This
past Sunday morning in children’s chapel our young ones heard Matthew’s telling
of the Passion Narrative. When they got to the part when Jesus died I am told
they had a visceral response. “What?! Jesus dies! Why did that happen?” they asked.
I
have the same question today. Why did Jesus have to die? Why did the story
happen in this way? Could it not have gone differently? Though I spent years in
seminary communities learning about prophetic words pointing to a sacrificial
savior, though I can comprehend intellectually that those fragile ones in the
lowest classes of that day were subject to the whims of the Roman Empire,
though I follow logically that the religious elite wanted to get rid of a
movement that threatened their way of being, I still do not get it with my
heart. Wasn’t there another way? Didn’t God rescue his people with plagues,
Passover, and passing through the Red Sea? So why did it happen this way? I
am—and I think we are—stuck wondering questions just like our children’s.
If
you are here today you are not only interested in how the story ends, but also
in how we get to the end of the story. And, if you are here you cannot only be wondering why
this had to happen, but you probably have other questions. Namely, what does
this death, Jesus’ death, have to do with you? What does Jesus’ death have to
do with you? Why did it happen? What does it have to do with you?
Academically,
we could wade through all the forces that conspired together to bring about
Jesus’ death. We could explore together the layers of sacrificial atonement
theology, but that may very well be like trying to pronounce some heady platitude
to a grieving loved one sitting at the now deceased family member’s bedside.
Intellectualizing our experience of loss as we look upon Jesus on the cross
feels awfully abrupt, as though we are rushing beyond the moment.
Instead,
perhaps we would do well to heed the invitation of the blogger and priest Sarah
Condon who wrote:
“Just find a back pew at a church and
take a seat this week. Forget the sermon…human beings can be hit-or-miss.
Besides, you’re not there for that. You’re there for Jesus. Or rather, he is
there for you. Listen to him. He will wash your feet. He will tell you to love
one another. He will hang from a cross and utter his dying last words of
sadness and abandonment.”[1]
Strangely,
we find more questions than answers in Holy Week, and we find them by meeting
Christ Jesus within the Holy Word, within our liturgy, within each other, and within
our encounters out in the world. At this precise moment our appointed
Scripture, the liturgy, as well as our personal and corporate lives all seem to
reflect the same terrible things to one another, like a mirror collapsing in on
itself. We are not dwelling in an era of blossoming life, but rather subsiding within
an age of death.
Coptic
Christians who were doing what we were doing on Sunday died as a result of
their faith. Children, like our children, suffered torturous deaths as a result
of chemical weapons last week in Syria. Scrapping to find an inch of moral high
ground we as a country decided to respond to violence all over the globe with more
violence—pushing an unstable world nearer to nuclear annihilation in the
process. Closer to home we now utter a different governor’s name than we did
last week due to a sordid affair that garnered international attention. And,
churches in our state can install their own police forces, which echoes eerily
the temple police who arrested Jesus in the Passion Narrative. If these were
not enough in each of our lives we or loved ones face risky procedures,
difficult prognoses, unhealthy relationships, overwhelming temptations, and
questions of purpose, direction, and vision.
Why are we here? What does Jesus’ death have to do with us? What doesn’t it have to do with us?
It’s
not Easter morning in our church, within our hearts, or out in the streets it’s
Good Friday. Perhaps this is why we are here because this is a safe place for
us to fall apart. This is a haven in which we see the crumbling reality of our
world inflicted upon the one who came to save us. We see our Savior installed not at
a capitol, or on a throne of gold, but on the cross made of wood. Here and now,
we cannot press fast forward on a remote control of life, we are instead forced
to look upon Jesus’ limp body hanging right above us.
Audaciously,
we still call this Good Friday. And, maybe it is though not because of what
lies ahead—not because of what we hope will happen, nor what we trust God will do in
the end. This day is good because Jesus showed us the ultimate response to all
that is wrong in this world, in us, even in our beloved church.
We
so often refer to God as almighty, but we see in Jesus today that God is not
only almighty, but also all-vulnerable. Jesus the Christ through whom all
things were made was not recognized by his own creation. He came into the world
and the world comprehended him not. If God were only almighty, we may expect
Jesus to vengefully descend from the cross with fire and a legion of wrathful
angels hell bent on recompense. That is not the way we see God express God’s
strength. Instead, Jesus draws all things to himself through complete
self-emptying. When at the Last Supper Jesus commanded his disciples to love
one another just as he loved them, this is what he meant. This love is what
makes Good Friday good. Could this be why we are here?
As
one collect in Morning Prayer puts it, “Jesus extends his arms in love on the
hard wood of the cross that everyone might come within the reach of his saving
embrace.”[2]
In this moment when we see the wilted figure of Jesus lifted up, it is like we
are looking at a solar eclipse—compelled to keep staring, although we are
afraid of what may happen as a result. As we dangerously gaze at the blinding
light of the son, we observe the love that God has for each and every one of us,
even if our vision gets obscured by the brokenness of this world, all around
us, and in us that love continually shines down on us.
As
one wise teacher put it, this is the moment of not merely atonement, but at-one-ment
(with Jesus bringing all things together as one).[3]
Through him we see the size, scope, and magnitude of God’s love, which does not
end the pain of this world, or the problems we face, or the dilemmas of the
church. Rather, we finally see that God the Almighty willingly gets down on our
level and suffers with us, as the most vulnerable one.
This
is Good Friday because our Almighty God freely becomes the All-vulnerable one,
who lives with us, suffers with us, and dies with us.
[1]Condon, Sarah. "Church/Religion." Mockingbird.
April 11, 2017.
http://www.mbird.com/2017/04/when-jesus-gets-crucified-and-churches-get-bombed-take-a-seat-this-holy-week/
(accessed April 12, 2017).
[3] Rohr, Richard. Center for Action and Contemplation.
October 12, 2016. https://cac.org/nonviolent-atonement-one-ment-2016-10-12/
(accessed April 13, 2017).
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