The metal is torn and scorched, like wreckage after a bomb. And Christ takes form in that raw material—a symbol of destruction—not polished or serene but broken and bruised. The body remains; the Cross is gone. Or perhaps the world itself has become the Cross.

This image draws us into deep reflection, especially on Good Friday, when we remember Christ’s suffering two thousand years ago and his presence in every place of human anguish.

Here, in this Japanese church, the crucifix speaks to the legacy of Hiroshima and Nagasaki—cities once full of life, reduced in an instant to flame and silence. The victims were ordinary people—children, mothers, the elderly—caught in a man-made inferno. Their suffering is not separate from the crucifixion; it is mysteriously gathered into it. Christ, in this sculpture, bears not only the wounds of Roman nails but also the burns, the radiation, and the agony of that moment when the sky fell.

But today, we cannot stop there. The suffering has not ended.

In the war-ravaged fields of Ukraine, families are torn apart, cities are shelled, and lives are uprooted. The cold earth becomes both grave and battleground. Christ is there—in the trenches, in the bombed-out apartments, in the hands of weeping mothers clutching photographs of missing sons.

In the unending strife of Israel and Palestine, where faith has too often been weaponized, and innocence is the first to fall, Christ is once again crucified. He is present in the cries of children, the dust of collapsed buildings, and the hearts of those who still dream of peace. His body is not distant; it is there, among the rubble, waiting with the wounded.

In the hills and valleys of Manipur, India, a quieter suffering unfolds—one that the world does not always see. Communities are divided by violence, families are displaced, and identities are attacked. The pain may be less visible but no less real. And Christ is there too—in the hidden places, in the unheard cries, in the desperate prayers for unity and healing.

This broken-metal crucifix, with Christ fixed not on a cross but on the wall itself, reminds us that the crucifixion did not end on Calvary. It continues in every war zone, refugee camp, and silent grave. The world is filled with crosses, but the miracle is this: Christ is present in all of them.

On this Good Friday, we look not only backward to the hill outside Jerusalem but also around us—to the broken places of today. We remember that the Passion of Christ is not a single event in history. It is the ongoing story of love entering suffering, of God refusing to look away, and of a Saviour who still bears wounds.

We see hope in the twisted metal, the scorched wall, the absence of the Cross, and the endurance of the body because Christ remains. Even in the most brutal ashes, God is still at work—restoring, redeeming, resurrecting.

Let us then stand before this crucifix and pray:

for peace in war-torn lands,

for healing where division reigns,

for justice where silence has prevailed.

And let us not forget—

The Cross is not where Christ was defeated.

It is where love refuses to die.