Isaiah 52:13-53:12 …
He was despised and rejected by others; a
man of suffering and acquainted with infirmity… and was numbered with the
transgressors; yet he bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the
transgressors.
Mark 14:26-15:47 …
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…
As we hear the
story of the violence perpetrated on Jesus Christ, my heart is compelled to
write about some of the violence in the world today. The work of Good Friday is
painful, but if it becomes overwhelming for you as a survivor or sufferer, you
are welcome to step away for some quiet. I am available for conversation and pastoral
care if you need it. With that sincere offer
made, I ask you to pray with me.
Living God, keep
us breathing here with you. Help us to keep awake, to watch and to pray. Amen.
Christine is a
friend of mine from divinity school who went to get another Harvard degree,
this time in public health. For the last year or so, her posts on social media,
when not about the grace she feels as a survivor of open heart surgery, are
about her work at the Massachusetts Correctional Institute. This week, she has
been sharing the story of her friend Wayland, who is on a hunger strike at
MCI-Norfolk. According to the Boston
Globe, the prison has been cited multiple times for providing toxic,
tea-colored drinking water to inmates there.[1]
Wayland was working with Christine and others to buy and distribute bottled
water to inmates. That action, however, violated prison rules against
stockpiling, and corrections officers placed Wayland in solitary confinement
for the nine days since.
When I think about
Jesus on Good Friday, a prisoner on the cross, offered only sour wine to slake
his thirst, I think about Wayland in his cell at MCI. I think about the
families in Flint, Michigan, who still cannot drink their tap water. I think
about folks in housing projects around the country with chipping lead paint and
the housing policy that keeps them out of better neighborhoods. I think about
the racism that leads to lead poisoning the water and the walls, the lead
poisoning that causes Black children to lose impulse control, the discipline
issues that lead police officers to believe Black people are more likely to
commit crimes, furthering racist policies.
I feel the shame
that keeps people silent about sexual abuse, a silence that perpetuates shame.
I feel the sense of hopelessness and worthlessness that causes people to turn
to substance abuse, destroying their bodies, their families, and their hopes along
the way. I think about the logic of violence that teaches poor Whites and poor
Blacks and wealthy politicians that safety can be found at the end of a gun, or
the trigger of a bomb, or hung from a cross.
These tangled webs
of sin leave marks on the perpetrators and on the survivors. And we would be
rational to try to erase those marks, to cover them up, to speed quickly past
the violence of Good Friday to Easter for the hope of someday being freed from
travail in the by-and-by.
But we would be
wise to stay here at the cross awhile. Because the utter helplessness of one
for whom stars shone, who faced down demons and healed even death – in that
helplessness is the work of redemption. The cross reminds us that there is
nowhere we might go where God’s love will not follow us. There is no sin we can
suffer that Jesus refuses to understand.
So when we say
that Jesus dies for our sins, I do not believe that means God demands
retribution for our failure, perpetrated on the Savior. I have faith in a Jesus
who was obedient even unto death on a cross because he refused to allow us to
suffer alone. He refused to allow us to believe in the power of our isolation
and despair. And if that is so, the teaching of Good Friday is to weep with
hopelessness. To cry out in need and anger. Jesus did.
The reading I shared from Isaiah above is known as the Song of the Suffering
Servant. In the words of one of my favorite biblical scholars, “these texts have
integrity as Jewish scripture, but…it’s no wonder that Christians have seen
Jesus in them.”[2]
We read, He was despised and rejected by
others; a man of suffering and acquainted with infirmity… and was numbered with
the transgressors; yet he bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the
transgressors. A traditional Christian reading of this passage is that God
would damn all of us sinners to hell if it were not for Christ’s intercession.
But that word intercession reminds me
of Paul’s letter a few centuries later, which reminds us that when we are too
overwhelmed to even know what to pray for, the Holy Spirit “intercedes with
sighs too deep for words.”[3]
Understood this way, intercession is not the savior standing between the bully
and the victim to take the punch, because that would make God the bully.
Instead, intercession is witness. Intercession is giving word and deed, voice
and action, to the suffering of another. Jesus bears witness to the suffering
caused by the world’s sin, including our own suffering, and our own sin.
That kind of
intercession is no less painful. In John’s gospel, after Jesus receives the
sour wine, he gasps the words, “It is finished,” breathing his last. Much is
made in the biblical commentaries of the word “finished” having the sense of “accomplished,”
“complete,” Jesus having fulfilled the writings about the suffering servant’s
death. But I think there is something simpler here, too: the pain and
humiliation of dying are done with, thank God.
But for the women
at the foot of the cross, for us as witnesses, the grief is not finished. The
work of picking up the tables and keeping the robbers from returning is not
finished. The cleanup of palms and the feeding of children who cry, “Hosanna!
Save us!” are not finished. The daily struggle to survive sexual assault or war
or addiction, and to witness to that struggle, is not finished. The thirsty
still thirst.
But even in this,
there is redemption. Jesus, as our witness, cries out to God, and is heard. And
yet he struggles still with us. Our painful, human limits keep us from saving
the world, from protecting our loved ones, from meeting each lofty goal. And our
savior, who lived for love and justice, died because of sin and the status quo.
And so we must not crucify ourselves for our inadequacy. The cross is occupied;
there is no room on this hill. Our savior died in solidarity with the human
struggle. In the light of that love, we keep on with the work unfinished. We do
not turn from the pain, but cry out with it. We keep vigil, trusting in the one
here with us, always.
[1]
https://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/2018/03/24/protest-foul-water-prisoner-starts-hunger-strike-mci-norfolk/2Axz4tDLY9zB9A9Cdaya3H/story.html
[2]
Barbara Blaisdell, personal communication, 28 March 2018.
[3]
Romans 8:26
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