Preached on Friday, April 3, 2026, Good Friday, at Trinity Episcopal Cathedral, Little Rock.

Pilate said to Jesus, “What is truth?” (John 18:38)

That question sits at the center of the Passion story. “What is truth?” It’s not really a philosophical question. That is, Pilate is not inviting a careful conversation about epistemics or metaphysics. Instead, it’s the weary and cynical question of a man who has grown accustomed to living without truth.

Pilate is the Roman governor. His entire office depends upon his ability to determine what is true. People bring accusations before him. Witnesses are heard. Evidence is weighed. Verdicts are pronounced. The authority of Rome stands behind his judgment.

And yet, when the most important case of his career stands before him, Pilate shrugs at the very idea of truth. “What is truth?” he asks. And even so, the trial proceeds.

Everything about the Passion unfolds in a chain of falsehoods. One lie gives way to another until, one Friday afternoon, the Son of God is hanging from a cross outside the city wall.

It begins with the lie that Jesus is dangerous. The authorities present Him as a threat to public order, a disturber of the peace Who must be dealt with quickly before people get hurt. Yet the Gospels have already shown us what Jesus has actually done during His ministry. He has healed the sick, fed the hungry, forgiven sinners, and proclaimed the nearness of God’s kingdom. The lie that He is dangerous becomes the first stone laid in the road to the cross.

The next lie follows quickly behind it. Jesus is accused of blasphemy, and therefore, condemned as Someone Who deserves death. Witnesses twist His words and repeat statements out of context. Testimony is manipulated until it produces the verdict that had already been decided for Him. What looks like a hearing is not really a search for truth at all. It is an attempt to create the appearance of justice while injustice has already long been underway.

When the case moves from the religious authorities to the Roman governor, the accusations change again—the next lie in a series of lies. Suddenly Jesus is presented as a political rebel, a man Who claims kingship in opposition to Caesar. The charge is carefully crafted because the accusers know exactly what will alarm a Roman governor. If Pilate can be convinced that Jesus threatens Roman authority, then the execution will quickly follow.

What’s astounding, though, is that Pilate sees through much of this. John’s Gospel tells us—more than once!—that Pilate cannot find a case against this Man. Pilate questions Him. Pilate returns to the crowd. Pilate moves back and forth between the accusers and the accused. And at several points, he says plainly that he finds no guilt in the Man standing before him. And yet, the trial continues.

Pilate knows the accusations are weak, but he does not defend the truth. The crowd grows louder. The political pressures increase. The situation becomes dangerous for a governor who wants to maintain order and protect his own position. So, Pilate does what powerful people have always done when truth becomes inconvenient: He allows the lies to stand.

In that moment, truth becomes expendable. Justice becomes negotiable. Reality itself becomes something that can be ignored in order to calm the crowd and preserve authority. And from that falsehood comes the cross.

It is easy for us to look at this story and place the blame entirely on those who hold power. It is easy to condemn Pilate and the authorities who twist Jesus’ words.

Likewise, it is easy to look at our own world and criticize leaders who speak carelessly about the truth. After all, we live in a time when public figures say things that contradict what is plainly visible. Falsehoods are repeated confidently, evidence dismissed intentionally, and the simple facts of reality are treated as optional––if not just fake.

But Good Friday will not allow us to pretend that the death of truth belongs only to political leaders.

The Passion of Christ––His suffering––moves forward not only through the lies of governors and bureaucrats, but also through the lies of the people. The crowd that gathers in the courtyard does not investigate the charges carefully. They repeat what they hear. They shout along with the loudest voices. And the disciples who knew the truth, who once followed Jesus, scatter in fear, and in silence, and in falsehood. Those who know Him best disappear into the shadows while the false accusations just grow stronger.

If we are honest—and on this day, I hope we are honest—we recognize ourselves in those small betrayals of truth. We know how easy it is to repeat stories that confirm what we already believe. We know how quickly we can dismiss facts that challenge our sense of security. We know how tempting it can be to look the other way when truth confronts us face to face.

The death of truth rarely happens all at once. It certainly didn’t for our Lord. The death of truth happens through little half-truths, convenient silences, and above all, small acts of cowardice. Truth dies when enough people decide that defending the truth is simply too costly.

That is what Good Friday reveals. It reveals a world in which falsehood has gathered enough forces to condemn an innocent man. It reveals a system in which accusations matter more than evidence, and power matters more than reality. It reveals a moment when the One Who came to testify to the Truth is silenced by a lie.

So, this is not a day of truth, but of falsehood. This is a day when lies triumph over justice. This is a day when power shrugs at reality and ordinary people like you and me help the lie move forward. This is a day when the world succeeds—and if you want to know what that success looks like, look no further than the cross of Jesus.

But if today you are looking for the Truth, if you are looking for the Truth that exposes the lies, the Truth that unveils reality, the Truth that will finally beat back falsehood forever, the Truth that only God can give, if you are looking for that Truth, we must wait—three days.