ST. MATTHEW, BLACKMOOR
GOOD FRIDAY 2004 AT 2 P.M.
Readings: Isaiah 52: 13-53: end
Hebrews 10: 5-10
Luke 23: 33-49
Every year, there is an opportunity to walk past the cross, and every year it seems both the same and different. It is the same Jesus of Nazareth who is crucified for the capital offence of blasphemy, as far as the Jews are concerned, and sedition against the Emperor, as far as the Roman government is concerned. But it is different, too. Mel Gibson’s film has hit the headlines, largely for bringing out the violence of Jesus’ death – and crucifixion was violent – as the particular contribution that our culture almost inevitably brings, with its love of violence on television and films. And it is different, too, because, if we are honest with ourselves, we bring different experiences this year from those that we brought last year.
To this set of experiences, therefore, comes the Passion, not according to John, which is more often than not read on Good Friday, nor according to Matthew, the one that used to be most frequently read on Palm Sunday – but St. Luke’s version. Luke, the compassionate, the story-telling Evangelist, the only non Jew of the four, and therefore with a particular sensitivity to the outsider: in Luke’s gospel, there are three ‘words’ from Jesus that are unique to his narrative of the crucifixion, and it is to these that our attention could focus for a few moments this afternoon.
First, while he is being nailed to the cross, Jesus prays, ‘Father forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.’ (Lk. 23:34). Jesus prays in Luke’s gospel at important points in his life. Now he is praying for ‘them’ – the Roman soldiers who were carrying out the crucifixion, the fixing of Jesus to a cross, also, by implication, the Roman authorities who ordered it, in particular Pontius Pilate, that weak Governor, who, we know from other sources, went out of his way to offend the Jews, and who is now going along with them in case he gets into trouble. Jesus is also praying for the Jews themselves, his own people; but the ‘them’ is not just ‘them’; there is no hint of crude anti-semitism in Luke’s narrative of Christ’s death – the ‘them’ is all of us, the human race. For Jesus’ life, his teaching, his whole being, were so coherent, that in the end, we – the world – could not stand him. At this very moment, when the nails are being hammered into his hands and feet, he prays for us. We do not understand what we are doing. Of course, in retrospect, the cross had to happen – as the anonymous risen Christ is soon to tell the two disciples on the way to Emmaus (Lk. 24: 25ff.). But if ‘they’ – ‘we’ – knew who Jesus really was, the Son of God, and what was to emerge from his death, and resurrection, a community that would turn the world upside down, and be alive and kicking two thousand years on, would ‘they’ – ‘we’ – have done it? So it leaves us with the challenge: do we pray for those who wrong us? Do we give them the benefit of the doubt, even in the conflicts of our world, at which, it has to be said, the Church also seems at times so expert? Jesus, as he goes to his death, strikes at the heart of his message: forgive. It is the cross which is the eternal symbol of that forgiveness, not just for us, but for the whole world, for the whole of human history.
Then we move on a few verses. Jesus has been mocked by the rulers of the Jews and the soldiers, and derided by one of the criminals, the other two who were on the list for crucifixion that day. Jesus, as elsewhere in Luke’s gospel, finds himself in unsavoury company, for which he got into trouble, especially when he ate with them. But just as in his ministry that unsavoury company included those who reject his message and those who accept it, so now, as he approaches death himself, the response is again mixed: the two criminals are not, as we would say, singing from the same hymn sheet. One of them challenges Jesus, and is then contradicted by the other: the man who hangs between us is innocent. And he then addresses Jesus directly, and asks to be remembered in his kingdom. Had he heard of Jesus’ teaching? It would seem so. Perhaps on one of those occasions when Jesus was proclaiming this kingdom he stood on the outside, listening in, but he was more intent on his life of crime. His words to Jesus now are to be taken at their face value: there is nothing cynical here. In solidarity with the dying Jesus, he asks to be remembered – a strong word in both Hebrew and Greek thought, that means more than just ‘thinking about’. And Jesus utters words that have echoed across the centuries: ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise’ (Lk. 23:43). ‘With me’ –that means much more than ‘remembering’; and ‘today’ – an immediacy about the promise of inclusion, not exclusion, of acceptance, not rejection. The challenge comes to us: do we preach and live an exclusive gospel, that rejects others, and is never rash enough to say ‘today’, because there are so many ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ about the God that we can so easily match down to our favourite themes, our ecclesiastical hobby-horses, our moralistic foibles?
Then we move to Jesus’ death. By now it is a foregone conclusion. There was always just the remote possibility that he might have been given a reprieve; but loss of blood, and, much more drastically, sheer suffocation, bring his life to an end. He has prayed for his enemies. He has assured the penitent thief a place in paradise. Now he entrusts his Spirit to his father. There is no cry of dejection, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ as in Matthew (Mt. 27:46) and Mark (Mk. 15:34). Here, instead of quoting the opening words of Psalm 22 (Ps. 22:1), Luke has Jesus using words from an evening Psalm, a Psalm of trust: ‘Father, into your hands I commend my Spirit’ (Psalm 31:6). Jesus addresses God as ‘Father’, as he does elsewhere in Luke’s gospel (Lk. 10:21; 11:2); and he did, after all, refer to the temple when lost there at the age of twelve as ‘his Father’s house’ (Lk. 2:49). To his Father, therefore, he commends his Spirit – the Spirit that came upon the Virgin Mary when he was conceived (Lk. 1:35), the same Spirit that came upon him in bodily form at his baptism (Lk. 3:21), enabling his ministry to be Spirit-filled (Lk. 4:1, 14). The tone of these dying words is intimate trust, not agonised resignation; and this is echoed by Stephen, the First Martyr, whose death Luke recounts in the Acts of the Apostles, when he says ‘Jesus, receive my Spirit’ (Acts 7:59). Here again, we find ourselves challenged. It is, first of all, a challenge, when we have completed a task, that we do so in humility, and not arrogance, or, indeed, negative defeatism. But it is, obviously, about much more. There is a prayer I remember from my youth that asks for ‘a holy and happy death’, which is an experience I have been privileged to watch on a number of occasions across the years in pastoral ministry. Jesus’ way of death is a comfort and encouragement to us, that we may do the same, and as our life draws to an end, commend our spirits in deep trust, and not negative resignation, to the Father of all mercies.
In you, O Lord, have I taken refuge;
let me never be put to shame;
deliver me in your righteousness.
Incline your ear to me;
make haste to deliver me
Be my strong rock, my fortress to save me,
for you are my rock and my stronghold;
guide me, and lead me for your name’s sake.
Take me out of the net
that they have laid secretly for me;
for you are my strength.
Into your hands I commend my Spirit;
for you have redeemed me, O Lord God of Truth.
+ KENNETH PORTSMOUTH
