His Blood on My Hands: A Good Friday Reflection
Years ago during communion, I dipped the bread into the cup and, for the first time, a drop of wine spilled onto my hand. I froze. The deep red shimmered in my palm, and it didn’t feel like a symbol anymore. It felt like blood. Jesus’s blood was on my hands. The physical sensation jolted me out of my passive acceptance of the communion cup.
Jesus’ blood is on my hands. And on Good Friday, that memory is even more vivid.
The Guilt I Couldn't Wash Away
When I went back to my chair, my first instinct was to wipe my hands on something—to get rid of the blood. It felt awkward and uncomfortable; it didn’t belong there. Since I didn’t have a Kleenex, I just sat in my seat, cupping my hands and looking at the wine. I’ve always known intellectually that my sin crucified Christ—but sitting there, unable to wipe away the crimson drops, I finally felt the weight of it. Unlike Pilate, who washed his hands and declared himself innocent, I couldn’t simply wash away my guilt. I needed the cross—because only Jesus’ sinless life and horrific death could atone for my sin.
When we celebrate communion, we usually say these words from Luke 22:19-20: “And he took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ And likewise the cup after they had eaten, saying, ‘This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.’”
A new covenant in Christ’s blood. We have life because of a covenant that was written with Christ’s blood—a covenant that guarantees us forgiveness of our sins, the indwelling Holy Spirit, and eternal life with God. A covenant that required Jesus’s death for my sin.
Every communion, we remember what Christ did for us—breaking his body, spilling his blood. His blood is always on our hands. We crucified him. Like Pilate. Like the Pharisees. Like the mob. We’ve betrayed him, like Judas, and we’ve denied him, like Peter.
In 1 Corinthians 11, Paul starts his recounting of the last supper with the reminder that “...the Lord Jesus, on the night when he was betrayed took bread... “ Jesus knows what we have done but Jesus loves us and died for our sin because we could never redeem ourselves. He forgave all our sins, nailing them to the cross (Colossians 2:13–14).
Rediscovering the Weight of Communion
Yet all too often, I have taken communion without much thought—without real reflection or conviction. To my shame, it has sometimes felt more like a ritual than a remembrance, a passive procedure rather than a soul-searching sacrament. Yet seeing the blood on my hands shook me into a new awareness of what communion—and ultimately Good Friday—truly signifies.
My sin isn’t a light thing—though too often, I treat it that way, forgetting it’s an offense against a holy God. The sins that tend to bother me most are the ones other people see—the ones that might damage my reputation. Those are the ones I’m eager to confess, mostly because I don’t want people to think less of me. So my confession and concern can be more about my own standing in others’ eyes than about the gravity of my sin before God. For us self-righteous, hypocritical Pharisees, it’s easy to acknowledge that Jesus died for sinners while secretly ranking ourselves above everyone else. My sin doesn’t seem as bad as other people’s sins—or at least that’s what I subconsciously tell myself.
This stands in contrast to the apostle Paul, who endured suffering and scorn for the sake of Christ and devoted himself to spreading the Gospel, yet at the end of his life still saw himself as the greatest of sinners (1 Timothy 1:15). This man, who gave up everything for his faith, recognized the enormity of his sin and the infinite debt Christ paid for him. How arrogant am I to ignore the gravity of my own sin?
As I sat with Jesus’s blood on my hands, I thought back over what I needed to confess from the past week. At first, nothing came to mind. But as I lingered a little longer, asking God to reveal my sin—faces, situations, and thoughts began to surface. My unkind tone. My refusal to help. My humble brag. My unspoken judgment. My sarcasm. My silent criticisms—assigning motives to others, certain I knew why they said or did what they did. My reflexive defensiveness when challenged, shifting blame without hesitation, as if their actions justified my response.
I reflected on how I’d hoarded my time—unwilling to give it freely with a joyful heart. The envy I felt toward those who had what my soul longed for. The way I responded to someone else’s good news with a forced smile, aching inside, as if God had overlooked me again. Sitting in the pew that day, my hands red, the weight of my sin pressed down on me. I felt undone.
The more I know Christ, the more clearly I see my sin. He holds up a mirror, revealing what I can’t see on my own. And when I finally see it, I realize how helpless I am to fix it. I cannot change myself or absolve my guilt. Only he can. So I confess my sin, repent of my self-righteousness, and experience again the joy of repentance—a refreshing that comes only from the presence of the Lord (Acts 3:19–20).
When I was younger, my mirror was dimmer. I believed I needed only a little help, assuming I could manage much of my spiritual growth on my own. But the closer I draw to Jesus, the more aghast I am at my sin. I see how desperately I need his grace. His blood is on my hands—not only because I crucified him, but also because that same blood now covers me in forgiveness.
I don’t take communion the same way anymore. And on Good Friday, I’m reminded once again how his spilled blood bridges the gap between my sin and God’s mercy. His blood is on my hands —but so is his grace.
Covered by Grace
May this Good Friday awaken in us the same sense of awe. May we recognize that his blood is on our hands—and yet, by that same blood, we are cleansed. Though we see our sin, we also see our Savior. May we never forget the cost, and may we find hope and life at the foot of the cross.