John 19:1-42
A couple of
months ago I saw a terrible thing. I was stopped at an intersection on 29 when
a car pulled up next to me. In it there was a little girl screaming at the top
of her lungs and trying to crawl over into the front seat of the car. The
mother jumped out of the car and quickly opened the backseat door. She
forcefully shoved this little girl back into her car seat and strapped her in,
all the time shouting, “Shut up! Shut up!” And then, after she had strapped her
in, she spit in the little girl’s face, jumped back in the car, and drove off.
It made me feel sick to my stomach, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether that
woman’s mother had done the same to her; whether that little girl would someday
do the same thing to her own daughter. Violence wreaks a terrible toll on
humanity in part because the cycle is relentless. You hit me; I hit you back.
You hate me; I hate you more. Or at least I’ll find someone to hit and to hate.
The only way the cycle ever ends is when someone steps out of it and absorbs
the hatred and violence without giving it back or passing it on.
Jesus offers no
resistance in the story of his crucifixion. In the words of Isaiah tonight, he
is like a lamb that is led to slaughter. But
unlike a sheep, Jesus is not powerless, at least not in John’s account of the
Passion, which is quite distinctive. There is no cry of anguish in the story I
just read to you. A Roman crucifixion was a brutal business, but Jesus
expresses no pain. He would seem to be subject to a ruthless power, but he
points out that Pilate would have no power if it had not been given him from
above. While the other Gospels tend to emphasize the passive suffering of Jesus,
in John’s account Jesus is neither helpless nor passive. Throughout the story,
he remains in ultimate control, to the point of making sure his mother is taken
care of. Even when he says, “I am thirsty,” he only does it to fulfill the
Scriptures. And at the very end, he pronounces, It is finished, and then he voluntarily gives up his spirit. In
this version of the Passion, Jesus is no victim: he is an offering — he
willingly offers himself.
This is the
particular quality of Jesus that John highlights over and over again: that he
gives himself away by his own free choice. In chapter 10 of that Gospel, Jesus
says, For this reason the Father loves
me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. No one takes it
from me, but I lay it down of my own accord (John 10:17-18). In chapter 12, when it becomes clear
that his death is imminent, Jesus prays, What
should I say — “Father, save me from this hour”? No, is for this reason I have
come to this hour (John 12:27). At the last supper, he tells his disciples,
No one has greater love than this, to lay
down one’s life for one’s friends (John 15:13).
This is crucial
to the Good News we remember on this Good Friday: Jesus has come to give
himself away, to lay down his life — deliberately, on purpose, because this is
what his heavenly Father wants him to do. In the face of violence and
degradation, in response to angry crowds roaring for blood, to a cynical
governor indifferent to the truth, and to callous Roman soldiers hardened to
torture and murder, Jesus will surrender his life to the point of death because
this is how his Father will address the enormity of human sin; he will give and
give and give — and never fight back. There will be no relentless cycle of
spiritual violence: God won’t let it happen.
I know that some
Christians, maybe many Christians, understand the crucifixion as an act of
penal substitution: we deserve to be punished, but God punishes Jesus instead —
Jesus takes the punishment for us. The problem with that interpretation,
though, is that it leaves God responding to human violence with more violence,
and that is not the way I understand this story. The cross is essential to our
atonement because it is not the ultimate lashing, but because God does not lash
out at all. And not because God in Jesus cannot lash out, but because God in
Jesus chooses not to lash out.
Right after I saw
that woman spit in her daughter’s face, I remembered an account I once read
about a psychologist working with a troubled child. This child was prone to
violent outbursts, and people had responded to him with violence by hitting him
and restraining him. During one session, when the psychologist was on the floor
trying to connect with him, the little boy got angry and went and grabbed a
chair and rushed at this therapist. But rather than overpower the kid or defend
himself in any way, the he just sat there, held out his arms, and braced
himself for the hit. And at the last moment the boy dropped the chair and
collapsed into this man arms sobbing. The process of healing began for him that
day.
It may seem crazy
that in the face of hatred, injustice, and oppression, in response to starving
refugees and senseless terrorist attacks, what God offers is a man dying on a
cross. In his first letter to the Corinthians, Paul acknowledges that it is
crazy, completely foolish — and utterly effective. This is how God will save us
from our sin, this is how God will deal with our selfishness, our greed, our
apathy, our addictions, our orneriness — by loving us and loving us and loving
us, never giving up and never striking back. Every hurtful act and every unkind
word and every malicious thought God absorbs until we can finally just collapse
in his arms and let our healing begin. Jesus surrendered himself fully on the
cross just once, but the divine self-giving that represents is endless —and
endlessly powerful. Beginning tomorrow night, we will celebrate just how
powerful it is. But we don’t have to wait for Easter to begin to take in and
accept the truth of the cross. Hear it now: no matter how long it takes, no
matter how much he must endure, no matter how often he must forgive, God will
love us into salvation. This is not a theory to be debated; it is mystery to be
lived. Let him love you into it. Let him absorb all your garbage, all that
hurts you, and set you free. Because as Jesus makes clear today: God’s love can
handle it — and there is no other way.
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