John 19:1-37
Do you not know that I have the power to release you, and the power to crucify you? Don’t you see that I’ve got the soldiers and the weapons and all the raw physical force I need to kill you? Pilate is referring to the only power he knows, of course, which is the power of violence. After all, he represents an empire that ruled much of the world with ruthless brutality, as empires and nations and kingdoms and tribes have done for as long we have been human. All of us here understand perfectly well where Pilate is coming from. Meanwhile, there’s an angry mob of religious leaders outside calling for blood. They are also trying to get their way through violence. We understand that, too. For many if not most people, the ultimate power is the power of sheer might. We know we have power when we can physically overwhelm or destroy others. It’s so obvious, right? Jesus must see this.
But Jesus is not impressed. He replies to Pilate’s question by saying, You would have no power over me unless it had been given you from above. Jesus knows fully well that Pilate can kill him, but he also knows that there is a power far greater than Pilate, far greater than Rome, at work here. His willingness to trust in that power in the face of angry mobs, armed soldiers, and certain death is unnerving, to say the least. There is nothing scarier than a person who won’t be sacred. In fact, John tells us that in the face of this Pilate was more afraid than ever. And, as has happened all too often in human history, fear led to more violence. A frightened Pilate exercised the only power he understood and crucified Jesus.
We know how the story ends, of course, and we will celebrate that on Sunday. But tonight we pause. This story, as John presents it, demands that we ask ourselves: How much do we buy into Pilate’s view of power, the crowd’s view of power? Physical force can sometimes be used for good; physical force should sometimes be used for good. But how much do we assume that physical force is the only real power, the only power that matters? And if we don’t believe that, if instead believe there is a greater power at work in our universe, how much are we, like Jesus, willing to trust it?
I can think of occasions when ordinary people trusted in the power Jesus trusted in. For example, the people who crossed the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Alabama on March 7, 1965 in peaceful protest certainly trusted that there was a power greater than police clubs and attack dogs at work. And I can think of times when ordinary people have trusted in that power in the face of threats and verbal violence. Years ago, when I was a seminarian in New York City, I spent some time working for St. James’ Church on Madison Avenue in their outreach ministry. One of the projects we were working on was establishing a drop-in center for homeless people on the Upper East Side. But many in the neighborhood strongly opposed it: they didn’t want homeless people “ruining” their neighborhood; they didn’t want to acknowledge that there even were homeless people in their neighborhood, even though there were plenty of them. So a public meeting was set up to discuss the plan. And it was the scariest thing I ever experienced while living in Manhattan. It was the only time in that I ever feared for my physical safety. The auditorium where we met was crowded with Upper East Siders: affluent, well-dressed, well-educated men and women who were literally screaming at us and threatening us. Many people spoke viciously against the drop-in center, but I will never forget one woman who stood up there and spoke in favor of it. She said, “I am a mother of two young children. I am more afraid of my children encountering the hatred in this room than I am of them meeting homeless people on our streets.” She spoke quietly and politely, without rancor, and there was a moment of silence when she finished before the jeering began again. I don’t know that she changed anybody’s mind, but it was a moment. She was just a young person: she had no bodyguards, no police escort, no worldly power, but there was clearly some power at work in her when she spoke. You could feel it.
We can call that power God, we can call it love. Jesus calls it Abba, Father. But when Jesus tells us to take up our cross and follow him, one of the things he clearly means by that is to trust in that power, to live and act believing that the power of God and love is greater than the power of violence and fear. We may not have to contend with physical violence directed at us personally — hopefully none of us here will ever be a victim of that — but we live in a society where such violence happens all the time: crime, mass shootings, domestic abuse, instances of police brutality and mob violence. And there is the implied violence of individuals and crowds spouting racist and anti-Semitic taunts. And our public and political discourse is filled with vitriol and verbal violence. If we are going to take up our cross and follow Christ, we cannot be part of that. We have to find ways to stand for the power of love.
And we can begin in our own personal, daily lives. How often do we respond to anger with more anger? How often do we say words that are hurtful? How often do we engage in emotional violence, even against the people we love? Jesus shows us a better way. We choose to trust in God and in love when we do not resort to violent actions or violent words, when we do not retaliate, when we do not give into hateful feelings. To do that, to trust God and to choose love on a daily, an hourly basis is not easy. We can get hurt. But we are followers of the crucified Christ, and the story of his Passion shows us that God is indeed almighty, that no matter how much violence is directed against it, love wins in the end. Forgiveness and mercy have the final word. Resurrection always happens.
Do we not know that Pilate and all he represents has the power to kill? Of course we do. But like Jesus, we also know something greater than that.
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