Good Friday has always been a day that makes me stop in my tracks. It draws a sombre curtain over the noise of the world and invites us to look long and hard at sorrow, at sacrifice… and at betrayal.
It always strikes me closer to home than I’d like. Because I, too, have felt the sting of betrayal. Not by an enemy, but by someone who was meant to stand beside me. Someone godly – or so I thought. She broke her vows as if they were trifles, promises spoken with no more weight than air. And that kind of betrayal doesn’t just bruise the heart – it breaks something inside. It leaves you looking at the shattered pieces of trust and asking, “Was any of it real?”
I think of Jesus in Gethsemane. The weight of the world pressing down on him like a vice, his soul ‘overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death’ (Matthew 26:38). And then – Judas. One of the Twelve. A man who shared his bread, his ministry, his friendship. And yet, for a few silver coins, he handed him over with a kiss. A kiss. The very gesture meant to convey love became the mask of treachery.
I’ve come to realise that betrayal is never just the breaking of a promise – it’s the fracturing of a sacred space. When someone who was meant to be a shelter becomes the storm, it rattles you to your core.
But Good Friday whispers this truth to me: Jesus understands. Not in some distant, divine way, but in the raw, bloodied reality of human experience. He was abandoned by friends, falsely accused, mocked, beaten, and crucified. He was stripped of dignity, of justice, of safety. And through it all, he never lost himself. He didn’t let the betrayal of Judas or the denial of Peter define him.
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,” he said (Luke 23:34). That’s not weakness – that’s strength wrapped in compassion. And it both humbles and challenges me.
I’m not ready to say those words yet – not fully. Forgiveness isn’t a tap you can turn on. It’s a process, a path that sometimes winds through anger, grief, and disbelief. But I know Jesus walked it first. He shows me that broken trust doesn’t mean I’m broken. That even when others fail, I don’t have to fall apart. His love remains constant, even when human love proves fickle.
And perhaps that’s the quiet power of Good Friday. That in the midst of loss – of betrayal, heartbreak, disillusionment – there is one who has already borne it all. Who meets us not with glib answers, but with pierced hands and an understanding heart.
So often, I sit with the ache. I don’t try to rush past it. I let it speak. And in the shadow of the cross, I remember that even the deepest wounds can lead to resurrection.
Wording 