Join us this Good Friday as we reflect on the silence of Jesus before Herod, the weight of the cross, and the hope that rises with the dawn. A powerful reminder that even in the darkest hour, God is at work.
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Read the transcript
The reading is taken from Luke chapter 23, beginning at verse 3:
So Pilate asked Jesus, “Are you the King of the Jews?”
“You have said so,” Jesus replied. Then Pilate announced to the chief priests and the crowd, “I find no basis for a charge against this man.”
But they insisted, “He stirs up the people all over Judea by his teaching. He started in Galilee and has come all the way here.”
On hearing this, Pilate asked if the man was a Galilean. When he learned that Jesus was under Herod’s jurisdiction, he sent him to Herod, who was also in Jerusalem at that time.When Herod saw Jesus, he was greatly pleased, because for a long time he had been wanting to see him. From what he had heard about him, he hoped to see him perform a sign of some sort. He plied him with many questions, but Jesus gave him no answer. The chief priests and the teachers of the law were standing there, vehemently accusing him. Then Herod and his soldiers ridiculed and mocked him, dressing him in an elegant robe. They sent him back to Pilate.
That day, Herod and Pilate became friends; before this, they had been enemies. Pilate called together the chief priests, the rulers and the people, and said to them, “You brought me this man as one who was inciting the people to rebellion. I have examined him in your presence and have found no basis for your charges against him. Neither has Herod, for he sent him back to us. As you can see, he has done nothing to deserve death. Therefore, I will punish him and then release him.”
But the whole crowd shouted, “Away with this man! Release Barabbas to us!” (Barabbas had been thrown into prison for an insurrection in the city, and for murder.)
Wanting to release Jesus, Pilate appealed to them again, but they kept shouting, “Crucify him! Crucify him!” For the third time he spoke to them: “Why? What crime has this man committed? I have found in him no grounds for the death penalty. Therefore, I will have him punished and then release him.”
But with loud shouts they insistently demanded that he be crucified, and their shouts prevailed. So Pilate decided to grant their demand. He released the man who had been thrown into prison for insurrection and murder — the one they had asked for — and surrendered Jesus to their will.
This is the word of the Lord.
The Darkest Day in History
Well, good morning and welcome to Good Friday — a day that sits heavy in the heart of the Christian calendar. A day marked by silence, shadow, and sorrow. It is a day when the world felt dark — really dark. And because Jesus, the Son of God, was put on a cross and died, it was the darkest day in history. It was the darkest day in history.
Now, kids, I want you to listen closely to this part. Imagine you’re walking in a very dark cave — no lights, no phone, no torch. It would feel a little bit scary, wouldn’t it? But then someone turns on a light — a little light — and suddenly everything looks different.
That’s kind of what happened on the very first Good Friday. But do you know what’s amazing? Even in that deep darkness, God was at work. Something beautiful was happening, even though it didn’t look like it. Just like a seed that grows in the dark soil, something new was happening — a way for us to be close to God. Because the cross is not the end of this story.
The Silence of Good Friday
In our reading, we see that Jesus stands before Herod — questioned, mocked, dressed up like a joke. Herod plied him with many questions, but Jesus gave him no answer. No answer. Nothing. Just silence. And it’s surprising, because all through the gospel we’ve seen Jesus engaging with people, having conversations — people asking Jesus questions and Jesus giving them many answers, answers that heal, challenge, unsettle, or awaken. But not now. Not here.
This week began with waving palms and cries of “Hosanna!” — a king riding not a war horse, but a donkey. And now the week has turned. The crowd that once shouted “Hosanna!” now cries, “Crucify him! Crucify him!” So this silence is heavy, because during Jesus’ ministry, Jesus always spoke with people and asked deep questions and spoke words that touched the heart. But now, before Herod, there is no question. There is no reply. Jesus stands there, beaten, bound, exposed — and says nothing.
And friends, here is one of the greatest mysteries of Good Friday: God is silent. Why? Is it because Herod doesn’t want to hear the truth? Is it because no answer would be heard in a heart that’s already closed? Or is it because in this moment, silence says more than words ever could? Jesus’ silence speaks of the weight he is carrying to fulfill his Father’s plan for humanity. It speaks of the heart of the only Son of God, who knows what must happen next.
Earlier this week, people laid cloaks before him in welcome, but their hearts held out hope for revolution or a political savior — a restorer of national pride, a Messiah who would drive out the Romans, not carry a cross. They wanted the crown, but not the cost. They wanted the dawn, but not the darkness. This is the tension of Good Friday: darkness and dawn.
Jesus’ silence before Herod is not a sign of weakness. It is the strength of one who knows the weight of the moment. He’s carrying the darkness of a world that still cannot see the dawn that has come into it. And perhaps this silence speaks more than any word could.
Well, the world we are living in has grown allergic to silence. It wants noise, answers, solutions, content, and resolutions. But the cross does not work like that. The cross begins with silence — with a King who says nothing, a God who enters darkness without explanation. And yet this silence holds promise, a great promise, because the dawn is coming. This is love: refusing to shout but willing to suffer.
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The same Jesus who said nothing to Herod will soon say, “Father, forgive them.”
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The same Jesus who was rejected by the crowd will open Paradise to a criminal.
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The same Jesus who wept over a city that would not receive him still weeps over our broken hearts today.
So on this Good Friday, let us sit with this silence. Let it speak. Let it name the darkness we carry, and the illusion we must let die. For only then can we see the first glimmer of the dawn of the light that God shows us.
An Invitation to Surrender Our Darkness
Friends, both children and adults, I want to invite you into that space — not just with your mind, but with all your hearts.
Leyla and Rachel will be here at the front with some black ribbons, which represent the darkness, the pain, the sin, and the burden that we all carry. These ribbons are an invitation to bring what is hidden into the light of the cross.
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Take a moment.
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Sit in silence.
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Ask the Holy Spirit to reveal to you, to show you what darkness it is he is inviting you to surrender today.
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Maybe it’s something that we’ve done wrong.
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Maybe it’s a burden you have carried for too long.
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Maybe it’s something that’s made us sad or scared.
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Maybe it’s something we see in the world that hurts our hearts.
I’m gonna invite the band up, and they are going to sing an item for us. And when you’re ready, come forward, take a ribbon and tie it onto this wooden cross at the front. In doing so, you’re not just making a gesture; you are making a prayer — a prayer that says, “Jesus, I give this to you. I trust you to carry it. I lay it down where you laid down your life at the cross.” No one will ask you what it represents. No one. This is between you and the Lord.
And let this moment be your prayer. You carry on this Good Friday — maybe you carry a lot — and this could be your offering of trust, your act of surrender. Let this moment, this Good Friday, be a renewal in your relationship with the God who so loves you that he gave his one and only Son, that you may not perish but have eternal life. And as you tie that ribbon to the cross, remember the story does not end in darkness. This is Good Friday — not because the pain is good, but because love is greater and the dawn is coming. Amen.
Luke 23:32–43
Two of the men, both criminals, were also led out with him to be executed. When they came to the place called the Skull, they crucified him there along with the criminals — one on his right, the other on his left. Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” And they divided up his clothes by casting lots.
The people stood watching, and the rulers even sneered at him. They said, “He saved others; let him save himself if he is God’s Messiah, the Chosen One.” The soldiers also came up and mocked him. They offered him wine vinegar and said, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” There was a written notice above him, which read: “This is the King of the Jews.”
One of the criminals who hung there hurled insults at him: “Aren’t you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” But the other criminal rebuked him: “Don’t you fear God,” he said, “since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.” Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
Jesus answered him, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”
Here ends the reading.
This reading is also from the Gospel of Luke. It’s from Luke 23:44–49:
It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon, for the sun stopped shining. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two.
Jesus called out with a loud voice, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” When he had said this, he breathed his last.
The centurion, seeing what had happened, praised God and said, “Surely this was a righteous man.” When all the people who had gathered to witness this sight saw what took place, they beat their breasts and went away. But all those who knew him, including the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching these things.
Here ends the reading.
The Beauty and Mystery of the Cross
This cross might look dark, but it is beautiful. You know why? Because whatever is hung on this cross is already forgiven and carried by Jesus for his precious blood.
Imagine that you are in Jerusalem today. It’s Passover, and hope is in the air. People are talking about a coming king to end their suffering. But all of a sudden, you see three men condemned to carry crosses. One collapses, and a bystander is forced to help. Finally, they make it up the hill... But one of them is marked more than the rest. Wasn’t this man someone special?
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People say he was a carpenter — a carpenter hung on a cross shaped by his own hands. But why is a carpenter being crucified?
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Others say he was a teacher — a man who taught with unusual authority. But surely that’s not a crime worthy of death.
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Still, some claim he made strange statements, like saying he could forgive sins (everyone knows that only God can forgive sins). Perhaps he claimed to be God.
Years ago, when I was just a teenager, I watched a movie about Jesus. And at the very end of that movie, that very question came to my mind — a question that perhaps many of us have asked or are still asking today: If this man was God, what is he doing on a cross? Couldn’t he save himself? It’s a staggering question.
And yet the answer does not come to us by logic alone, or by looking hard enough at the suffering. The truth of the cross is something God himself must reveal. It is not just a tragic death to be pitied; it is a divine mystery to be unveiled.
In the gospels, it is often the unexpected people — the blind, the poor, the outsiders — whose eyes are opened to see who Jesus truly is. And the same is true with the cross: we cannot see its true meaning unless God opens our hearts.
“The message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.”
Foolishness to some. Power to others. What makes the difference? Well, it is God’s grace — the Spirit of God, opening blind eyes.
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Jesus does not fight.
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He does not argue.
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He does not resist.
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He absorbs the judgment — the wrath of God.
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He drinks the cup.
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He carries the sin not just of the crowd before him, but of all of us today.
So here we are at Deep Creek, standing before that cross today — the place where God confronts the depth of our darkness with the even deeper mercy of his love.
Luke’s gospel tells us that it was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon, for the sun stopped shining — heaven itself refused to shine — while the Son of God hung dying. It tells us what sin truly deserves, doesn’t it? The Light of the world was being snuffed out, and the darkness that covered the land was a symbol of the judgment being poured out. But notice something else: “And the curtain of the temple was torn in two.”
That curtain had hung for centuries in the temple. It was thick and tall — a visible barrier between a holy God and sinful people. No one could go beyond it except the high priest, once a year. And now, at the moment of Jesus’ death, that curtain was torn from top to bottom — not by human hands, but by God.
The death of Jesus is not just a tragedy; it is a transaction. He’s not a victim; he’s the Lamb of God — the perfect Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the whole world. And just as the Passover in Egypt marked the beginning of freedom for Israel, this Passover at the cross marks the beginning of true freedom for all people — for you and me, from every nation. His blood is not wasted; it’s poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.
The sun stopped shining, but God was not absent. He was at work in the darkest hour. The greatest light was about to break.
Because this death does not end in death:
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It ends in the tearing of the curtain.
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It ends in the opening of the way.
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It ends in the beginning of something new.
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It ends in dawn.
This is the beauty and the mystery of the cross — that even in death there is victory.
And Jesus said, “It is finished.” Not you are finished. Not hope is finished. It is finished. The work, the striving, the separation, the shame, the guilt, the sin — it’s all finished by what Jesus achieved on the cross for us.
In a moment we are going to sing another song together. And as we stand in the shadow of the cross, we do not rush past it. We do not rush past the sorrow. We feel the weight. We acknowledge the cost. We let the darkness speak. But we do not despair, because there in the deepest night we hear the first note of morning.
And now we will sing together. “It was finished” — not just a slogan, not just a cliché — but the truth spoken from the mouth of the crucified Son of God, the truth that changes everything. The cross was the end of sin’s reign, but it was also the beginning of redemption’s song. It’s all finished. So let us stand to sing this song together.