In his famous memoir, Night, Elie Wiesel, a Holocaust survivor, brings us to the foot of a modern Calvary. He recounts the execution of two men and a young boy in a concentration camp during the Shoah:
“Three prisoners, two men and a young boy, were led to the gallows. The concentration camp was forced to watch their execution. The chairs were kicked away. The men died quickly, but the child, too light for the noose to break his neck, hung there, struggling for breath, lingering between life and death for more than half an hour. And the crowd was watching.”
From the depths of that traumatized crowd, a voice cried out: “Where is God now?” And from within Elie Wiesel, a voice answered: “Where is He? He is here hanging on this gallows.”
Dear brothers and sisters, on this Good Friday, we do not gather to debate ideas or to seek clever intellectual escapes from the darkness of our world. We gather because, like that crowd in the concentration camp, we are often haunted by the question: Where is God We experience it in images of war on our screens, in illness and suffering, and in the hidden struggles of our own hearts.
If we are honest, we are tired of easy answers. We are tired of ideologies that claim to save the world while destroying the person. We are tired of a “God” who is merely a concept used to justify human power. Today, the Church offers no such God. Today, the Church offers a Man on a Cross.
The Paradox of the “Good”
Why call this Friday “Good”? It could seem more fitting to call it dark or sorrowful, for it is a day marked by suffering and death. Yet it is “Good” because it reveals the summit of divine love. In an act of kenosis—self-emptying—God does not remain distant from our pain but enters it fully, as the Father hands over the Son. What appears as desolation becomes profound consolation: through Christ’s sacrifice, the broken bridge between the finite and the infinite is restored. The Cross is not defeat but redemption—a rescue accomplished from within our own misery.
The Johannine Glory
In John’s Gospel, during the Passion, Jesus is not a helpless victim but the sovereign Lord. He is not overpowered; He freely gives Himself. The Cross, far from being a sign of shame, becomes a throne of glory. There is no cry of despair; instead, we hear the triumphant word: “It is finished” (John 19:30).
Here, Jesus carries His own cross (cf. John 19:17) and does not stumble. Even in suffering, He remains in command, showing that true glory is found not in power over others but in complete surrender to the Father.
The Solidarity of the Cross
The Cross is God’s definitive “Yes” to human suffering. There is no place of pain where Christ is absent. By embracing our condition, even unto death, God enters our deepest struggles and transforms them from within. The Crucifixion is God’s way of saying that our suffering is not meaningless, and that no anguish is ever outside His love.
Beyond Explanation: Karl Rahner’s Mystery
We often try to “explain away” suffering to make ourselves feel better. The German theologian Karl Rahner identifies four common ways theology attempts to answer the “why” of suffering: as a natural part of evolution, as the result of human sin, as a test to foster spiritual growth, or as a path toward eternal life. While each offers some insight, Rahner finds them ultimately insufficient.
He particularly rejects the notion that suffering helps people mature. He observes that extreme suffering, such as war, torture, or incurable illness, often destroys rather than strengthens the human person. Likewise, future happiness cannot justify the harsh reality of present pain.
For Rahner, the deeper truth is that suffering cannot be fully explained. The “why” of suffering remains as mysterious as God Himself. It is not a problem to solve but a mystery to live. He suggests that suffering is like a “package” from God, whose contents are hidden until we encounter God face-to-face. Until then, the proper response is not a rational explanation but trust: a surrender in love to the God who remains Mystery.
The Ignatian Challenge: The Triple Question
Jesus does more than participate in our suffering; He transforms it. His love is universal, shattering barriers of race, status, and intellect. He died for us all, not because we were worthy, but to make us worthy, to give us the fullness of life.
In the Spiritual Exercises, Saint Ignatius of Loyola invites us into a “Colloquy”—a heart-to-heart conversation with Jesus. He says: Imagine Jesus present before you on the Cross, the Creator who stooped to become man, passing from eternal life to death in time so that He might die for your sins. Then ask yourself:
- What have I done for Christ?
- What am I doing for Christ?
- What ought I to do for Christ?
Brothers and sisters, as you behold Jesus nailed to the Wood, do not look for an ideology to follow. Look for a Person to love. The Cross is the price of our pride and the infinite depth of God’s humility.
Conclusion: Completing the Passion
Therefore, brothers and sisters, to be a disciple of this Jesus requires that we mirror His self-emptying—a truly cruciform way of life, one that means bearing our cross each day (cf. Luke 9:23). As St. Paul writes to the Philippians, Christ “emptied himself, taking the form of a slave” (Philippians 2:7). Without the emptying of our own egos, we cannot be filled with His will.
As we leave this place in silence, we carry a staggering responsibility. St. Paul says in his letter to the Colossians: “I am completing in my flesh what is lacking in the afflictions of Christ on behalf of his body, which is the Church” (Colossians 1:24).
The Sacrifice of Christ on the Cross is already perfect. But our participation in it is ongoing. When we comfort victims of war, we complete the Passion. When we stand in solidarity with the lonely, we become the presence of the Crucified. When we refuse to let ideology destroy our love for our neighbour, we mirror the self-emptying of God.
Let us go forth, then, not in defeat, but in the strength of Love that has already conquered the world. God is not distant. God is here. God is on our gallows.
