Views from the Valley

Scripture: The Gospel of John, Chapters 18 and 19

Our text for tonight is quite obviously a long one, involving many people coming from many places in the life of Jesus. Whenever I read it, I ponder each character’s involvement and wonder: “What were they thinking? How did they become who they were, and what led them to decide to treat Jesus in such a way?” Oh, if we could only crawl inside the minds of the characters; to follow the progression of events in their lives; to know their hopes and dreams and what meant the most to them. There’s one thing I believe we’d find out for certain: they were not much different than you or me in our fickle humanness.

       What was Judas thinking? Here’s a man who spent long months walking alongside Jesus as he taught, hearing word after word, watching miracle after miracle, absorbing everything a person could possibly take in after spending so much time with a teacher. A man who spent time in the presence of a person you and I would think might be a joy and inspiration to be around. But Judas isn’t the only person who appeared to follow Jesus and then turned away. People throughout the ages turn on the ones they once loved and adore.  Someone unhappy, looking for something different, full of motives we might never understand.

       Whom among us might be tempted, at times, to be like Judas in our unhappiness and our bitterness and our inability to understand? And yet, it was, ultimately, for Judas, that Jesus died.

       What were the soldiers and police who came to arrest Jesus thinking? “Just doing my job, sir, just doing my job.” They’d been a part of the Roman and Jewish legal establishment for a long time. Could be they thought of this man as a strange rabble-rouser. One of many itinerant preachers and prophet-types appearing out of the blue, shuffling his way through the crowds and magnetically drawing a band of followers along. A odd guy, who thought he knew about the almighty creator of the universe, and had some kind of mystical power, too. A man who said strange things that really didn’t make a lot of sense. And now here he was, stirring up trouble. What a royal pain. Now, at the behest of the chief priests and the Pharisees, it was time whisk him away to the authorities. Take care of this mess once and for all. We do what we’re told, sir, we just follow the facts, ma’am. It’s kinda fun, really, having this power to grab people, rough ‘em up, give ‘em hell. Make a crown of thorns, ‘cause he thinks he’s a king! We’ll show him! Here’s his tunic. Oh, it’s a nice one. Let’s cast lots – don’t want to tear that nice piece of cloth up; might make a nice warm coat for somebody.

       Who among us might find a certain pleasure in cueing up for a conflict, especially if it was our job to help enforce the law? To prove to our superiors that we are able workers. To do as we are told without question. To keep good old law and order.

       What were they thinking when they lost all their strength when Jesus spoke? “What just happened?” they wondered. And it wasn’t just one of them: all the soldiers and police around Jesus collapsed. It had to be some kind of strange anomaly. Something in the air. It could NOT have anything to do with the powers and abilities of this man, could it?

       What excuse might we offer in the presence of such power and authority that came not from the political or legal realm? How would we rationalize it away so that our safe, set beliefs about life could gain back their equilibrium? It was for people such as the slaves and soldiers and police that Jesus died.

       What was the high priest’s slave Malchus thinking when one of Jesus’ disciples cut off his ear? There would be shock, pain, incredulity and fear at such a loss; not much thought of anything else but that. Malchus surely tends to his wounds, and if they are healed, he still experiences the wounds of humiliation and dumbfounded amazement at this turn of events.

       Who among us have never been so preoccupied with our lives and our pain that we are unable to recognize the presence of God among us? It was for this surreal moment, and for this slave, captive to a high priest and his lot in life as a servant, that Jesus died.

       What was Simon Peter thinking? Simon Peter, of all people, who, like Judas, had spent hours upon hours and days upon days with Jesus! Who had declared with all certainty that he would never deny his Lord. And yet, perhaps like a person who detaches from themselves emotionally in a time of shock, they find themselves doing exactly the opposite of what they had promised to never do. Peter, who out of fear of death and recrimination, in a moment when the reality of his situation struck home, denied knowing his best friend. Surely he wanted to run and hide in shame.

       Who among us believes that we would never utter a denial of anyone, or any of our firmest beliefs and truths, in the face of death and recrimination? Do any of us really know what we would do if, in the midst of our pleasant lives of relative security and safety, we were approached with dangerous recrimination and consequences for our beliefs? And yet it was for Peter, even in his denials, that Jesus died.

       What was the high priest thinking about this upstart fellow who made a wild claim about being on some sort of equal footing with God? This Jesus, whose actions and words seemed to come from a greater power — actions and insights that the high priest himself had striven all of his life to achieve. Oh, he’d love to be a prophet, able to utter the truths of Yahweh that bypassed logic, as Elijah and Isaiah and others of old! He was the keeper of the Laws of God! Who was this fellow who appeared from some lowly little town where no one important lived and where nothing important happened? How dare he think that he had any kind of relationship with God, let alone anything useful to teach?

       Who among us prefers the status quo in our faith life, our church, our religion, even our world? Who among us, when someone presents a new viewpoint that challenges our long-held beliefs, would not want to put an end to the fly in the ointment, the buzzing mosquito, the pot-stirring troublemaker? How dare they come along and try to usurp our safe status in life? And yet it was for the high priest and his cohorts that Jesus died.

       What was Pilate thinking? Pilate, who felt the pressure of the religious authorities over whom he had power and whose respect he needed in order to keep that authority. Pilate, who couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about: it was no skin off his back if this Jesus claimed to be a king; he felt no threat coming from this lowly man and his little cult of followers.

       Who among us has not also felt the temptation to care for people under our authority in the way they want us to, because if we don’t, we might lose their approval? Even while we just don’t see the necessity of doing what they want us to do? We feel the pressure, we hear their logic, it seems so rational to them. We feel trapped. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t. Where is the release valve? We have to find a way out of this: a compromise, an offer. Can we put this responsibility in their hands and hope for the best? And the pressure gets worse, and worse, until we finally give in. It is for Pilate, as well, that Jesus died.

       What were the crowds thinking, when they began shouting for the release of Barabbas in place of Jesus? Who among us has not followed the crowd, a crowd, any crowd, and are still following crowds this day? Yet for this crowd, Jesus died.

       What was Barabbas thinking, ready to be bound and nailed to a cross? Did he even know of Jesus and his innocence, and how Barabbas’s own freedom would come at the expense of a seemingly worthless death? And yet, we know that it was for Barabbas, that Jesus quite literally died.

       It seemed that day that the momentum, like an avalanche, had begun, and there was nothing that could be done to stop it.

       And that day, it was for everyone involved in this whole disastrous, tragic, traumatic scene: this death of an innocent man, for all of them — that Jesus died.

       That momentum, which we would only know one day in the future, was love, and it was like an avalanche. It began at Jesus’ birth and led Jesus to the cross. With all that power, Jesus could have saved himself, but he did not. He did not resist, fight or argue. He did not offer scathing words to Simon Peter at his betrayals and sore attempts at violence. He did not shout curses at the people who spat in his face and took his clothes and slammed a spiky, thorny crown onto his head.

       This momentum came from a love that allowed him to speak the truth all the way to the end. This love enabled him to never betray his convictions, even when others did. It was a love that caused him to give his life in order to liberate all those around him from their bondage to their humanness, their need to fight, to betray, to deny; from their fear, their mocking, their pompousness, their fickle following of the crowd, their yielding to the pressures of their constituents in order to keep their power.

       They didn’t know it yet. But he gave his life for them anyway.

       Jesus died for all of them: all failures, bitter, angry, confused, and totally oblivious to who he really was. Because of love. He died for all of us, too, in spite of and in the midst of all our failures, our bitterness, anger, confusion, and total oblivion to who he really was and who he still is.

       How amazing.

       In spite of all of it.

       Tonight is our night of that cross, that death, that giving up of power, that solidarity with us in our darkness. Jesus, though he had the power, did not escape it, and he did it on our behalf, because of God’s love living within him.

       Let us consider this tonight. Let us feel the darkness of it, but let us also feel that darkness as love, enveloping us even in the bleakest moments. Even in the darkness, there is love. Let us receive it, feel it, and know it. Amen.