Mending the Truth

John 18:28–40

 

There are certain questions that follow us through life.

 

Questions that settle somewhere deep in the spirit and refuse to let go.

 

For me, one of those questions is the one Pilate asks Jesus in today’s scripture: “What is truth?”

 

Perhaps that question lodged itself in me because of when I grew up. As a member of Gen X, I came of age in a time when many of the things people once believed to be settled truth were suddenly shifting. New discoveries in physics and astronomy reshaped how we understand the universe. Biology and medicine expanded our understanding of human identity and life itself. The more we learned, the more it seemed that certainty was elusive.

 

And so I grew up surrounded by conversations about truth.
What is it?
Who defines it?
Can we trust it?

 

Maybe that’s why this strange exchange between Jesus and Pilate has fascinated me for most of my adult life. The scene unfolds almost like a series of non-sequitur conversations. Pilate moves back and forth between the religious leaders and Jesus. People speak from their roles, from their agendas, from their assumptions about power. But no one seems to be speaking from a place of real understanding of the person standing right in front of them.

 

And then Pilate asks the question: “What is truth?”

 

It sounds philosophical. Almost abstract.
But in the Gospel of John, truth is never abstract.

Earlier in this gospel, Jesus makes one of those profound “I AM” declarations:

“I am the way, the truth, and the life.”

 

Truth, in John’s gospel, is not an idea.

Truth is a person.

Truth is standing right in front of Pilate.

And yet Pilate cannot see the truth.

 

This Sunday, we continue our Lenten journey - our series exploring the theme of mending. During Lent we pay attention to the places where our lives are torn—places where relationships, systems, and even our own spirits need repair.

 

Today the gospel asks us to consider something we might not think about very often: What if one of the things that needs mending is our relationship with the truth?

 

Because if we are honest, we live in a moment when truth often feels fragile.

Facts are contested. Narratives compete. Information moves faster than wisdom. And in a region like ours—living in the suburbs of Washington, close to the seat of national power—we feel the tension of that every single day.

We hear speeches and arguments and claims about reality.
We watch institutions struggle.
We see people with power decide what counts as truth and what does not.

 

And suddenly Pilate’s question does not feel so abstract.

“What is truth?”

It sounds like the question of our own moment.

 

But the gospel tells the story in a way that invites us to look more closely.

Because the real drama here is not only about Jesus being judged.

It is also about who is actually being judged.

 

For centuries Christians have too often told the story of Jesus’ crucifixion in ways that blamed the Jewish people for his death. That interpretation has fueled terrible harm, including centuries of antisemitism. We have to say clearly, especially in the moment we are experiencing in this world right now: that is not the truth of this story.

 

In John’s gospel, when we pay attention carefully, we see something a different nuance in the story.

 

Yes, religious leaders are involved in bringing Jesus to Pilate. But they do so within a political system dominated by Rome. It is Rome that holds the power of execution. It is Rome that condemns. It is Rome that crucifies.

 

Jesus dies at the hands of state power.

 

This is an important backdrop to this conversation between Jesus and Pilate.

 

Pilate asks Jesus, “Are you the king of the Jews?”

 

Notice something strange here. No one has said this to Pilate – it didn’t come to him from the religious authorities. The question comes from Pilate himself. Because Pilate only knows how to imagine kingship in terms of empire. Kings rule through force. Kings protect territory. Kings secure power through might and money.

 

But Jesus’ kingship does not operate like that.

In the tradition of Israel, kings were meant to be something else entirely. They were meant to be more like shepherds.

 

Think about imperfect King David—once a shepherd boy called by God from the fields to lead the people of Israel. Think about the prophets, like Jeremiah, who condemned kings who scattered the flock instead of caring for them.

 

And earlier in this gospel Jesus declared:

“I am the good shepherd.”

 

So when Pilate asks if Jesus is a king, he imagines the wrong kind of power.

Because Jesus’ authority does not come from military force.
It does not come from wealth.
It does not come from inheritance.

Jesus’ kingdom comes from something far more dangerous to empire.

Truth.

 

Jesus says, “For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth.”

And it is here that Pilate responds with that weary, dismissive question:

“What is truth?”

 

Here is the tragedy of the moment.

Truth is standing directly in front of Pilate.

 

But Pilate cannot recognize it.

Why?

Because seeing the truth would require something from him. It would require him to question the very system that gives him power. It would require him to see that the empire he serves—the empire that rewards his loyalty and secures his position—is not the final authority in the world.

 

To recognize the truth of Jesus would mean confronting the truth about Rome.

And Pilate cannot do that.

 

So instead he retreats into abstraction. Perhaps from a place of helplessness. “What is truth?”

It’s the kind of question people ask when they don’t really want to hear the answer.

 

Friends, if we are honest, Pilate’s question is not only ancient.

It is also deeply human.

Because there are times when we prefer uncertainty about truth.

Not because truth is unclear.

But because truth might ask something difficult of us.

Truth might ask us to change.

Truth might ask us to relinquish power.

Truth might ask us to see suffering we would rather ignore.

Truth might ask us to stand with people the world has pushed to the margins.

Truth might ask us to challenge systems that benefit us and hurt others.

 

And so we ask Pilate’s question.

“What is truth?”

 

But Lent invites us to something different.

Lent invites us into the quiet, careful work of mending.

 

When a piece of cloth tears, mending does not erase the tear.

Instead, it brings the torn edges back together. It strengthens the place where the break occurred. Sometimes the repair is even visible—a patch, a stitch, a careful seam. The tear becomes part of the story of the fabric.

 

And perhaps that is what God is inviting us to do with truth.

To mend our relationship with it.

Not the shifting opinions of culture.
Not the narratives of empire.
Not the truths that power finds convenient.

But Truth with a capital T.

The truth revealed in Jesus.

The truth that says every person bears the image of God.

The truth that says love is stronger than violence.

The truth that says mercy matters more than domination.

The truth that says the kingdom of God looks nothing like the kingdoms of this world.

 

Empire tells us power comes through control.

Jesus tells us power comes through love.

 

Empire tells us security comes through force.

Jesus tells us security comes through trust in God.

 

Empire tells us success is measured by wealth and influence.

Jesus tells us greatness is measured by how we care for the least among us.

 

These two visions of the world are not compatible.

 

I want us to hear that. And to feel that.

 

Pilate stands on one side.

Jesus stands on the other.

 

And every generation of disciples must decide where we stand.

 

The work of mending truth begins with grounding ourselves in Jesus by the power of the Holy Spirit – the advocate who is with us.

Not just admiring Jesus.

Not just quoting Jesus.

But following Jesus, even when it is hard.

Following him when love seems weaker than violence.

Following him when compassion seems slower than power.

Following him when truth seems inconvenient.

Because the truth of God’s love has the power to change the world.

But it rarely does so in the ways empire expects.

 

The kingdom of God does not arrive with armies.

It arrives with acts of courage and compassion.

It arrives when people refuse to participate in systems of cruelty.

It arrives when communities choose mercy over domination.

It arrives in the quiet, steady work of love.

 

So this week, perhaps the Lenten question before us is this:

Where in our lives do we need to mend our relationship with the truth?

Where have we allowed the narratives of empire to shape how we see the world?

Where might Jesus be standing right in front of us—calling us to see differently?

Because the good news of this story is that even when the powers of the world reject truth…

Truth does not disappear.

 

Even when Pilate walks away from the question…

Truth remains.

 

Even when empire condemns Jesus to death…

Truth rises again.

And that truth—the living Christ—still calls to us.

Inviting us.

Challenging us.

Mending us.

So that we might live not by the truths of empire…

But by the transforming, liberating, world-healing truth of God.

May it be so. Amen.