palestine.

This is about what human beings do when we are afraid—when we want control, when we feel threatened.

We humiliate.

We scapegoat.

We protect our systems.

We sacrifice the vulnerable to preserve order.

That’s what’s happening here.

And it keeps happening.

It’s happening in Gaza.

It’s happening in Ukraine.

It’s happening at borders and in detention centers.

That’s why voices like James Cone matter. He refused to let us separate the cross from the lynching tree. He reminds us: if we don’t acknowledge what we’ve done, we won’t acknowledge what we’re capable of doing.

The pattern repeats—public violence, spectacle, power protecting itself.

If we’re not careful, we distance ourselves.

“That was them.”

“That was back then.”

“That was Rome.”

But Good Friday won’t let us.

Because the crowd is not made up of monsters.

It’s made up of ordinary people.

Religious people.

Good people.

People like us.

And yet, unable to help themselves, they cry:

“Crucify him! Crucify him!”

So maybe the first move tonight is this:

Move a little closer to the cross.

Not to explain it.

Not to fix it.

Just to see it.

To see what we are capable of.

MOVE 3: We Have No King but Caesar

Pilate tries to push back.

He brings Jesus out again and says, “Here is your king.”

But they will have none of it.

Oh, how quickly we convert—change teams, make concessions, compromise—when the pressure is on and our way of life feels threatened.

“We want Barabbas.”

“Take him away.”

“Crucify him.”

And then this line: “We have no king but Caesar.”

Think about that.

These are religious leaders—people whose entire identity is built around allegiance to God.

And in this moment, to preserve their system, they renounce it.

“We have no king but Caesar.”

And suddenly, this isn’t just their story.

Because we all have our Caesars.

The things we trust.

The systems we rely on.

The powers we refuse to question because they keep us comfortable.

Good Friday exposes all of it.

It pulls it into the light.

It shows us how quickly we trade truth for control… how easily we choose security over love… how often we align ourselves with power—even when it costs someone else everything.

So move a little closer.

And ask the question we don’t want to ask: Where do I say, “I have no king but Caesar,” without even realizing it?

MOVE 4: You Think You Have Power

Pilate, distressed, says to Jesus:

“Don’t you realize I have power either to free you or to crucify you?”

And for a moment, it feels like he’s right.

Because Pilate has authority.

He has soldiers.

He has the system behind him.

But Jesus answers in a way that breaks everything open:

“You would have no power over me if it were not given to you from above.”

In other words:

You think you’re in control.

But you’re not.

And suddenly, what looks like weakness… isn’t.

What looks like defeat… isn’t.

Jesus is not scrambling.

His agency is on full display.

He is not reacting.

He is not escaping.

He is steady. Present. Intentional.

He is choosing to remain.

He is refusing to answer violence with violence.

And in doing so, he reveals something staggering:

Love is the most powerful force in the universe.

Because the powers of this world can only kill.

But love…

Love can raise the dead.

And that’s what makes this so hard for us.

Because we are addicted to old forms of power.

Power that wins.

Power that dominates.

Power that crushes opposition.

But Jesus shows us something different:

A power that does not coerce.

A power that does not retaliate.

A power that stays.

A power that absorbs violence without becoming violent.

A power that raises the dead.

And if we’re honest…

This is still not the kind of king we want.

So as you move toward the cross, ask: Why is it so hard to trust a power that refuses to dominate?

MOVE 5: Why This Is Good

So why is this day good?

Not because the violence is good.

Not because the suffering is good.

But because the truth has been told.

Nothing is hidden anymore.

The illusion is gone.

The truth is exposed.

We see what the world does to love.

We see what we do to love.

And at the same time—we see what God does.

God becomes love embodied.

God does not stay distant from our violence.

God steps into it.

God does not avoid our darkness.

God enters it.

God does not wait for us to get it right.

God meets us right here—in the middle of it.

Which means:

There is no place we can go where God will not be.

No suffering unseen.

No injustice untouched.

No darkness empty of God’s presence.

God is already there.

In the hospital room.

In broken systems.

In places we would rather not look.

Even in our sin.

God is there.

That’s why this day is good.

Because Good Friday tells the truth about us—

and it tells the truth about God.

We see the worst of humanity.

And we see the heart of God.

A God who does not run.

A God who does not retaliate.

A God who stays.

So don’t rush past this.

Don’t fix it.

Don’t explain it away.

Move a little closer to the cross.

And look.

Here is the man.

And he is our king.

And that is why Good Friday is good.

Amen.