Sermon for Good Friday, April 7, 2023
Isaiah 52:13-53:12+Psalm 22+Hebrews 4:14-16, 5:7-9+John 18:1-19:42
The religious leaders replied, “We are not permitted to put anyone to death.” (John 18:31)
We can’t do it, but you can.
It’s against our law, but not against yours. You do it.
He is not our king. Caesar is our king.
He’s guilty, you know. ‘If this man were not a criminal, we would not have handed him over to you” (John 18:30).
Oh, we are so good at squirming our way out of owning our responsibility for perpetrating and perpetuating wrongdoing and violence.
He should have followed orders.
Why do “they” burn down their own neighborhoods?
Too many of them are born out of wedlock.
They’re stealing our jobs.
They’re bringing fentanyl into the country.
If we restrict gun ownership, only the bad guys will have them.
The list is endless. And if this doesn’t sound like any of us sitting here today, what have we done to actually challenge the narrative? Have we put our bodies on the line? Have we risked a relationship by not calling out statements like these? Have we put our money where our progressive mouths are?
Good Friday is when all of our hypocrisies come home to roost. All of our, “if I had been there, I would not have betrayed him” lies are exposed. None of this means that we are bad people. We are simply human. And the Good News for us on this Friday we call “good” is that all our sins and all our brokenness get nailed to the cross right along with Jesus. Carried into the tomb with his abused and mangled body. And there they shall remain even as he emerges, bodily resurrected.
It is almost comical how John and Matthew both try their best to absolve Pilate of responsibility for the crucifixion. These evangelists have an agenda, writing as they were late in the 1st century after the destruction of the temple when Judaism had to find a way forward. Anyone who did not follow the law of Moses and the Jewish traditions had to be purged. It was a matter of survival. And the followers of Jesus were some of those being purged because it was increasingly clear that these so-called Christians were something other than Torah-abiding Jews. And John and Matthew did not like that one little bit, because it meant loss of community, loss of family, loss of livelihood.
In response, they demonized “The Jews,” and their words echoed down through the centuries as an indictment of an entire people. Pogroms, ghettos, marginalization, antisemitism, and genocide are the result of that. And so, we soften those “The Jews” into a geographic designation, “Judeans” in order not to perpetuate that idea. And I believe this is a good thing. And yet, we cannot afford to forget what Christianity has done to the Jews as a result of our own sacred scripture.
Matthew has Pilate washing his hands of his culpability, and we try to do the same.
Who was the guilty? Who brought this upon thee?
Alas my treason, Jesus, hath undone thee;
‘twas I, Lord Jesus, I it was denied thee,
I crucified thee.[1]
And Jesus died for us anyway. He could’ve called ten thousand angels, but this was his freely chosen fate, the only way to show us what love looks like.
So, when we are afraid of speaking up or speaking out, of protecting ourselves from conflict that is ours to engage in, remember what love looks like.
An innocent man was nailed to a cross because everyone had a reason, an excuse, a paralyzing fear of doing something.
Pilate may have held the gun, but humankind pulled the trigger.
In these next days, let’s sit with that, not to beat ourselves up, but to ponder how we are complicit in the sins of this world, the evil that wanders unmolested in our streets and schools and public institutions. Pray to God for courage and inspiration to begin to make change. Just one thing.
As Desmond Tutu often said, “Do your little bit of good where you are; it's those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world.”
My friends, it’s the least we can do to repay a love so deep and broad and high.
[1] Hymnal 1982, #158