The Good Friday of Humanity

Photo courtesy of: Times of India

Today, Good Friday, Christians around the world gathered to remember a moment of betrayal, injustice, and state-sanctioned death. It is a day of mourning, yes—but also one of piercing clarity. A man who stood for love, justice, and truth was crucified. Not for inciting violence. Not for greed. But for daring to speak the truth, to heal, to love radically, and to confront power.

It was the empire that killed him. The state. The mob. The silence.

And now, in 2025, we are witnessing what can only be described as the Good Friday of humanity.

Because what looms before us is not just a political campaign. It is not just Trump. It is a resurrection of cruelty—without remorse, without disguise, and without limit.

Donald Trump once targeted the LGBTQIA+ community, migrants, refugees, disabled people, and women—anyone MAGA could scapegoat. That alone should have been enough to disqualify him forever.

But what we now see is more dangerous: his contempt has expanded.

Trump now mocks the courts. Threatens journalists. Undermines democracy. Rejects climate science. Cozying up to dictators, he treats allies as punching bags, and the international rules-based order as an obstacle to his personal vengeance.

This is no longer just a threat to the marginalised. It is a threat to all of us. To the Earth. To democracy. To decency.  To the very idea of what it means to be human.

He does not believe in a shared humanity. He serves nobody but himself. And that makes him the most dangerous political figure we have ever faced.

Good Friday is not only a religious moment. It is a political one.

The crucifixion of Jesus was the execution of a man who defied empire, spoke up for the oppressed, and asked uncomfortable questions. He was not destroyed by criminals—he was destroyed by the collusion of power, cowardice, and public manipulation.

In that moment, law and order became weapons of injustice. In that moment, silence became betrayal. In that moment, truth was hung on a cross.

And today, we are asked to look upon a similar moment. What happens when lies triumph over truth? When democracy is replaced by demagoguery? When the most powerful man in the world believes only in his own power?

We are living through our own Good Friday—where the very principles of humanity are being mocked, flogged, and nailed to a tree. 

This isn’t political. It’s moral.

Some will say: “This is just American politics.”

Some will say: “Let’s not make holy days political.”

But silence is not reverence. Silence is surrender.

Jesus was crucified because of politics. Because he called out hypocrisy. Because he refused to obey a system built on fear. Because he flipped the tables of empire. 

So no, we cannot be neutral in the face of tyranny dressed up as populism.

When Trump threatens democracy, tramples truth, and undermines the planet we all depend on, we do not stand at the sidelines. We pick up the cross. We resist.

But Good Friday is not the end of the story.

There is a reason the Christian narrative doesn’t stop at death. Because resurrection is the defiant hope that no matter how powerful the empire, truth cannot stay buried. That love cannot be legislated away. That justice, however delayed, will rise.

And so we must rise. We must rise for the planet. We must rise for those Trump would silence. We must rise for democracy, for truth, and for one another.

Because if we let one man unmake what generations have fought to build—then we, too, become part of the crowd shouting “Crucify him.”

But if we stand up—loudly, clearly, relentlessly—then we proclaim that love is stronger than hate. That justice is not optional. And that the moral arc of the universe, bent by our hands, will not snap under the weight of a single man’s ego.

This is our Good Friday. But it need not be our end.

Let us not be remembered as the generation who watched humanity crucified.

Let us be the ones who rolled the stone away.