Good Friday, Liberation, and the Weird Celebration of Death

Preached at Iglesia Cristo Para Todos Levittown, Puerto Rico, on Good Friday, 2024.
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I would like to start this morning’s message by sharing a story that the Brazilian theologian Rubem Alves narrates in his book The Poet, the Warrior, and the Prophet:

“My father-in-law was born in Germany. He moved to Brazil after the first world war. He was the son of a Seventh-Day Adventist pastor. As you know, members of this religious group are very strict about their eating habits. They do not eat pork and blood, and don't drink liquor, tea, or coffee. My father-in-law, even though he was no longer a believer, could not forget the prohibition words which had been written in his body. And he even had an extra prohibition, which was his alone: he could not eat brain. Even though he had never tried brain before, the fact was that he did not like it.

One day he was invited to a dinner. He was the guest of honour. And he was very pleased as he saw that the main dish was breaded cauliflower. He must have thought that the hostess was an expert in the rules of etiquette: she must have known about his almost vegetarian habits. He ate and had more. Delicious. At the end of the dinner, the alchemy of assimilation having already begun, and body and soul satisfied with the food, he gave a compliment. 

‘The breaded cauliflower was divine...’

 'Oh! No!' said the hostess. 'It is not breaded cauliflower; it is breaded brain.’

 Poor lady! She could never have imagined the kind of storm which an innocent word in the mouth could produce in the body. My father-in-law, forgetting all rules of propriety, jumped off his chair, rushed to the bathroom, and vomited everything...

How can we account for what happened?

The 'thing': was it not delicious? Had not the body tasted and approved it? What physical or chemical changes could have occurred after the word 'brain' was said? None. My father-in-law knew this in his head. And yet his body did not agree. What had been good to eat before the word, ceased to be after the word was heard. What strange entity is this, which has the power to bring to nothing the hard realities of physics and chemistry? One single word triggered the digestive storm. It was not the taste, it was not the smell, it was not the touch, it was not the sight: one single word. Which leads us to a strange conclusion: my father-in-law did not vomit a ‘thing’; he vomited words. What gives pleasure – and displeasure – are not things, but words, the words which dwell in them.  As Zarathustra suggested, what makes things refreshing are the names and sounds, which are given to them. Somehow, for reasons unknown, the word ‘cauliflower’ was, in my father-in-law's body, the beginning of a beautiful world, whereas the word ‘brain’ invoked repulsive images. One single word suffices to transform a prince into a frog. No witches are needed. The prince himself can perform the black magic…

The body has a philosophy of its own. Reality, for it, is not what we usually call by this name. It is not something given. It is rather the result of an alchemic operation whereby a nameless ‘stuff’ is mixed with words. And its world is created. This, and only this, is what is given to the body to be eaten. Guimarāes Rosa showed great familiarity with the wisdom of the body when he said that ‘everything is real because everything is invented.’ ‘Dreams is what we are made of,’ says Norman O. Brown. My father-in-law did not vomit the ‘thing.’ He vomited the bad dreams, nightmares, which were invoked by the bewitching word…

My thoughts dance and jump from this disastrous dinner to medieval sacramental theology. In describing what took place in the eucharist they used the word transubstantiation. Protestant theologians could not understand this concept because, for them, words have no magical power; they are only raw material for thinking. I suspect that this is due to the fact that their fathers-in-law never experienced the embarrassment of an indigestion provoked by one single word. These two situations: are they not rigorously alike? Bread and wine: the basic ‘stuff’ for the meal. Then a word is pronounced. Nothing changes. Under the scrutiny of objective criteria of knowledge, bread remains bread and wine remains wine. As medieval theologians said, the ‘accidents’ remain the same. And yet they affirmed that by the power of the word an imperceptible change took place: a new substance is there, in the place of the old: the body and the blood of Christ.”

Good Friday: The Weird Celebration of Death.

Good Friday, alongside Easter Sunday and possibly Christmas, is one of the most celebrated events in Christianity. Today, while we are in “celebration”—and we must ask ourselves what kind of gloomy religion celebrates the death of its prophet—churches fill with people. As a child, I used to hear that even those who never set foot in a church would come on Good Friday. It’s understandable. In Christian theology and religion, Good Friday marks the fundamental and central event for Christianity: salvation. And we cannot deceive ourselves; Christianity rests on the idea of salvation. Today, we tell the story of a man who gives himself up to offer the sinful world a real chance at redemption. That Jesus, professed for centuries, takes the central place in today’s sermons and discussions.

This is the Jesus we’ve known since we were children. The one we heard about in Sunday school. The one we pray to in the death of loved ones. This is the Jesus who “takes attendance” in heaven, and to whom we will “happily respond” when He calls us to His glory. This is the Jesus of European theology, who professed salvation and the forgiveness of sins as the exclusive redemptive element and the only possibility for existence. It is a pleasant, kind Jesus. Transcendental, as Barth would say. And look, I know very little about Barth—but, who has time for that? It is the Jesus I’ve decided to call “traditional.” Hanging on a wooden cross, He utters seven phrases we repeat annually. He asks for forgiveness for those who have hurt and wounded Him, takes time to converse with thieves, and saves one of them. In a moment of darkness and pain, He asks His Father why He has left Him alone. Seeing His mother clawing at the ground in rage and sorrow, Jesus provides her a son, while offering motherly love to the youngest of His followers. He grows thirsty, completes His greatest work, and finally surrenders His spirit.

Today, Jesus dies.

He gives His entire life, grants us all His grace, and forever establishes Christian theology. He “demonstrates His love toward us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). Marcela Gándara sings: “Beyond everything, you gave yourself, precious lamb, in unequaled majesty. Receive adoration.” Today, “the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world” (John 1:29) dies, and through His death, we have life.

I’ve spent 40 years in the church celebrating Good Fridays. I know the routines of these days, these celebrations, and services. I understand the emotions, the experiences, the salvation and redemption narratives that today adorn the temples. Unfortunately, I also recognize their dominant mechanisms, sometimes simplistic and, at times, manipulative.

It’s not my intention to minimize this Jesus, nor do I intend to undermine the ways in which the traditionally preached Salvation offers spaces for human and community improvement. Certainly, Jesus, as a model for humanity, provides possible paths to rethink and redeem our history. Anyone who doubts this could hardly call themselves a Christian.

However, today, I would like to take a theological privilege to imagine this Good Friday from a different perspective that allows us to uncover—literally, to remove the covering of—a Jesus seen and understood through another lens. Jon Sobrino says that “Liberation Theology focuses on Christology insofar as it reflects on Jesus Himself as the path to liberation.” What Sobrino seems to suggest is that Christology, and the study of Jesus, is grounded, especially in Latin America, in the understanding of Christ as the liberator from human oppression. To me, the cross and the elements of today speak of this human liberation—of the possibility that words and actions can transform bread and wine into sacred elements and our bodies into agents of solidarity and peace, for the creation of healthy and ethical futures.

Perhaps today we should look at a Jesus who, beyond saving us—and we would need to take time to understand what is meant by salvation—also invites us to the active participation in His Kingdom, assuming the consequences of fully carrying out the constant and eternal struggle for the dignity and well-being of all people. Above all, those who have been historically ignored, discarded, despised and devalued.

He surrenders. Does He surrender?

To me, it seems fitting to analyze the idea of Jesus’ surrender, which is upheld at all costs as a fundamental piece of the narrative of His Passion and death. Again, it is not my intention this morning to destroy or invalidate the idea of a Jesus who surrenders for humanity’s salvation. However, I would like to examine Jesus’ death from a slightly bolder perspective to find new revelations of the Divine.

When I was young, I heard a friend say that it wasn’t the nails that held Jesus on the cross, but His immense love for us. I also heard refrains like: “If He had wanted to, He could have come down from the cross.” “He didn’t have to die; He could have avoided it, but He surrendered to save us.” And, of course, backed by the Gethsemane narrative found in the Synoptic Gospels, the idea that His death is part of a divine plan meticulously drawn by the Father: “Take this cup from me, but let your will be done, not mine” (Matthew 26:39, Mark 14:36, Luke 22:42). In other words, we’ve standardized a model of Jesus that holds that He surrenders out of compliance with His divine plan.

This idea doesn’t seem wrong or incorrect—nor am I the one to decide which ideas about Jesus Christ are correct or not. But this notion of the Christ who surrenders carries a fundamental risk that I think is important to consider today. By claiming that Christ voluntarily surrenders for our salvation, we risk minimizing His work and salvific historical task, which breaks established molds and proposes a completely alternative worldview.

In other words, thinking of a Jesus who surrenders out of love causes us to lose sight of the cruel crime committed against this man, who fought until the end of His life to change the world He lived in, for a more equitable and just one. Certainly, Jesus “surrenders,” and the prophecies of His coming are fulfilled. But this “surrender” must not overshadow His constant and consistent effort to challenge and change an entire system, exalting the lives of those the system discarded and rejected.

Jesus loves us.

Jesus keeps His word.

Jesus finishes His process.

Jesus dies on the cross.

Jesus “surrenders” His life.

Jesus suffers the blows and lashes.

A day like today commemorates His death—indeed, all this is true. But this death occurs in a context of struggle. That is, Jesus’ death starkly and crudely shows us the consequences of a life lived in commitment to a mission: to give life to those without it, to lift up the despised, to raise the fallen, and above all, to love those who were never loved.

Thus, His death does not exist without His alternative worldview. The sacrifice is in vain without His example of life. His blood is insignificant without the purpose for which it is shed. The cross is a mere symbol unless viewed through the lens that points to the struggle of a person to subvert a broken and unjust world, turning it into one of love, grace, and dignity for all people. He didn’t just surrender; they killed Him.

 Jesus surrenders, but not to the cross or death, rather to the daily and consistent sacrifice of transforming the world into a better place.

 The Gospels are tangible evidence of this.

 When the Syrophoenician woman approaches Him in Mark 7:24-30, Jesus seems to succumb to traditional exclusive dogmas, calling her a “perra”. But He quickly corrects and refocuses on a just and equitable world for all people. Before the astonished gaze of those around Him, Jesus loves the Syrophoenician woman enough to restore her life and grant her requests.

 In Luke 8:43-48, when the woman considered impure because of her bleeding approaches Him, He does not succumb to the hostile crowd, nor does He devalue the life of the one who loves and seeks Him to find a connection with another human being. In front of the crowd seeking a harsh judgment, Jesus responds with love and salvation. In His famous phrase “your faith has saved you,” there is more than just healing from her illness. With this phrase, Jesus makes the woman human again, part of the community. He doesn’t just restore her health; He restores her dignity as a person.

 In John 8:1-11, which is considered a later addition to the Gospel, Jesus does not fall into the trap set by those who focus on human sexuality and the ways they believe desires and people should exist. In front of the judging and scornful gaze of the “wise” men of the time—who were probably all heterosexual men—Jesus “shoots like an arrow” the sentence: “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.” The law commands them to stone her, to hurl stones until she dies, but Grace doesn’t respect or obey oppressive laws, and justice doesn’t operate under discriminatory rules. The struggle for a just world requires reinterpreting laws in ways that benefit marginalized communities, opening spaces for salvation and redemption. The law says to kill her, cut her down, and destroy her—Grace appeals to humanity and dignity, to salvation.

 In Matthew 22:15-22, the Pharisees try to trick Him, attempting to make Him participate in economic systems of tribute that exploit the poor. These teachers—also probably straight men—try to equate the Kingdom of God and His justice with an unjust economy and colonial political rule. Jesus again responds sharply. With His “Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s,” He clearly establishes the distinction between oppressive, exploitative economies and just, salvific ones. Caesar exploits, the Kingdom liberates. Caesar impoverishes, the Kingdom creates mutual support communities to grow together. Jesus is no fool; His mission doesn’t support unjust economic systems. He is clear about what the Pharisees—and the fiscal control boards, the suited insecure men in the Capitol, and those sitting in the halls of power—don’t understand: the only way to prosper is by building communities of love and support, by dignifying the lives of all people, by upholding divine justice as an essential value, and by celebrating human diversity as God’s most beautiful gift. It is also about creating self-sustaining support mechanisms that dismantle the economic systems promoting poverty and exploitation. Caesar, the fiscal boards, the capitols, and the palaces of power don’t understand this, which is why Jesus makes no sense to them.

I could go on highlighting moments where Jesus breaks the unjust molds imposed by society: the parables of the Good Samaritan, the wedding guests, the laborers in the vineyard, and the prodigal son show us this. The feeding of the five thousand, the widow who gives everything, the healing of the paralyzed man, the healings on the Sabbath, the dinners with tax collectors, and the visits to Zacchaeus’ house are all raw examples that Jesus does not intend to obey an oppressive pattern dictated by the colonial ruling state; His mission is to transform weeping into joy, war into peace, abuse into health, and oppressive politics into just and equitable ideas.

Through His life, Jesus exemplifies the constant, continuous struggle for a better world. He stands against culture, power, colonialism, monarchies, and anyone who seeks to dictate norms on human sexuality, oppressive religious norms, or unjust economic rules. Jesus fights, constantly and relentlessly, for a world in which all people can experiment the endless blessings of the Divine together. A world where economic status, gender identity, or sexual orientation doesn’t determine a person’s worth. A world where the diversity of colors serves as the foundation for building a society where love and dignity are the central pieces of life.

That’s why they killed Him.

They killed Him for pushing an alternative, just worldview.

The state killed Him for being subversive, for being seditious, for being an unrelenting fighter for good.

They killed Him because He didn’t obey or respect simplistic ideas of being a man, a savior, or a prophet.

They killed Him like they kill bills that seek to prevent discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity.

They killed Him like they kill ideas that push for fair economic measures for the workers on the island.

They killed Him like they kill laws that promote mechanisms to protect LGBTTQIA+ communities and women in the country.

They killed Him.

They killed Him because He was different, distinct.

They killed Him like they killed Alexa, like they killed Keishla, like they killed Katherine, Ivette, María, Lilliam, Ana Luz, Jesmarie, Judith, Carolyn, Nitza, Yampi, Penélope, Layla, Serena, Michellyn, Samuel, and thousands of women, trans people, and people from the LGBTTQIA+ community murdered under a patriarchal, macho, misogynistic, economically unstable, culturally dislocated, educationally incomplete, and socially maladapted system.

They killed Him because He said the world couldn’t continue like this, that it had to change.

Jesus proposed an alternative worldview, and for this, the state killed Him.

 Until the End, the Struggle Continues:

But the state could never predict the consequences of His assassination. The state never imagined that His death would mean life. That His murder would signify resurrection. That His sentence would birth grace, bring forth the struggle, and sprout hope for all people. The state killed Him, expecting to end His messaage, to discourage his followers, but they didn’t understand the fundamental truth: ideas cannot be killed. Jesus was more than a human being; His message and death embodied the possibility of an alternative world.

 Jesus does surrender, but it is not only His body He gives; He surrenders His proposal for peace, His idea of well-being. Jesus surrenders His Kingdom. He offers it to us on the cross. His death on the cross is more than a simplistic, individualistic salvation—it is the raw invitation to pursue the well-being and dignity of all people.

 He invites us to forgiveness because He forgave us first. That’s why He makes it clear that the Kingdom always includes an element of forgiveness: “Father, forgive them…” (Luke 23:34).

 He invites us to paradise; not a lifeless, simplistic paradise, but one born from the acknowledgment of our sin, our wickedness, and our desire to improve and live in community: “Today you will be with me in paradise…” (Luke 23:43).

 He invites us to mutual companionship and love, born from walking together hand in hand. The Kingdom is built in community, and He reminds us that no one should be left abandoned or walking alone—that we all deserve the companionship of one another: “Why have you forsaken me…” (Matthew 27:46) “Woman, here is your son…” (John 19:26).

 He invites us to always thirst. Even in our moments of greatest pain, in our darkest crises, when everything seems to collapse, when our feet and hands ache from the struggle, when we are on the verge of giving in: “I thirst…” (John 19:28).

 He invites us to fight till the end, to accept the consequences of just causes, to face with courage and faith the attacks of empire, the state, the injustices of those who seek to imprison, limit, reject, hate, judge, and mistreat. He invites us not to falter, to carry our struggle for the Kingdom until the very end, until it is finished, until it is accomplished: “It is finished…” (John 19:30).

 And He invites us to understand that in the end, we walk guided by His spirit. That our struggle is upheld and accompanied by His guidance. That we do not walk as lone individuals and that our death and end are not dictated by evil and suffering but by His Spirit, His companionship, His comfort, and His peace: “Into your hands I commit my spirit…” (Luke 23:46).

 Jesus’ invitations are to the Kingdom. To the complete fulfillment of the duty of being followers of Christ. To the relentless pursuit of human well-being and the eternal struggle for those who the state, empire, powers, and authorities have discarded, devalued, mistreated, and oppressed. Jesus’ death is not a tender matter; it is not an element of celebration. It is the deepest and most fundamental call to be followers of Christ, accepting to the very end the consequences of proposing that the world we live in can be different.

 Final Conclusions:

The birth, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus are events that possess a common thread. The story of the Master of Galilee is not a random collection of unrelated events patched together like a collage on the wall. They have a coherent logic; they share a common element: love. Gustavo Gutiérrez says that “doing theology is writing a love letter to the God in whom I believe, to the people I belong to, and to the church of which I am a part.” And Chela Sandoval explains that “it is love that can guide our theoretical and political movidas.” Both seem to understand the distinctive matter of the cross and the struggle through the proper lens: love.

 The cross is the foundational event of Christianity; I don’t think we can have any doubt about this. But the cross has context and meaning. The cross is not an automatic salvation that functions as a vehicle from Earth to heaven, seeking to excuse human behavior. Neither does the cross work in individualistic or exclusive ways; as Eliseo Pérez rightly said: “Christ died for me, but that ‘for me’ must be understood in the way that I belong to everyone.”

 The context of the cross is Jesus’ constant, coherent, consistent struggle to subvert the oppressive colonial system of the time, demonstrating that there is a real possibility of loving one’s neighbor. The cross is the ultimate experience of rebellion against the discourses that have always said that only some people can love, only some can progress, only some can have dignity, and only some have the right to life. The cross is the powerful expression that the reality we live in can change, that there are external elements accessible through a firm belief in love for all people. It is an invitation to a communal imagination that, like Christ, affirms that love for all people and human diversity are the foundation of a healthy society.

In the end, brothers and sisters, it is all about love. The intrinsic quality of God that places us in the infinite position of being like Jesus, people who tirelessly fight to love and create spaces of love. Jesus was born, lived, was killed, and resurrected because He believed in love. He firmly held that love was the path to truth. That love changed the laws, altered social paradigms, created greater opportunities for progress. That love triumphed over systemic evils, over the fiscal boards and the unjust politics, that it would triumph over corruption and wickedness, that it would reign over abuse, marginalization, discrimination, and death. They killed Jesus because He loved so much that He fought tirelessly for everyone to be loved.

 And that love is the word that changes our entire body. It is the word that triggers different actions. It is the word that compels us to live differently. Like the father-in-law with the cauliflower, Christ’s love is what drives our body to fight for a more just country, for spaces of solidarity, for more empathetic communities that celebrate human diversity as the path to salvation.

 Love.

And His cross, full of love, inscribed us as participants and witnesses of the Kingdom. His vile and cruel murder did not end our struggle but showed us that there are possibilities for change. It reminded us why we hope:

Because He entered the world and into history.
Because He broke the silence and agony.
Because He filled the earth with His glory.
Because He was a light in our cold night.
Because He was born in a dark manger.
Because He lived, sowing love and life.
Because He broke hardened hearts and lifted up crushed souls.
Because He confronted greedy merchants and denounced wickedness and hypocrisy.
Because He exalted children and women and resisted those who burned with pride.
Because He carried the cross of our sorrows and tasted the bitterness of our ills.
Because He accepted to suffer our condemnation and thus die for all mortals.
Because a dawn saw His great victory over death, fear, and lies.
Now nothing can stop the story nor the coming of His eternal Kingdom.
Because He illuminates every path with glory, and the darkness was defeated with His light.
Because His light is sown in our history and will lead everyone to the summit.
That is why we have hope today, that is why we fight with perseverance today, that is why we look with confidence to the future.