Last Words
A lenten study created by John Kelly for First Baptist Church of Pasadena
Below you will find the complete set of lessons in our Lenten study that ran from Sunday, February 26th—April 2, 2023. We are thankful for those who participated in our class in-person, and we hope that those who were not able to attend can still find meaning at home from these written words.
WEEK 6
WE WORK FROM IT, NOT FOR IT
The language of “sin” has been used by supposed Christians to demean and shame countless individuals and groups of people—so much so, many of us have understandably removed it from our vocabularies altogether. Still, regardless of how legitimate our wariness around talking about sin, Scripture makes it clear: through his faithful life and selfless death, Jesus “takes away the sin of the world” (John 1:29). Appropriately understanding the forgiveness (i.e., peace-with-God-ness) Jesus’ life and death afford us—as foundational to Jesus’ ministry—allows us to endure present pain healthily and to hope in the fulfillment of God’s promises authentically.
A jar full of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth. When Jesus had received the wine, he said, “It is finished.” Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit. John 19:29-30
INTRODUCTION
As Jesus followers living in contemporary Western society, as much as we excuse hindsight as 20/20, we just as much battle urges to embrace confirmation bias. “Another mass shooting? No surprise there. Another inexplicable, unmerited death? That tracks with what I’ve seen so far. Another personal disappointment or setback? Just put it on my tab.” We’re so inundated with the latest, greatest, most terrifying information, Jesus’ words “it is finished” are hard to understand optimistically.
It would be easier to agree with Jesus, say, if we understood the statement as a cry of defeat: “I’m done for” or “I tried my best but it looks like we’ve come to the end.” But to understand “it is finished” as an affirmation of victory or accomplishment—from the guy whose life concludes with unimaginable abuse and mockery?! Comparing the state of the world (and even our lives) with such an interpretation, in our most honest moments, the latter makes us cynically chuckle. “Well, looking around, it seems like the Son of God didn’t have the longest list of chores.” At the same time, as Fleming Rutledge notes, this struggle involves our own feelings of inferiority. “There is no aspect of Christian faith more difficult for us to believe. It is in the nature of the human being to think that Christ’s work could not possibly be finished, that we have more to do, we have to add to it, we have to earn it.”
And while this downtrodden attitude toward this last word of Jesus might be valid —especially given the brokenness we experience in our daily lives—it’s bolstered by a rushed consideration of what Jesus actually means by “it is finished.” As Rutledge adds, “The English is ambiguous, but the Greek is not. It does not mean ‘It’s over; this is the end; I’m done for.’ It means ‘It is completed; it is perfected.’” Though perhaps not easily embraceable, Rutledge’s clarification does allow us the curiosity require to see past our conditioned cynicism—toward others and ourselves—to perhaps to understand what it is John seems to communicate.
Q. What exactly do you think is the “it” Jesus claims “[to be] finished”? How have you understood this? Does this typical understanding of Jesus’ “it” bear much weight on your daily life?
WHAT IS “IT”?
Throughout our 6 weeks together, we’ve tried not to confuse or conflate the varied intentions of the Gospel accounts from which the “seven last words” were compiled. Each Gospel writer wrote for particular contexts, with particular audiences and rhetorical purposes in mind. (In other words, for example, Matthew wrote about Jesus in a way that spoke to concerns and contexts different than the concerns and contexts to which Luke spoke.) Though threading the Gospels’ varying concentrations and motivations together can be valuable and enlightening, so can taking each Gospel account on its own terms. (This is especially true when trying to figure out what a particular verse means by “it.”)
Looking through John’s Gospel—at what Jesus says and does before his crucifixion—we find at least three options for the “it” Jesus talked about being finished.
First, we understand from John the Baptist’s description of Jesus in the Gospel’s opening chapter—which we’ve already touched upon—that Jesus’ mission to accomplish was offering forgiveness of sin. In the opening chapter, the Gospel writer narrates, “The next day [John the Baptist] saw Jesus coming toward him and declared, ‘Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!’” (John 1:29). Often characterized as a sticky substance that innately deters God, sin disallowed humanity from abiding in relationship with its creator. Knowing we were ill-equipped to tackle such a problem on our own, God—through the life and death of Jesus—solved it personally. In effect, John the Baptist simply summarizes Jesus’ mission as affirming God’s compassionate stance toward humanity.
Second, we understand from Jesus’ own explanation that he came “so that [humanity] may have life, and have it abundantly” (John 10:10). In other words, something about Jesus’ life and death uniquely enables us to see the abundance of God here and now, even in the midst of pain that persuades us to embrace a mindset of scarcity. From this point of view, we see that Jesus’s mission was to affirm that God is with us; that God will care for us; and that God will one day lead us fully into divine abundance we already experience in part.
Finally, during his trial before Pilate, Jesus explains that he came “to testify to the truth.”
In John 18:37, the writer explains, “Pilate asked [Jesus], ‘So you are a king?’ Jesus answered, ‘You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.’” Throughout John’s Gospel, Jesus rarely affirms his own divine identity—at least until those who question it arrive at their own conclusions. Even when cornered by the man who has Jesus’ life in his hands, Jesus refuses to play the game. (If Jesus accepted the title of king, even metaphorically, it could be used as proof that he’s a rebel who should be crucified.) Rather, he underlines all that he’s said and done as truth. I wouldn’t call it a stretch to include John 3:16–17 as a foundational aspect of Jesus’ “truth”: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” So, similarly, we can understand that Jesus’ mission to be accomplished revolved around God’s loving non-condemnation of the world.
Q. Which of these three options makes the most sense to you? Do you feel as though Jesus was talking about something else? A mixture of the three?
WHEN IS IT?
Commentators who study John’s Gospel understand his as an “inaugurated eschatology.” In other words, John understands Jesus’ mission that culminated in his death as just the beginning of God’s setting everything right-side-up in the world. Certainly, it’s the foundation of how we understand God’s work. At the same time, though, study of the original language of John’s Gospel allows us to see such work as still unfolding. “It is finished” is originally constructed in the perfect tense. This tense is used to describe a past action with effects that continue unfolding in the present day. So we could understand Jesus as saying “Now, it has been accomplished.” This understanding allows us to understand paradoxical statements like the one we find in John 16:33 more clearly: “In the world you face persecution, but take courage: I have conquered the world!”
With his faithful endurance and trust in God, Jesus’ death has ushered in a new era of God’s redemption of creation. As we see come Easter morning, death has been defeated. Jesus accomplished his mission, and was resurrected to glorious life. Still, we find ourselves in the tension between God’s kingdom being initially established (i.e., “inaugurated”) and the total institution (i.e., “consummation”) of God’s reign throughout creation. While we experience death, we’re encouraged that the way of Jesus has become our way. While we experience pain, we place our hope in God’s here and now presence, that will one day allow us to experience Jesus’ resurrection as our own.
Q. Is this understanding of God’s kingdom as “now but not yet” helpful or encouraging at all? Does anything about this understanding not sit right with you?
HOW IS IT?
Three pages of notes and discussion could never fully resolve any questions we have about Jesus’ work being “finished.” But maybe not all questions need answers to be productive. (Which could be why call it “faith,” at the end of the day.) Maybe all our questions need in order to be productive is for us to ask them in the right direction. And maybe the same could be said of our lives: we don’t need to make total cause-and-effect sense of them so much as we need to live them trusting that God is never not with us. That God is never not ushering us forward, into God’s promised future, even when it seems like everyone and everything around us reverts and regresses. Though this sounds like impractical or unactionable insight—to live trusting God—the final of Jesus’ last word from the cross seems to disagree. In Luke’s Gospel, the author describes Jesus’ death: “Then Jesus, crying out with a loud voice, said, ‘Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.’ Having said this, he breathed his last” (Luke 23:46).
From the time he was born until the time he was killed, Jesus seemed to recognize the fragility of our existence—of our very breath. At the same time, though, Jesus repeatedly underscored God as the source, sustainer, and final recipient of every breath we take. Even at the culmination of his divine mission, Jesus knew all he had to do to remain faithful was to remember his breath. Dr. Frederick Leboyer is an OB/GYN who once wrote, “Our breath is a fragile vessel that carries us from birth to death.” In light of our time together, considering how it was Jesus engaged and endured his own pain and suffering, we could rewrite Dr. Leboyer’s quote. We could understand that our breath is a fragile vessel, true; but one that carries us through death into divinely empowered rebirth.
Spend a minute or so silently breathing in and out—paying attention to how your body adjusts and readjust with each new rush of oxygen; considering where you feel tension or tightness in your body, and how the breath transforms it. With each inhale, remember that you can trust God. With each exhale, remember that death and shame and sin have already been defeated. We live from spaces of freedom, forgiveness, and abundant love—not for freedom, forgiveness, and abundant love.
This week, remember…I can trust God with each breath I take.
WEEK 5
OUR DRY SOULS CAN BE QUENCHED
After this, when Jesus knew that all was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the scripture), “I am thirsty.” A jar full of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth. John 19:28–29
Christ’s cry of thirst from John’s Gospel lands with us differently, depending on the perspective from which we consider it. It can be seen either as a fulfillment of Scripture, a reminder of his humanity, a metaphorical announcement, or a callback to one of John’s earlier stories. Regardless, Christ’s cry encourages us that the Living Water not only quenches our thirsts, but also relates to them deeply.
INTRODUCTION
Not to be overly morbid, but have you ever visited with someone as they neared the end of their life? If not, I’m sure you can imagine what it might be like, sitting with someone who’s too weak to raise their hand; too tired to open their eyes; too much in pain to even sound out a full sentence. It’s sobering to watch the life almost literally drain out of a person. It’s definitely not necessarily romantic or heartwarming.
Very recently, I visited a church member whose advanced age turned a simple medication issue into a stay in the ICU. His wife, sure that this was just a snag in the road leading back home, called to have a pastor come for a quick visit—to pray. When I got to the room and saw the wife feeding her frail husband ice chips, though, I quickly adjusted my expectations. He was too tired to take a sip of water, but found his thirst too painful to ignore—even knocking at death’s door. So I prayed. For healing, like his wife asked; but also for this man to understand that the God who loved him into existence—who gave him breath and a family and a long life of service—has always been by his side. And that the boundless love of God carries us well, beyond what we know—even beyond the edges of life itself.
Sometime during the twenty minutes it took me to drive back to the church office from the hospital, the man died.
This scenario allowed me to receive today’s “last words” with a new appreciation not only for Jesus’ death, but also for how deeply thirsty humanity is—literally and metaphorically.
After this, when Jesus knew that all was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the scripture), “I am thirsty.” A jar full of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth.
HUMANITY AFFIRMED
Reading the short passage after such a stark reminder of humankind’s fragility, we kind of stumble into the first widely-held understanding of Jesus’ “I thirst.” As we’ve been reminded the last month or so of our time together, crucifixion was no walk in the park. It was abusively painful, unimaginably demoralizing, and designed to send a warning: “follow in the footsteps of the person hanging here and find yourself reminded of your own fragility.”
Avoiding having to reconcile Jesus’ apparently divine nature with the shameful, bone-breaking way he died, many early followers of Jesus de-emphasized his human nature. They said he only appeared to suffer. Being fully God, Jesus surely wouldn’t have submitted to such humiliation. Perhaps John included this detail for the same reason we ourselves need to be reminded of Jesus’ vulnerabile humanity. Perhaps “I thirst” serves to remind John’s audience that Jesus was the full revelation of God because of his selfless embrace of suffering, not despite such an embrace.
Q. What do we risk missing out on or misunderstanding when we under-emphasize (or entirely forget) Jesus’ vulnerable humanity? How have you found yourself encouraged by Jesus’ suffering?
SCRIPTURE FULFILLED
Much like Jesus’ cry of dereliction (“My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?!”), many scholars understand today’s last word to be yet another quote from Psalms. (John’s blunt note that Jesus says what he says “in order to fulfill the scripture” definitely seems to support such a thought.)
Some interpreters claim that Jesus quotes in John’s Gospel the same psalm he seems to quote in Mark’s Gospel (Psalm 22, from last week’s lesson). Psalm 22:15 reads, “My mouth is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to my jaws; you lay me in the dust of death.” Others understand Jesus as quoting Psalm 69:21, which reads, “They gave me poison for food, and for my thirst they gave me vinegar to drink.” Regardless of which psalm an interpreter lands on, he or she arrives at similar conclusions. Namely, Jesus quotes a psalm as a means of reminding everyone, “Don’t worry, what I’m doing now was written centuries ago. It’s all a part of God’s sovereign plan—a plan that was set in place long before now.” Or as Fleming Rutledge explains it, “The Crucifixion is not an accident, not a mistake, not an unfortunate slip-up. It is the deliberate self-offering of the Good Shepherd. And so when he says, ‘I thirst,’ it is to show that he is fulfilling his purpose according to the plan of God from the beginning.”
Not that a quoted psalm easily lessens the very real pain Jesus endured; instead, if we consider Jesus’ thirsty cry in light of God’s broader, since-time-began work in the world, we begin to understand more clearly the character and nature of the God Jesus reveals.
Q. Read Psalm 69. How does the psalm remind you of Jesus’ life? Does reading the psalm give you any new insight into the cross or crucifixion?
Q. What does this understanding/interpretation of Jesus’ cry of thirst leave you wondering?
DID JESUS WANT A REFILL?
In John 18, Peter cuts off the ear of the high priest’s servant who was part of the group who comes to arrest Jesus—to see to his crucifixion, essentially. In 18:11, Jesus rebukes Peter and says, “Put your sword back into its sheath. Am I not to drink the cup that the Father has given me?” The “cup” Jesus refers to seems to signify the humiliation and suffering he was set to endure on the cross. (See also Matthew 20:22, where Jesus responds to requests for places of honor by saying, “You do not know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I am about to drink?”)
From this point of view, “I thirst” could be understood differently. Pastor and theologian Adam Hamilton explains, “Jesus’ words ‘I thirst’ may have pointed not only to his willingness to drink the cup of suffering and sin and hate—but to drink it down to the dregs. Given that he was nearing the end, perhaps he was pointing to the fact that the cup was now nearly empty.” Such an understanding would certainly resonate with or build upon the psalm-based interpretation. Jesus’ life and death were not only foundational parts of God’s story, but also appeared to be coming to an end on the cross.
Q. Does this feel like a satisfactory understanding of Jesus’ cry of thirst to you? What questions does it raise?
THE LIVING WATER NEEDED A DRINK?
Though the interpretations we’ve surveyed undoubtedly help us understand the layers of all that Jesus might be communicating, they fail to take into serious account the thirsty words’ context—John’s Gospel. Often seen as the more mystical or spiritual account of Jesus’ life, John’s Gospel contains images and stories often left out of the other three.
One of the most well-known examples is Jesus’ interaction with the Samaritan woman at the well (John 4:1–15):
Now when Jesus learned that the Pharisees had heard, “Jesus is making and baptizing more disciples than John” (although it was not Jesus himself but his disciples who baptized), he left Judea and started back to Galilee. But he had to go through Samaria. So he came to a Samaritan city called Sychar, near the plot of ground that Jacob had given to his son Joseph. Jacob’s well was there, and Jesus, tired out by his journey, was sitting by the well. It was about noon.
A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink.” (His disciples had gone to the city to buy food.) The Samaritan woman said to him, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?” (Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans.) Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.” The woman said to him, “Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water? Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well and with his sons and his flocks drank from it?” Jesus said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.” The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water.”
Speaking with the Samaritan woman, Jesus crosses all kinds of social boundaries (e.g., those based on gender and those charged by ethnic divisions). That she had been divorced and remarried multiple times, and came to the well by herself, implies that the woman was an outcast among even her own people. In the passage, Jesus offers her living water that would allow her never to thirst again.
Relatedly, in John 7:37–38, on the last festival day, Jesus exclaims, “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink. As the scripture has said, ‘Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.’”
Considering the meaning of Jesus’ cry of thirst in John 19, Hamilton claims John 4 and 7 paint the necessary interpretive backdrop for audiences to understand it. Hamilton explains, “He who was the source of living water is now thirsty as he dies on the cross. The source of life, of grace, of hope, of love, of living water is drying up. The spring is nearly extinguished. Can you feel the pathos in this scene and these words?”
Q. Turning Hamilton’s question toward us, how does it feel to sit with the intensity of today’s passage(s)? Is it heartbreaking? Encouraging? Confusing or confounding?
Reflect upon the saying from the cross—“I thirst”—and compare it to “those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty” and “let anyone who is thirsty come to me and drink.” As Rutledge ponders, “The One who gives the calm of lakes and pools, he freshness of brooks and streams, the majestic depths of seas and oceans, the glory of pounding surf, the might of Niagara and the tinkle of the garden fountain, the One from whose being flows the gift of the water of eternal life—this is the One who is dying of a terrible thirst on the Cross for the love of his lost sheep.”
This week, remember: I AM QUENCHED BY THE SOURCE THAT THIRSTS FOR ME]
Week 4
OUR PAIN NEEDS A VOICE
When it was noon, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. At three o’clock Jesus cried out with a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” When some of the bystanders heard it, they said, “Listen, he is calling for Elijah.” And someone ran, filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on a stick, and gave it to him to drink, saying, “Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down.” Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. Now when the centurion who stood facing him saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, “Truly this man was God’s Son!” Mark 15:33–39
At times, our lives seemed magnetized to attract suffering. Day after day, we feel the sting of rejection. We’re made into punchlines by our quirks; rib-cage-kicked for our natural identities; mocked for our honest mistakes. And this, without even considering how people treat us when we actually screw up. Tally enough days like this and no wonder we begin to feel rejected, even abandoned—not just by others, but by God. We talked last week about how our pain needs a home; how we aren’t meant to shoulder life’s burdens in isolation. Just as much: if we don’t learn to lament our suffering honestly before God, our voices become harsh; our arms crossed; and our fists clenched toward even those shouldering our suffering. Honest lament, though, allows us to voice our pain honestly in a way that ironically leads to honest hope.
INTRODUCTION
In his memoir Night, Jewish writer and thinker Elie Wiesel recounts the horrors he experienced at the hand of Nazis during WWII. At only sixteen years old, Wiesel found himself imprisoned in a concentration camp—alongside his fellow prisoners, suffering dehumanizing abuse; living in cursed conditions; being forced to watch the hanging execution of a mere child:
One day when we came back from work, we saw three gallows rearing up in the assembly place, three black crows. Roll call. SS all around us, machine guns trained: the traditional ceremony. Three victims in chains— and one of them, the little servant, the sad-eyed angel.
The SS seemed more preoccupied, more disturbed than usual. To hang a child in front of thousands of spectators was no light matter. The head of the camp read the verdict. All eyes were on the child. He was lividly pale, almost calm, biting his lips. The gallows threw its shadow over him.
This time, the [commanding overseer of prisoners] refused to act as executioner. Three SS replaced him. The three victims mounted together onto the chairs. The three were placed at the same moment within the nooses. “Long live liberty!” cried the two adults. But the child was silent.
Then the march past began. The two adults were no longer alive. But the third, he was too light; the child was still alive. For more than half an hour, he died so slowly under our eyes. Behind me, I heard [a] man asking: “Where is God now?”
And I heard a voice within me answer him: “Where is He? Here He is—He is hanging here on these gallows.”
Q. What’s your gut reaction to the scene Wiesel describes? Do you think Wiesel was fair in his own reaction to what he was forced to watch? Consider your own experiences, however severely they seem to pale in comparison to Wiesel’s. If someone, in the midst of your own suffering asked, “Where is God now?” how would you have responded? Mark 15:33–39 (NRSVUE)
When it was noon, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. At three o’clock Jesus cried out with a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” When some of the bystanders heard it, they said, “Listen, he is calling for Elijah.” And someone ran, filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on a stick, and gave it to him to drink, saying, “Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down.” Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. Now when the centurion who stood facing him saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, “Truly this man was God’s Son!”
A CURSED GOD?
In Galatians 3:10–14, Paul writes that Christ became accursed for us; and about how the horrific way Jesus died is somehow connected to his cursedness. Fleming Rutledge fleshes out the perhaps foreign-to-us notion of “curses,” tracing the forked meaning in Paul’s letter. She explains, “A crucified person in occupied Palestine was doubly accursed, both by the secular government and by the religious authorities. [First, Jesus] was accursed in the secular sense because he was handed over to the curses of the population. They were supposed to curse at him; that was understood. Heaping abuse on a crucified person was part of the ritual, part of the entertainment.” So we can understand that Jesus takes the part of all those who suffer the curses of others. Throughout his passion, during the darkest days of his life, Jesus’ pain becomes fodder for clever, self-assured passersby.
Still, Paul also reflects on a passage from Deuteronomy (21:23), which reasons that a dead body left hanging dead on a tree was considered cursed in the religious sense—by God. He’s utterly disfigured and shamed by the dominating, enslaving power of “Sin” in the world—a symbol of God’s wrath toward the brokenness that broke creation. Rutledge ponders, “Jesus’ situation under the harsh judgment of Rome was analogous to our situation under Sin. He was condemned; he was rendered helpless and powerless; he was stripped of his humanity; he was reduced to the status of a beast, declared unfit to live and deserving of a death proper to slaves—and what were we if not slaves?” So we understand that Jesus embodies the weight of the curse of Sin. He who knew no sin, Paul explains, became sin—for our sake.
Q. How does this understanding of the crucified Jesus—as “doubly cursed”—land with you? Do you relate to how it might’ve felt?
Q. A lot of weird ideas about Jesus’ crucifixion come from a hyper-fixation on personal moral conduct. How do you understand sin? How does considering the crucifixion as the embodiment of the full destructive power of “capital-s Sin” shift your understanding of its significance?
Q. How does all of this contour or enhance your understanding of Jesus’ cry of abandonment from the cross?
CURSING GOD?
Though we don’t necessarily spectate crucifixions for entertainment, we can’t pretend that we don’t play roles in different kinds of violence consumption. I grew up in a region where, only several decades ago, families packed up the kids and a picnic to watch a lynching. Even this week, someone somewhere in our neighborhoods had to have mocked a stranger who seemed out of place—even if under their breath. Or threw a co-worker’s tender mistake back in their face—just so that they don’t get too big for their britches.
At the same time, some of us bear the inherited scars of senseless genocide and violent bigotry and dehumanizing opinions. We’ve received family histories that seem to suggest we’re innately stained by something that makes us unworthy or shameful. All of us know what it feels like to be rejected, maybe even abandoned. We’ve been the stranger who showed up wearing the wrong thing, only to be mocked. We’ve caught friends retelling our worst moments for others’ entertainment. Our bodies seem bent on self-destructing, no matter how many doctors we see. If we were honest enough to admit it, we know what it’s like to take umbrage with God: “why have you forsaken me?!” Still, though we all experience this kind of disorientation, many of us have been taught never to question God. Never to wonder why God doesn’t seem to do anything about our sorrow or suffering. Likewise, we put on an uncomfortable smile and pretend we’re alright. That is, until our resentment toward God spills out into all our relationships and responsibilities.
Talking about psalms of lament, Walter Brueggemann suggests, “The use of these ‘psalms of darkness’ may be judged by the world to be acts of unbelief and failure, but for the trusting community, their use is an act of bold faith, albeit a transformed faith. It is an act of bold faith on the one hand because it insists that the world must be experienced as it really is and not in some pretended way. On the other hand, it is bold because it insists that all such experiences of disorder [and subsequent pain] are a proper subject for discourse with God. There is nothing out of bounds, nothing precluded or inappropriate. Everything properly belongs in this conversation of the heart. To withhold parts of life from that conversation is, in fact, to withhold part of life from the sovereignty of God. Thus these psalms make the important connection: everything must be brought to speech, and everything brought to speech must be addressed to God, who is the final reference for all of life.”
Q. Do you find it easy being honest with God about your pain? Does it feel natural to complain to God? Do you feel silly, or just more helpless?
A CURSED GOD CURSING GOD?
Many commentators and biblical scholars point out that this particular “last word from the cross” is more quoted than it is original. Such thinkers explain that Jesus—as well-educated and read as he would have been—is simply quoting the opening lines of a psalm of lament (Psalm 22).
Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase captures its lamenting tone quite clearly. Listen or read the Psalm, paying attention to what words or images resonate with you:
God, God . . . my God! Why did you dump me miles from nowhere?
Doubled up with pain, I call to God all the day long. No answer. Nothing.
I keep at it all night, tossing and turning.And you! Are you indifferent, above it all, leaning back on the cushions of Israel’s praise?
We know you were there for our parents: they cried for your help and you gave it;
they trusted and lived a good life.And here I am, a nothing—an earthworm, something to step on, to squash.
Everyone pokes fun at me; they make faces at me, they shake their heads:
“Let’s see how God handles this one; since God likes him so much, let him help him!”And to think you were midwife at my birth, setting me at my mother’s breasts!
When I left the womb you cradled me; since the moment of birth you’ve been my God.
Then you moved far away and trouble moved in next door. I need a neighbor.Herds of bulls come at me, the raging bulls stampede,
Horns lowered, nostrils flaring, like a herd of buffalo on the move.I’m a bucket kicked over and spilled, every joint in my body has been pulled apart.
My heart is a blob of melted wax in my gut.
I’m dry as a bone, my tongue black and swollen.
They have laid me out for burial in the dirt.Now packs of wild dogs come at me; thugs gang up on me.
They pin me down hand and foot, and lock me in a cage—a bag of bones in a cage, stared at by every passerby.
They take my wallet and the shirt off my back, and then throw dice for my clothes.You, God—don’t put off my rescue! Hurry and help me!
Don’t let them cut my throat; don’t let those mongrels devour me.
If you don’t show up soon, I’m done for—gored by the bulls, meat for the lions.Here’s the story I’ll tell my friends when they come to worship, and punctuate it with Hallelujahs:
Shout Hallelujah, you God-worshipers; give glory, you sons of Jacob; adore him, you daughters of Israel.
He has never let you down, never looked the other way when you were being kicked around.
He has never wandered off to do his own thing; he has been right there, listening.Here in this great gathering for worship I have discovered this praise-life.
And I’ll do what I promised right here in front of the God-worshipers.
Down-and-outers sit at God’s table and eat their fill.
Everyone on the hunt for God is here, praising him.
“Live it up, from head to toe. Don’t ever quit!”From the four corners of the earth people are coming to their senses,
are running back to God. Long-lost families are falling on their faces before him.
God has taken charge; from now on he has the last word.All the power-mongers are before him—worshiping!
All the poor and powerless, too—worshiping!
Along with those who never got it together—worshiping!Our children and their children will get in on this
As the word is passed along from parent to child.
Babies not yet conceived will hear the good news—
that God does what he says.Psalm 22
LEARNING TO LAMENT
Though scholars categorize different types of lament, broadly speaking, they can have seven parts:
Honest address to God
Review of God's faithfulness in the past
The complaint
A confession of sin or claim of innocence
A request for help
God's response (often not stated)
A vow to praise, statement of trust in God
Not all parts are present in each type of lament, and the parts are not always in the same order. This week, spend time alone writing out a prayer of lament to God. Express your grief. Accuse God of the things you already hold God responsible for, even. Let it all out.
But don’t feel rushed to get to the last step. Don’t write a trite, inauthentic expression of trust
in God. Let your complaint sit for a day or two, if you need to. Even then, if all you can muster is
a “I want to praise and trust you, God,” be honest. Voice your pain and feelings of divine
abandonment, like Jesus did, without rushing to resolve it.
Then reflect on how the practice felt. How being honest about your pain and suffering felt. If
you sensed any sort of internal shift.
This week, hold and practice the value of [GOOD(?) GRIEF]
WEEK 3
OUR PAIN NEEDS A HOME
Meanwhile, standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, “Woman, here is your son.” Then he said to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home. John 19:25-27 (NRSVUE)
Whether our next birthday will see us cross into triple digits or our next life milestone is high school graduation—we’ve all experienced trauma. Regardless of if we’ve endured horrific experiences first-hand or simply witnessed tragedies on TV, we know that some moments are so loaded with pain that they threaten to define all moments that follow. Still, Jesus’ interaction with his mom and the “Beloved Disciple” doesn’t communicate that the purpose of faith community is ignoring such traumatic pain; rather, it serves as the vision for a divine community that invites everyone—and their pain!—to experience familial belonging and care.
INTRODUCTION
I’m not sure of their origin. And I’m not aware of their development across time. I can’t even remember the first time I heard them said. It’s almost like “your mom” jokes are a foundational part of life. We all know how the formula goes: “your mom’s so [ABC] that [XYZ].” And the crowd goes wild—everyone whooping and ooooh-ing! Rinse and repeat until someone can’t think of another to offer. But, at the same time, we also all know how awkwardly one of these jokes can land—the feeling of “Yeah, it’s a joke. But you’ve gone too far. Don’t talk about my mama that way!”
Even if we can only really imagine, because of personal experiences of maternal absence or abuse or neglect, the connection between a mother and a child is undoubtedly a special one. It’s within our mothers’ wombs where we were “knitted,” to borrow the psalmist’s language (cf. Psalm 139:13). It’s from our mothers’ bodies we are fed and nourished. It’s usually our mothers who teach us to crawl, to sing, and “to go potty,” to borrow language from moms of toddlers. No wonder we can get offended, hearing jokes about our moms. No wonder those of us who struggle to show any sort of emotion can’t help but to break down in puddles, at the first glance of our moms’ tears. And it’s no wonder moms tend to have the urge to want to protect and guard their children; to see to their growth and fulfillment.
Now imagine that connection being subjected to the layers of trauma and pain that crucifixion must have created. Imagine all the pain Jesus endured already, being intensified all the more by his mother’s loyal, loving presence. Imagine Mary, still wanting to care for the son she taught to talk and walk, but also maybe sensing that this pain—this trauma—could actually serve his fulfillment.
Q. Knowing that we all have wildly different relationships with our moms, how does how we’ve unpacked this particular “last word” land with you? Does it make sense? Do you hate it? How has this scene been explained to you before?
DID JESUS DIE JUST TO TEACH US TO TAKE CARE OF OUR MOMS?
As far back as St Augustine, a kind of “Jesus took care of his mom, and we should take care of ours, too!” interpretation of today’s passage has existed—even been predominant! Jesus cared for his mom, and was worried about her future—so much so that he spent his dying breaths guaranteeing she would be tended to. Likewise, we should follow suit, taking care of our own moms.
Unpacking this understanding within the context of John’s Gospel, though, Fleming Rutledge notes, “It does not seem to fit the theology of John’s Gospel at all, nor does it seem to suit the concerns of John’s Passion narrative. In all of John’s Gospel, the mother of Jesus is mentioned only twice, and her name, Mary, is never mentioned. Because of Luke’s Gospel, we think of Mary, the mother of Jesus, as a very particular human being with a distinct personality, but that is not the way the Fourth Gospel portrays her. In John’s Gospel, she plays a symbolic role.”
Q. Read John 2:1–12 (which contains John’s only other mention of Jesus’s mom). What stands out to you about Mary? About Jesus’ interaction with/attitude toward her? In light of today’s passage from John 19, did you recognize anything new or interesting you hadn’t noticed before? What might her “symbolic role” be?
A valid concern many contemporary readers have about the John 2 passage revolves around Jesus calling his mom “woman.” (Again, we all have different relationships with our moms, but I don’t see most of us trying to address our moms similarly going over well.) Unpacking Jesus’ use of “woman” here, though, Rutledge clarifies, “In English, this sounds very rude, but in Jesus’ culture it was perfectly correct for a man to address a woman that way. For instance, Jesus addresses the Samaritan woman at the well in this fashion in the fourth chapter (John 4:21). It is not, however, the way a man would address his mother. So there is something more at stake here. Good Friday is not the first Mother’s Day.”
Q. Read Luke 1:45–55, a prophetic song of praise—typically referred to as the Magnificat—offered by a pregnant Mary. As mentioned earlier, Luke characterizes Mary as the unexpected vessel who quite literally carried the Messiah—the long-awaited savior of her people. Comparing the sing-songy, God-exalting Mary in Luke to John’s characterization, what stands out? How does it make you appreciate the passage from John 19 (and even ch. 12) differently?
“And the child’s father and mother were amazed at what was being said about [Jesus]. Then Simeon blessed them and said to his mother Mary, “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul, too.” Luke 2:33–35
Simeon is described as a man on whom the Holy Spirit rested. Immediately before this passage, he holds baby Jesus and speaks of him as “salvation…a light for revelation to the gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.” Reconciling these weighty, surprisingly inclusive statements with the soul-piercing prophecy that follows can almost give you whiplash. Inclusion and opposition; the salvation and judgment of a people, whose life will break his mother’s heart. Perhaps the scene in John’s Gospel, as deceptively simple or surface-level as it seems, hints at the endgame of Simeon’s prophetic announcements.
EVEN FAVORITE DISCIPLES NEED MOMS, TOO
Much has been said and written about the “Beloved Disciple”—a lot, just jokes about the author of the Gospel seeming to label himself as Jesus’ favorite follower. Beyond this chuckle-worthy note, though, something else seems to be at work here, too, on a symbolic or metaphorical level. Importantly, Jesus sees that his mother is taken care of by someone self-described as one of his top-shelf disciples. But remembering that Mary serves a symbolic role in John’s Gospel, taking a step back from Mary the individual, we remember the insecurity that plagued those marginalized during Jesus’ time—the kind of people this “woman” might represent. This insecurity especially plagued women widowed without children. In a patriarchal society, sonless women like these were often left to the survive on the charitable whims of the broader community. (And the cross itself reminds us how unkindly the broader community treated those it looked upon as shameful.)
Still, Jesus doesn’t just assign Mary a spot in a new social community. He assigns her a familial role—as the mother to a son. And further still, he doesn’t just delegate her as his favorite disciple’s responsibility. He characterizes the disciple’s connection to Mary as that of someone who taught him to walk, speak, and exist well in the world: “Here is your mother.” From this perspective, we begin to see that Jesus wasn’t just checking off the last of his to-do list—“Now I have to get someone to make sure Mom’s okay.” He wasn’t even trying to fit in some last-minute community building. Rather, he was forming a new kind of family. One that was ever-expanding, ever-compassionate, and ever-defined against traditional ethnic restrictions or societal prejudices. One in which those considered “valuable” or “favorite” gained just as much from the inclusion of the marginalized as the oppressed did from their own addition.
Discussing the last line in today’s passage—“the disciple took her into his own home”—Rutledge explains, “In the Greek, we are told that the Beloved Disciple, traditionally called John, took the mother of Jesus to himself that very hour, or that he—in a literal translation—took her ‘to his own that very hour.’ Various Bible translations say that he took her ‘to his own home,’ but that isn’t in the original text…. What is actually happening in this word from the Cross is much more significant for us on this very day than we might have realized. The saying is not about being nice to your mother. It is about the new community that comes into being through the power of Jesus.”
Q. How does this understanding of this particular last word from the cross land for you? Does it make sense? Does it bring any questions or sticking points to mind?
A CROSS-STAINED COMMUNITY
If today’s scene represents for John the blossoming formation of the family or body of Christ, then communities like ours should understand ourselves as set within this same trajectory. Commentating on Jesus’ formation of a new community, Leonora Tubbs Tisdale notes that it’s one “in which family is redefined in ways that are not restricted to blood kin and in which members of the family are called to be responsible caretakers of one another.”
And couldn’t the same be said of our calling and identity? Are we not also called to grow closer together—to one another and God—as a people who disregards “standard” guidelines of inclusion and belonging? Have we not been tasked with taking care of one another, especially those most vulnerable; those deemed shameful or unessential by broader society? Perhaps this last word from the cross serves to remind us that our own painful disappointments and traumas need a place to belong, to heal—no matter how much we might consider ourselves to be Jesus’ most dependable, most “beloved” followers. Too, at the same time, perhaps it reminds us of the ironic, identity-affirming value offering family-style welcome holds—especially when such a welcome is offered to the most “dispensable” in our broader community.
Q. How have you experienced this kind of familial bond within our community of faith? What are ways you could creatively offer welcome to those here, in your neighborhood, or even at your workplace?
All things considered, perhaps the meaning of this last word can be distilled simply as “we need each other.” While we all carry different needs—different pains and disappointments—we all find ourselves with different gifts, talents, and resources to offer. Trusting ourselves to a crucified God is no small ask, but perhaps it’s the family formed by just this kind of God—who’s deeply aware not only of our pain, but also our needs for belonging and care, as well as our gifts and our passions—who makes the ask seem a bit more feasible.
This week, remember: [NO (WO)MAN IS AN ISLAND]
WEEK 2
WE WANT PARADISE BUT DESPISE SHAME
Jesus answered him, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.” Luke 23:43
When our relationship with God revolves around the fulfillment of our own immediate desires—and not the story of God faithfully tending to humanity’s deepest needs (e.g., divine intimacy/proximity and affirmation of our irrevocable Belovedness)—we begin to evaluate and engage others based on standards that’re anything but divine (e.g., wealth, racialized identities, status, sexuality, et al). By placing ourselves above others in any way, we ironically distance ourselves from the center of the transformative presence and activity of God: those “numbered among the transgressors” (Isaiah 53:12).
INTRODUCTION
It’s been ten days since our Ash Wednesday service; and a week since our first meeting together. It’s wild to think that Lent’s forty day cycle is well underway. Those of us who gave up coffee, besides having questionable decision-making skills, might also have fairly severe migraines. Those of us who gave up social media might already feel a pang every time we mistake the texture of our blue jeans for a buzzing Instagram ping. And the others—those of us who might’ve walked into church today for the first time in years—might currently be experiencing the pain that comes with trying not to feel out of place (or even “less than”) for whatever reason. However we’re observing Lent, we can all agree: no matter how we might try to spin the season—and rebrand the liturgical year—it’s not exactly glamorous or immediately comforting. Really, remembering our own dusty limits can be painful.
Q. If you’re comfortable sharing, how has your experience of the Lenten season been so far? Have you chosen to abstain from anything in particular? How has that experience been for you? (Your experience doesn’t have to be painful or uncomfortable or even about fasting. If you’re already finding the season refreshing, please share!)
Like starting a new workout regimen after months of lazing around the living room, entering the Lenten season can be taxing and tiring. Living in a culture that commends to us an 11th commandment—“Thou shalt be driven always by your compulsions for personal comfort and societal significance”—we’re not used to admitting our own limitations. Really, we’re not encouraged to remind ourselves of how ultimately out of control we are (much less embrace it as good news)! It’s no wonder our bodies and minds fight against the discomfort. But the locus of Lent is far more uncomfortable than a caffeine-withdrawal headache. The focus of Lent—of our entire faith, if we think about it—is that God chose to reveal Godself most fully through a low-class carpenter, who surrendered himself to be brutally, publicly tortured to death alongside two nameless criminals.
Reflecting on this fact alone could take up an entire life, much less an hour-long class. Suffice it to say, though: the violent context in which Jesus’ “glory” is most potently revealed suggests that no matter how “low” we might feel—emotionally, mentally, or societally—God is always at work in our lives, journeying alongside us even as we endure discomfort, pain, or shame.
There was also an inscription over him, “This is the King of the Jews.” One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.” Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come in your kingdom.” He replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.” Luke 23:38-43 (NRSVUE)
CHRIST AMONG THE CRIMINALS
Picking up immediately after the first set of “last words from the cross”—“Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing”—today’s passage really underscores the shame the mode of Jesus’ death carried with it originally. If last week’s lesson reminded us that the cross is less attractive than the fashion accessory it’s become, this week’s passage emphasizes the irony of God-in-flesh surrendering himself to the ugly ordeal; to be hanged alongside anonymous “criminals.”
In The Seven Last Words from the Cross, Fleming Rutledge notes, “Uncommon criminals, white-collar criminals from privileged backgrounds with influential connections, would never have been crucified. This is very important for us to reflect upon. Jesus did exactly the opposite of what you and I would do. We want to get away from the dregs of human society. Jesus voluntarily became a part of the dregs himself.”
Q. When you think about the men hanging on either side of Jesus, what comes to mind? What have you been taught (or just simply thought) about them? What does thinking of Jesus’ literal, physical proximity to them bring up for you?
In Mark and Matthew’s respective accounts of Jesus’ life, they go even further than Luke, who refers to the men as “criminals” (as translated in the NRSV). Both authors instead refer to the men as what is often translated as “bandits” or “rebels” (like we mentioned last week). Bandits were not just common criminals. They were armed robbers—violent men who were prepared not only to steal from others, but also to kill others if the need arose. Likewise, not with the religious elite, nor the Roman guards, nor civic leaders of his day, Jesus could be found living and dying—as the prophet Isaiah foretold—“numbered among the transgressors” (53:12).
Continuing her earlier thought, Rutledge poses, “[The crucifixion] summons us to think deeply about the profoundly strange, incongruous—indeed, unacceptable—nature of a crucified God nailed up between two bandits for the scorn of the passerby. Would you in a million years ever have dreamed of having such an objectionable fact at the heart of your faith?”
SURRENDERING STATUS, EXPERIENCING PARADISE
Q. As you sit with the fuller context of Jesus’ death, does it unsettle you? Do any new thoughts come to mind? Is there anything encouraging you find in remembering what it actually meant for Jesus to “die a criminal’s death”? Anything shocking, unsettling, or challenging? (Be sure to challenge simple answers with an “unpack that,” or “say more about that.”)
The inscription of the charge against [Jesus] read, “The King of the Jews.” And with him they crucified two rebels, one on his right and one on his left. Those who passed by derided him, shaking their heads and saying, “Aha! You who would destroy the temple and build it in three days, save yourself, and come down from the cross!” In the same way the chief priests, along with the scribes, were also mocking him among themselves and saying, “He saved others; he cannot save himself. Let the Messiah, the King of Israel, come down from the cross now, so that we may see and believe.” Mark 15:26–32
Those who were crucified with him also taunted him.
Those who passed by as Jesus was suffocating to death, according to Mark’s account, taunted him—even twisting his words, so they might use them to for further humiliation (see Mark 13:1–2; 14:58). Seeing the man who claimed to be the Messiah of his people, they mocked him for being such an apparent let-down. “What kind of king would squander such marvelous power and privilege, and choose to die alongside the worst of the worst? Definitely not a real king, capable of affecting real change.”
Though it’s romantic to celebrate that Jesus was the kind of person who took the side of the down-and-outs, we don’t always sit with the implications of that stance. More than refusing to embody the divisive violence of the world, Jesus willingly embraced utter humiliation, and died bloodied, battered, and empty-bowelled. All for the entertainment of those who had everything to lose if Jesus’ way of life (and death) proved divinely anointed. What do you think motivated Jesus to stay the course, even as those who opposed his way seemed to gain the upper hand?
LEFT v. RIGHT
All we seem to hear nowadays, at least in America, is talk of “the left” and “the right.” We boil a myriad of complex commitments and nuanced convictions into a pair of apparently monolithic groups. Please don’t confuse that conversation with this one. But with that being said, returning to Luke’s account of the criminals hanging on either side of Jesus, we notice differences between the one on the right and the one on the left.
The first man clearly sees no signs of power in Jesus’ crucifixion. He doesn’t understand how the supposed Son of God would let himself be caught up in this horrific situation. Despite the ways we’ve romanticized and commodified it, the cross is still far from anyone’s idea of the perfect day. No matter how fully we flower it, deep down, we struggle to see the cross as glorious. As Rutledge notes, “That’s why there will be so many more people in church on Easter Sunday than there are on Good Friday. We would rather have the glory of springtime than the glory of the Cross.”
The man on Jesus’s right, though, recognizes “glory” (i.e., the weightiness of God’s character and activity unfolding) where most others see nothing but a scene of helplessness, agony, and death. I wish I could hear from the righthand man exactly what it was he saw in Jesus’ face, contorting as it was with pain. Or maybe it was Christ’s earlier cry for his abusers’ forgiveness that allowed the man to understand the kind of king Jesus was. Regardless, he trusted Jesus to “remember” him—not only to think about him, but also (as in Hebrew Scripture) to intervene and act on his behalf.
Q. After rereading today’s passage, what are the character traits you would ascribe to the man on Jesus’ left? The man on his right? Would you describe either man as humble? Why’s that?
Q. The man on Jesus’ right seems to recognize Jesus’ identity and power as he witnessed Jesus’ suffering and death—not in spite of these things. What do you think brought about this revelation? What sort of invitation might this pose for how we perceive/engage the most “shameful” in our midst?
Wherever we might land in regard to evaluating the men on either side of Jesus, it’s Jesus’ response that ultimately warrants our attention: “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.” As the countdown to his death ticked closer and closer to expiration; as he endured taunts and blasphemy, Jesus’ focus shifted to those who experienced the same. He refused to validate himself by his abusers’ standards. As a story, this is inspirational. As a lifestyle, this is like staring into the abyss.
Though we shouldn’t seek to be beaten and mocked publicly, today’s passage does come with responsibility for those seeking to follow the way of Jesus (and his righthand man): don’t quit looking for glory, even in the midst of our deepest shame; even as we enter into our most excruciating experiences of pain. Because it’s during moments or seasons like these when God begins welcoming us into paradise—if only we can loosen the grip we have on faulty standards of greatness, success, and even “glory.”
This week, remember: [HUMILITY, NOT SELF-PRESERVATION, PAVES THE ROAD TO PARADISE]
Week i
WE KNOW NOT WHAT WE DO
Father, forgive them, they know not what they do (Luke 23:34)
When swept away by currents of self-assured groupthink, we find it easier to avoid self- awareness; even to insulate ourselves against the chill of our own culpability—in terms of how we perpetuate and benefit from unjust ways of engaging society (our neighbors), reality (e.g., dissociation or delusion), and even ourselves (e.g., self-flagellation and -medication).
INTRODUCTION
And so the Lenten season is underway. Many of us—just a few days ago—received ashy reminders of our fragile bodies’ origins and destinations. Some of us, maybe at this very moment, are remembering that Lent even exists (and are scrambling to figure out if we really need to abstain from any of the creature comforts that seem to be the lifesavers keeping our heads above water). Others of us might have been shaped by contexts—religious or not—that see observance of the season as unnecessarily maudlin (or even self-centering). Regardless of how it is we arrived at the season, I hope our next six weeks together will prove fruitful. Who knows? Maybe even transformational.
Q. How have you understood or experienced the season of Lent? Its significance and effect? Was it fruitful or demoralizing? [Journal your responses and reflections. Draw them, give them a color, write in big and little words. Find a way to put your body into the act of contemplation.]
Perhaps properly understanding the liturgical season as “the lengthening of light” helps us set appropriate expectations. As the sun begins showing its face more and more each day; as the chill of winter gives way to the warmth of spring; and as dormant bulbs begin the work of crescendo-ing into awe-inspiring blossoms, so, too, can this season allow us to hold in tension the discouraging darkness and the hope of light, all aswirl around and within us. This isn’t a time to heap guilt or shame on ourselves or others—if only we needed rituals to help us do that! It's not even a time to resolve or reconcile entirely all the contradictions we might experience and embody. Really, it's just a time to grow in self-awareness; to see ourselves as God does—deeply traumatized by darkness, but foundationally known as and irrevocably sustained by light.
No small task, for sure!
Luckily, we have the example of Jesus, as recorded in Scripture, and the presence of his Spirit to help show us the way. So, over the next six weeks, we’re going to look at Jesus’ darkest day and unpack some of his dying words, seeking to understand how even our darkest experiences, as undoubtedly painful and unwarranted as they might be, might ultimately serve to brighten our trust in God’s constant presence and creative activity in creation and our lives—here and now, today and always.
Two others also, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him. When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. Then Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” And they cast lots to divide his clothing. And the people stood by watching, but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine and saying, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” Luke 23:32–37
CRUCIFIXION
Q. So we set the scene for the first of Jesus’ last words: his own crucifixion. Let’s brainstorm. Scribble some words or phrases that come to your mind when you hear the word “crucifixion” or think of the cross.
Discussing the connotations crucifixion carried with it in its original Roman context, theologian, priest, and teacher Fleming Rutledge explains, “We in twenty-first century America are shocked and horrified to hear of the terrible things that [have been] done to people in the dungeons of [dictators and emperors]. We can scarcely imagine these things, living as we do in a country where inhuman behavior is against the law. In Jesus’ time, crucifixion was not against the law. It was carried out by the law.”
Though the cross has since mutated into an accessory worn around our necks or a symbol tattooed across our shoulder blade, our celebratory embrace of the cross would leave first- century citizens of Rome dumbfounded. Why would we celebrate the means of torturing and executing crooks? How could we find it beneficial to exalt the very thing meant to teach those rebels who sought to bring down the empire an unlearnable lesson? Rutledge adds, “Everyone knew what it looked like, smelled like, sounded like—the horrific sight of completely naked men in agony, the smell and sight of their bodily functions taking place in full view of all, the sounds of their groans and labored breathing going on for hours and, in some cases, for days.”
For Gentiles (like most of us) and Jews (like Jesus and his people), a crucified person was as despised as it was possible to be. Crucifixion was how the empire sent the signal: “The person hanging here is not fit to live. The one you see crucified before you should not even be considered human.” Though now undoubtedly taking on a variety of meanings, at the time of Jesus, there was nothing inspirational about crucifixion. It was intentionally grotesque and performatively dehumanizing.
As such, we should note that in the time following Jesus’ death, Christians were proclaiming a degraded, condemned, crucified person as the Son of God and Savior of the world. By societal norms—and especially religious ones!—this was unheard of.
Q. If crucifixion was reserved for rebels, crooks, and deemed-unfit-to-exist people, why would Jesus be crucified? Was he a crook? A rebel? A ne’er-do-well? In what ways? What might have lead to his state-sponsored execution?
A third time [Pilate] said to [the crowd demanding Jesus’ execution], “Why, what evil has he done? I have found in him no ground for the sentence of death; I will therefore have him flogged and then release him.” But they kept urgently demanding with loud shouts that he should be crucified, and their voices prevailed. So Pilate gave his verdict that their demand should be granted. He released the man they asked for, the one who had been put in prison for insurrection and murder, and he handed Jesus over as they wished. (Luke 23:22–25)
Some religious leaders of the Jewish people seemed to fear that Jesus was making too many waves; attracting the wrong kind of attention from the wrong kind of people. Jesus’ disregard for Roman norms of relationships and status threatened the apparently peaceful relationship between the community of his own people and their dominant, violent Roman overlords.
So we might understand that Jesus died to “keep the peace,” as it were. “The violent rebel you’re releasing in return is surely less of a threat to us—and you!—than this carpenter who challenges the norms that maintain the status quo.” But what quality of peace is being kept? Is having to whack any rebellious mole that pops up to question the established order of things a sustainable, enjoyable way of life? Ultimately, is this even an authentically peaceful way to live?
SEEING v. RESPONDING
After describing the horrors crucifixion entailed, Rutledge adds, “Perhaps worst of all is the fact that no one cared. All of this took place in public, and no one cared. That is why, from the early Christian era, a verse from the book of Lamentations was attached to the Good Friday scene: ‘Is it nothing to you, all you who pass by?’ (1:12).”
Q. It’s easy to be shocked by the commonplaceness of crucifixion from a contemporary viewpoint. But are we not similarly desensitized to horrific experiences? Are we not numb to dehumanizing ways of thinking and being, deemed necessary evils for the sake of societal peace? How do you think it is we grow accustomed to such things? Can you think of any examples?
In Romans 12:2, unpacking what Jesus’ shameful death and glorious resurrection might practically mean for human life and relationships, Paul charges the church in Rome to “be transformed by the renewing of [their] minds.” He wants this competitive, divided, fearful group of people no longer to understand society, community, divinity, or even themselves in the reactive, self-preserving ways by which they had been conditioned to understand life. He sought to form in this community the kind of responsive, sacrificial engagement Jesus embodied at the point of his own murder: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”
Q. I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure I’d beg for my murderers’ forgiveness as I was actively being murdered. How do you think you’d respond? (Again, no judgment here!)
FORGIVENESS
Q. Read Luke 23:32–37 again. For whom is Jesus asking forgiveness? The criminals hanging beside him? The crowds watching his humiliating death as if it were entertainment? The genuine mourners who now seemed to believe what he had been saying all along (i.e., “Hey, guys! This is all leading to my death!”)? Those “leading the way” and casting lots?
But still, even in our discussion, if we take a step back, we realize: “forgiveness” is thrown around much more than its definition is understood.
However we define forgiveness, we often find offering true, lasting forgiveness to those who hurt us difficult (if not impossible). Wondering how we might forgive feels as useless as plotting out instructions for belly-laughing or falling in love. But hidden in the first of Jesus’ last words is a solid first step to becoming forgiving people: seeing ourselves as the “they” in Jesus’s plea. Seeing ourselves as those who have acted criminally, even if only metaphorically and unintentionally. As those who have committed a wrong against others. As those who prefer enjoying the comfort the status quo provides more than facing the fact that the status quo provides comfort ultimately only for those it was designed to serve.
As we wind down our first week, let’s commit to a renewed understanding of Lent—as a season that might lead us to new, transformative self-awareness and God-awareness. As a season during which we might strip away away all those things—those conditioned instincts; those thought-patterns and attitudes; those addictive, obsessive self-serving tendencies—that trick us into seeing ourselves as self-sufficient. That tempt us into seeing ourselves both as ultimately in-control of our lives and, at the same time, not responsible for the ways we fertilize the darkness that seems bent on staining all parts of creation and society.
If we begin to see ourselves truthfully, as light-bearers tainted by sticky darkness but irrevocably covered by divine forgiveness, then we might be able to embrace our vocation. Then we might understand the ways others, too, have been shaped and stained by darkness. Then we might be able to affirm and maybe even accentuate their own inherent light—without guilt or shame for past immaturity; not driven by insatiable appetites for hollow “peace.”
This week, remember: [GOD IS GOD. I AM NOT.]