Mending our Relationship to Power

John 19: 1 - 16a 

There are parts of the gospel story that we tend to move through quickly.

Even in a season like Lent—when we are trying to slow down, to pay attention, to prepare our hearts—we often glide past the most painful details. We know the outline of the story.

Jesus is arrested. There is a trial. There is a cross. There is an empty tomb.

 

But the middle… the middle is harder to sit with.

The scenes of interrogation.
The humiliation.
The violence.

 

And if we’re honest, most years we don’t linger there very long. We save that for Holy Week. For a midweek service. For a moment when we brace ourselves and say, “This will be hard.” Or for the services that don’t necessarily fit into our schedule.

 

But this year, we are doing something different with the scripture.

We are slowing down. Tackling the hard parts with greater attention.

 

We are watching the story unfold in what feels like slow motion. And in doing so, we are beginning to notice things we might otherwise miss—the small decisions, the subtle shifts, the human tendencies that shape what happens next.

 

Because Lent, for us this season, is about mending.

About noticing what is torn—within us, around us—and asking how God might be at work repairing what is broken.

 

And today, the question before us is this:

What does it look like to mend our relationship with power?

 

The scene we just heard from John’s gospel is unsettling.

Jesus has been flogged—beaten by soldiers.
They dress him in a purple robe.
They place a crown of thorns on his head.
They mock him.

“Here is your king.”

 

It is a grotesque parody of power.

And Jesus stands there—caught between two systems.

On one side, the religious leadership, navigating their complicated relationship with Rome, trying to maintain order, protect the temple, preserve what little stability they can.

 

On the other side, the Roman Empire, embodied in Pilate—the representative of a system that maintains control through violence, intimidation, and public spectacle.

 

And in between them all… is Jesus.

 

I want to invite you to see this scene in two ways at once.

There is what is happening from the human perspective.

And there is what is happening in the larger story of God.

 

From the human perspective, this is a story about power being exercised exactly as we expect it to be.

 

Pilate is trying to manage a volatile situation. The charges against Jesus are vague—something about kingship, something about authority. But Pilate understands the stakes. Rome does not tolerate rival kings. And if unrest breaks out under his watch, his own position is at risk.

 

So Pilate does what systems of power often do.

He tries to find a middle ground.

 

He has Jesus flogged—hoping that punishment will be enough to satisfy the crowd without requiring execution. A calculated act of violence meant to maintain order.

 

But it doesn’t work.

The crowd demands more.

“Crucify him.”

 

And at this point, Pilate stands at a crossroads.

He has the authority to release Jesus.

He has the authority to disrupt what is unfolding.

He has the authority to choose something different.

 

But he doesn’t.

And it would be easy—too easy—to paint Pilate as a villain driven by cruelty or hatred.

But that’s not quite what we see here.

Pilate is something more familiar. And perhaps more unsettling.

Pilate is a man shaped by a system.

A system that rewards self-preservation.
A system that normalizes violence.
A system that teaches him what kind of power is acceptable

—and what is not.

 

And so when the moment comes, Pilate does not act out of malice so much as cowardice.

He knows what is right.

But he cannot bring himself to risk his own position to do it.

So he distances himself. He deflects responsibility. He hands Jesus over.

 

He becomes, in the end, not a decisive leader but a functionary—someone who carries out injustice as if it were inevitable.

 

And here is where the story turns back toward us.

Because Pilate is not the only one in this story who faces that kind of moment.

Peter, just chapters earlier, denies Jesus.

“I am not.”

The religious leaders, now standing before Pilate, declare:

“We have no king but Caesar.”

 

Each person, in their own way, is making a choice about power.

Each of them is choosing the power that feels safest.

The power that preserves their place.
The power that protects their identity.
The power that keeps them from losing what they have.

And in doing so, they reject Jesus.

 

If we are honest, we recognize something of ourselves here.

Because we also live in systems.

 

We live in a world where power operates in very particular ways—where influence, wealth, control, and security shape how decisions are made.

 

And like Pilate, like Peter, like the religious leaders, we are not immune to those pressures.

 

We know what it is to stay silent when speaking up would cost us something.

We know what it is to go along with what is expected, even when it doesn’t sit right in our spirit.

We know what it is to choose comfort over courage.

To choose security over truth.

To choose the power of the world… over the power of God.

 

But here is the other layer of the story. The deeper truth.

Because while all of this is unfolding—while Pilate negotiates and the crowd shouts and the soldiers mock—something else is happening.

 

Jesus is revealing what power really looks like.

Not the power of domination.

Not the power of coercion.

Not the power that comes from violence or fear.

But the power of self-giving love.

 

Jesus does not resist with force.

He does not call down legions of angels.

He does not play by the rules of empire.

Instead, he remains rooted in truth.

He bears witness to a different kind of kingdom—one that cannot be secured by violence or taken away by it.

And in doing so, he exposes the limits of every other kind of power.

Because the powers of this world can wound the body.

They can humiliate.

They can even kill.

But they cannot extinguish truth.

They cannot overcome love.

They cannot undo the kingdom of God.

 

So what does it mean, then, to mend our relationship with power?

 

I think that mending our relationship with power begins with telling the truth about the power we are tempted to trust.

The power of control.
The power of reputation.
The power of political influence.
The power of wealth or status.

 

These forms of power promise security. But they are fragile.

And often, they come at a cost—to others, to our integrity, to our discipleship.

 

Mending our relationship with power means loosening our grip on those things. It means asking, honestly:

Where am I relying on the power of the world
instead of the power of God?

Where am I staying silent because speaking truth would cost me?

Where am I, like Pilate, telling myself that I am not responsible—
even as I benefit from systems that cause harm?

 

And then—gently, faithfully—it means turning back toward Jesus.

Toward the one who shows us a different way.

A way where power is not about control, but about care.

A way where leadership looks like service.

A way where courage is measured not by force, but by faithfulness.

A way where love is not weakness—but the strongest force in the world.

 

In just a week, in a flashback to earlier in the story, we will join the crowds and wave palm branches and shout “Hosanna.”

We will proclaim Jesus as king.

 

But this story asks us to consider something deeper.

Not just what we say when it is easy.

But what we do when the pressure is on.

When the crowd shifts.

When the stakes are high.

When choosing Jesus might cost us something.

In those moments, who—or what—will we proclaim as king?

 

Lent gives us space to sit with that question.

Not to shame us.

But to mend us.

To bring us back, again and again, to the truth of who Jesus is.

And to the truth of who we are called to be.

 

People who are called not follow the power of empire…

But to instead follow the power of the cross.

A power that looks like love.

A power that tells the truth.

A power that, even in the face of violence and fear…

refuses to let go of grace.

Amen.