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Tonight we meet the prophet Isaiah, whose words of suffering and hope have echoed out over the centuries. Specifically, this passage, known as the Fourth Servant Song, is a mysterious, powerful poem that dares to imagine a world saved not by domination, but by a bruised and broken body. “He was despised and rejected by others… oppressed, and afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth” (Isaiah 53:3,7). This is not passivity, incidentally; nor is it cowardice, or even abdication. It is courage.
It is courage to endure injustice, if not humiliation, without rancor or animus, let alone retaliation. It is courage to encounter torture without abandoning love. It is courage to walk, bent and broken, carrying not just a cross but the weight of the world’s sins. This is moral bravery on a cosmic scale. This is the courage of Jesus Christ.
Today, Good Friday, we hear the clarion call of divine courage. Jesus does not flinch in Gethsemane—He wrestles, but He does not run. He does not flee the cross—He walks toward it. Not because He has no fear, but because He knows love is greater than fear.
As Rowan Williams, who has preached from this very pulpit, writes, “The cross is where God speaks to the world in the language of its own pain” (The Sign and the Sacrifice: The Meaning of the Cross and Resurrection, p. 7). And I wonder, what materializes before our eyes as we hear Isaiah say: “He had no form or majesty that we should look upon him… nothing in his appearance that we should desire him” (Isaiah 53:2)? Can you see, I wonder, God in what is broken, humiliated, rejected?
We struggle with this, don’t we? Even now, many who call themselves Christians look at a prisoner of war, or refugee, or addict, or homeless person on the street—and see failure, weakness, a loser. But the Incarnate God, Jesus Christ, chose to see that person, and, in the end, join them where they were. Not because He was weak, but to show us what true courage looks like. Because He came to show us what true love looks like. That is the Courage of the Cross.
It takes courage to look unflinchingly at suffering. To see the violence of the human heart and still say: “God has made each one of us, for purpose, with goodness, in love.”
Today on Good Friday, we see suffering and we sit with it. We don’t avoid it—we stare it in the face. And as we gaze upon our God and King, crucified, broken, and dying, we must remember: This is not weakness. This is not failure. This is love seen through the lens of the worst-case scenario.
The cross, however, is more than the object of our meditation—it’s a beacon we are called to follow. “By his wounds we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5) aren’t just words of comfort—they are a commissioning.
The world doesn’t need more polished Christians posing with the powerful in a posture of contorted obedience as if needed to bolster a weak and fragile god—NO! Our God is neither weak nor fragile. Our God is not needy. We are the weak ones. We are the needy ones. And in the same way God has mercy upon us, not judging us for what we do, but loving us because of who we are—so too, we reflect that grace through the empathy we show to others. It is this God in whom we put our faith. It is this God in whom we put our trust… This God hanging on a cross.
There is a long and sacred tradition of cross-centered courage. Let me tell you a story.
Wang Zhiming was a pastor from the Miao ethnic minority in Yunnan Province, China. During the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976), in the days of the communist king Mao, Wang was targeted for refusing to renounce Jesus Christ. He would not bow to the demands of the regime. And he would not tell others to stop gathering, praying, or believing. On December 29, 1973, he was publicly executed in front of thousands by a firing squad—his murder a warning to the faithful. But it became something else. As is so often the case, his martyrdom became a seed. The church in China began to expand, quietly, powerfully, from village to village. Today, conservative estimates suggest that there are over 60 million Christians in China, many of them part of the underground church movement that Wang inspired.
“See, my servant shall prosper,” Isaiah writes, “he shall be exalted and lifted up” (Isaiah 52:13). Wang bore the shame and suffering—without turning away. And today, his statue stands high above the west door of Westminster Abbey, alongside Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Martin Luther King Jr. A witness carved in stone, because his courage was carved into history.
And he is not alone. Another example is Archbishop Janani Luwum, the Anglican Primate of Uganda. In 1977, he confronted Idi Amin, one of the most brutal dictators of the 20th century—a man who sought to sow division in the land by instilling fear within the hearts of those he subjugated. It was a reign of terror. As the prophet Jeremiah wrote: “They all deceive their neighbors, no one spoke the truth; they taught their tongues to lie… Oppression upon oppression, deceit upon deceit!” (Jeremiah 9:5–6). But Luwum refused the role of sycophant. He spoke up, calling his people to return to themselves, to their inherent goodness, to their community. And he called the government to accountability. For that, he was arrested, tortured, and on February 16, 1977, executed.
Luwum didn’t have to do it. He could have stayed quiet. He could have decamped to England. But like Jesus, like the Fourth Servant, he stayed the course. And in doing so, he showed that love is stronger than fear, and truth more enduring than lies. Courage is born from love. The word courage comes from the Latin cor—meaning heart. Not ego. Not might. But heart anchored in love—and not any love, but Agape love, soul love, a love that meets every person at the core of their being, because it is a one-way emanation that expands out from the heart of God to us. The gateway is grace. The impetus, God’s mercy. And we are designed to receive this love. It is the nature of our souls. It is the purpose of our souls. And so, it is for this reason that the courage we need isn’t something we have to self-generate. It’s something given, by the One who was pierced for us. Because our bodies are fragile. Our faith wavers. Our fear rises. But God’s love does not.
God’s love is stronger than death. God’s love never fails. For God is love. This is not abstract theology. This is reality nailed to wood. The world may break our body, but it cannot touch our souls because we are rooted in the love of God. Good Friday is a call to courage.
And so, as you kneel before the cross, ask: What courage is Christ calling me into? What fear must love overcome in my life? What cross am I being asked to carry?
I pray we may not be called to martyrdom like Wang or Luwum. But we are all called to be faithful. We are called to love when it’s costly. To speak when silence seems safer. To forgive when bitterness is easier. To hold on when every fiber of our being says run away. Because we have the cross. Because as we gaze upon it, we know it is the real source of Courage. And as you consider courage, remember Love.
Always remember the love of Jesus Christ, nailed to the hard wood of the cross for you.