Homily for Good Friday

The Cross is Steady While the World is Turning

Today is unlike any other day. The church is stripped bare. The tabernacle stands empty. We begin in silence, not with a hymn, not with a greeting, but with a gesture—prostration. The priest lies flat before the altar. We kneel with him. Words fail. Only the body can speak now. This is Good Friday.

We enter into the Passion of the Lord with Isaiah’s prophecy ringing in our ears: “He was despised and rejected… a man of sorrows.” We listen to the solemn, unrelenting Gospel of John, tracing Jesus from betrayal to arrest, to trial, to crucifixion and death. We stand at the foot of the cross not as spectators, but as those for whom He suffered. And in the shadow of that cross, we hear the Carthusian motto whisper its quiet truth: “The Cross is steady while the world is turning.”

This line comes from the ancient Carthusian Order, a silent, contemplative community that has held to prayer and solitude for nearly a thousand years. Their motto in Latin—Stat crux dum volvitur orbis—means exactly that: while everything else changes, while the world spins in chaos, the Cross remains immovable. It is not just a poetic phrase. It’s a worldview. It’s a way of standing firm when everything else is unstable.

We live in a world that feels like it’s spinning faster than we can keep up. War. Tarrifs. Division. Betrayal. Grief. A million voices shout, and none of them bring peace. Lives unravel. Foundations shake. The news cycles churn. The world turns. And yet—the Cross is steady.

On this day of sorrow, we find the one point of stillness that has never moved: Jesus Christ crucified. Here is the axis around which history turns. Here is the centre that does not yield. Not to empires. Not to chaos. Not to death.

When the liturgy begins with prostration, it’s not just a sign of humility or mourning. It’s a statement. We place ourselves flat on the ground because there is nothing left to say, nothing left to control. It is a surrender. And in that surrender, we find steadiness. When everything falls apart, the cross does not.

The Passion narrative we hear today is stark. John’s Gospel shows us a Jesus who is fully in control, even as the world around Him descends into confusion and rage – the worst of humanity on display. He steps forward to meet His captors. He declares, “I am He,” and they fall to the ground. He speaks truth to Pilate without flinching. He entrusts His mother to John, and John to His mother, even as He suffers. And finally, He says, “It is finished.” Not in defeat—but in completion.

Christ’s death is not the end of a failed mission. It’s the fulfilment of a purpose. The Letter to the Hebrews in the second reading tells us that He “learned obedience through what He suffered” and became “the source of eternal salvation.” In His obedience, we find our peace. In His suffering, our hope. In His wounds, our healing.

That’s why the Solemn Intercessions that are prayed shortly today matter so much. With our bodies (kneeling and standing) and with our lips, we pray for the whole world, for every category of person—from the Pope to unbelievers. Because the Cross is not just a personal refuge; it is a universal anchor. We intercede not with panic, not with anxiety, but with steady confidence. The Letter to the Hebrews tells us that we can “approach the throne of grace with boldness.” And that throne is the Cross. That boldness comes not from our strength, but from Christ’s.

When we think about it, we see that while Rome was asserting power, while the religious leaders plotted, while Judas betrayed, and Peter denied, and the crowd shouted—Jesus held fast. The world turned, but the Cross was steady……. And it still is.

We’ll soon witness the unveiling of the Cross. It doesn’t begin revealed. It is covered—hidden, as God often is in our pain. But slowly, deliberately, the cloth is pulled away. “Behold the wood of the Cross,” the priest will sing in Latin. And we will respond: “Come, let us adore.” Not with sentimental affection. But with awe. This is not just wood. This is the point where human suffering meets divine mercy. This is the still centre of a storming world.

The world keeps spinning. Our personal lives spin, too. Some of us are carrying private griefs no one else sees. Some are crushed by anxiety, by failure, by fear. And yet, the Cross stands. Christ does not run from our mess. He enters it. He takes it on. And He transforms it—not by escaping suffering, but by going through it, and rising from it.

And so we come, in silence, to venerate the Cross. We come one by one. No rush. No frenzy. Just this personal encounter with the crucified Savior. Maybe we kiss the wood. Maybe we kneel. Maybe we just touch it. Each gesture is a quiet rebellion against despair. Each is a confession: “This is where I place my trust. This is what steadies me.”

It’s tempting to think that faith means always feeling strong, always having answers. But Good Friday says otherwise. It’s not about being unshaken. It’s about knowing where to go when the shaking comes. And it will come.

The Cross does not change, and Christ does not change. He is the same yesterday, today, and forever. The world may spin into chaos. Governments fall. Cultures shift. Our own minds may twist with doubt and pain. But the Cross stays planted. The love of God made visible in the broken body of Jesus Christ remains. It is the one thing we can count on.

“The Cross is steady while the world is turning.” This is not just a poetic phrase. It’s a lifeline.

So let us take this day seriously—not just as a ritual, but as a return to what holds. Let today slow us down. Let it draw us back to the source. Let the silence speak louder than the noise we live in. Let us lay our burdens at the foot of the Cross—not for an easy fix, but for a steady Saviour.

And let us not rush past this day to Easter Sunday too quickly. The Resurrection is coming. But the Cross is not erased by it. It is glorified by it. The wounds remain, even in the Risen Body. Because the Cross is not a detour—it’s the road through which we must pass as Christ did. It’s the truth. It’s the anchor.

As we leave this church in silence today, I encourage you—don’t leave this moment behind. Enter into the remaining hours of Good Friday and the pregnant expectation of Holy Saturday with prayer, with reverence. Let the quiet stretch. Let the stillness deepen. Whether it’s time before the Unveiled Crucifix, time in Scripture, or simply time in silence, stay near the Cross. Rest there. Wait there. Hold your heart still until He rises.

We can pray before the Crucifix with the tradition prayer:

Look down upon me, good and gentle Jesus
while before Your face I humbly kneel and,
with burning soul,
pray and beseech You
to fix deep in my heart lively sentiments
of faith, hope, and charity;
true contrition for my sins,
and a firm purpose of amendment.

While I contemplate,
with great love and tender pity,
Your five most precious wounds,
pondering over them within me
and calling to mind the words which David,
Your prophet, said to You, my Jesus:

“They have pierced My hands and My feet,
they have numbered all My bones.” Amen.

May we stay near the Cross, not only today, but every day the world turns.