7 Last Words
We welcome each and everyone of you to our Seven Last Words Service for Good Friday. Today we commemorate the Passion and Death of Jesus - a death that was freely chosen for you and me. St. Paul tells us that God desires so deeply for us to be with Him in heaven that He would submit to anything, “even death on a cross”.
During Christ’s Passion he spoke seven important phrases, known as the seven “last words”. We invite you to walk with Jesus through his last moments and words in a way you may never have approached it before.
Let us begin.
In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
THE FIRST WORD
When they came to the place called the Skull, they crucified him and the criminals there, one on his right, the other on his left. Then Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.”
In a world of instant reactions and viral condemnation, forgiveness feels radical. How many times do we rush to judgment, posting harsh comments or sharing unverified stories? Today's crowd carries smartphones instead of stones, but the impulse to condemn remains. Yet here is a call to understand that ignorance often drives harm - and understanding may be the first step toward healing.
Consider the teenager who shares a cruel meme without realizing its impact. The driver who cuts us off, perhaps rushing to an emergency we'll never know about. The colleague who speaks thoughtlessly, carrying burdens we cannot see. The family member who votes differently, shaped by experiences we've never lived.
This first word challenges us to pause before we click "send" on that angry email, before we share that outraged post, before we dismiss someone as irredeemable.
It asks us to consider:
What don't we know about this situation?
What pain, fear, or misunderstanding might be driving these actions?
How might our own ignorance be hurting others?
THE SECOND WORD
“Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”
Hope speaks to the desperate. In prison cells and hospital rooms, in addiction recovery centers and homeless shelters - salvation isn't reserved for the perfect. Paradise isn't earned through a lifetime of virtue but offered freely even at life's end. What transformations might occur if we truly believed in second chances?
The executive who lost everything to addiction, now thirty days sober. The former gang member mentoring at-risk youth. The divorced parent trying to rebuild trust with their children. The elderly person making peace with their past in their final days. These are today's thieves on the cross - people society might have written off, but who are never beyond the reach of grace.
This second word asks us to examine our assumptions about who is worthy of redemption. It challenges our metrics of success and failure, suggesting that transformation is always possible.
What if we treated every person as someone capable of change?
How might our criminal justice system, our rehabilitation programs, our personal relationships look different if we truly believed in the possibility of Paradise for all?
THE THIRD WORD
When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple there whom he loved, he said to his mother, “Woman, behold, your son.” Then he said to the disciple, “Behold, your mother.” And from that hour the disciple took her into his home.
Even in agony, connection matters. In an age of chosen families and fractured relationships, we're called to forge new bonds of care. A single parent working two jobs. An elderly neighbor living alone. A refugee family in a strange land.
Who are we called to claim as family?
Who needs us to become their son or mother today?
Jesus’ word speaks powerfully to our time of increasing isolation and individualism. The traditional nuclear family is no longer the norm - we live in an era of blended families, long-distance relationships, and communities connected by interest rather than blood. Yet the human need for belonging remains constant.
Consider the juvenile delinquent rejected by their biological family, finding new parents among supportive mentors. The elderly couple "adopting" their young neighbor who can't travel home for holidays. The online support group becoming a lifeline for chronic illness survivors. The religious community welcoming refugees as their own. These new families, formed by choice and circumstance rather than biology, fulfill the same deep need for connection and care that Jesus addressed from the cross.
THE FOURTH WORD
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Depression. Anxiety. Loneliness. The darkness of abandonment feels no less real in our time. Mental health struggles isolate us. Social media connects yet leaves us feeling more alone. Even in faith, we question. Even in community, we feel forsaken. This cry echoes through every age - it is deeply human to feel divine absence.
The entrepreneur whose dream business failed. The parent whose child won't speak to them. The person battling chronic illness alone. The believer experiencing a crisis of faith in a secular world. The activist fighting for justice in what seems like an indifferent universe. All know this feeling of abandonment, this sense that even God has turned away.
This fourth word gives us permission to name our despair. It sanctifies our questions and doubts. It reminds us that even the deepest faith can coexist with the most profound sense of abandonment.
What healing might come if we stopped pretending to be fine?
If we acknowledged our moments of godforsakenness?
If we recognized that questioning and doubt are not the opposite of faith, but perhaps essential to its depth?
THE FIFTH WORD
After this, aware that everything was now finished, in order that the scripture might be fulfilled, Jesus said, “I thirst.”
Physical need strips away pretense. Beyond our carefully curated images lies simple human vulnerability. Thirst for water. Thirst for justice. Thirst for meaning. What do we truly thirst for? And who around us thirsts - for food, for shelter, for dignity - while we scroll past their need?
This word speaks to both literal and metaphorical thirsts. The communities without clean drinking water. The children going hungry in wealthy nations. The elderly dying of heat in summer blackouts. But also: The thirst for recognition in a world of anonymous transactions. The thirst for truth in an era of misinformation. The thirst for purpose in meaningless jobs. The thirst for connection in a digitally saturated world.
What do we do with our own thirst?
How often do we try to quench it with substitutes like consumption, achievement, distraction?
And how do we respond to the thirst of others? Do we offer water? Or do we, like the soldiers with their sponge of vinegar, offer false solutions that only intensify the need?
THE SIXTH WORD
There was a vessel filled with common wine. So they put a sponge soaked in wine on a sprig of hyssop and put it up to his mouth. When Jesus had taken the wine, he said, “It is finished.” And bowing his head, he handed over the spirit.
Completion. Release. In a culture of endless striving and perpetual inadequacy, imagine declaring "enough." Not everything needs another revision, another update, another post. Some things can simply be finished. What might it mean to say "it is finished" to our perfectionism, our need to control, our endless self-improvement projects?
The parent who's done their best, even if not perfectly. The artist who releases their work into the world, even if it could be tweaked forever. The activist who passes the torch to the next generation. The dying person making peace with their legacy. Each must learn to say "it is finished."
This sixth word challenges our addiction to endless growth, constant productivity, and perpetual optimization. It suggests that completion - even imperfect completion - has its own dignity.
What if we could say "it is finished" to old grudges? To impossible standards? To the need to prove ourselves?
What freedom might we find in completion?
THE SEVENTH WORD
Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit”; and when he had said this he breathed his last.
Final surrender. Ultimate trust. We plan our lives meticulously - careers, retirement accounts, bucket lists. Yet at some point, we must release our grip on certainty. In an age of anxiety and attempted control, what would it mean to live as though we could trust in something larger than our own efforts?
The cancer patient facing uncertain treatment outcomes. The parent sending their child out into the world. The retiree stepping away from a lifetime career. The activist unsure if their work will bear fruit. Each must learn to release control, to trust in something beyond themselves.
This final word invites us to practice surrender not as defeat, but as freedom.
What if we could release our desperate grip on controlling outcomes?
What if we could trust - in God, in the universe, in the fundamental meaningfulness of existence - even when we cannot see the way forward?
What if surrender could become not our last resort, but our first principle?
God we thank you for this opportunity to grow closer to you this Good Friday. We offer up all that is in our hearts to you. Help us to know Your unconditional love as each day passes. Jesus we love You. Jesus we trust in You. May the Holy Spirit guide us. May we strive closer to being with you in Heaven. We ask this, in Jesus’ name… In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.