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 Digitized by the Internet Archive
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https://archive.org/details/cryfromcrossserm0000corn
A Cry From
The Cross
Sermons On The
Seven Last Words Of Christ

Robert D. Cornwall

CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio

 A CRY FROM THE CROSS

Copyright © 2008 by
CSS Publishing Company, Inc.
Lima, Ohio

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatso-
ever without the prior permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews. Inquiries should be addressed to: Permissions,
CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.

Scripture quotations are from the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright
1989 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of
Christ in the USA. Used by permission.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cornwall, Robert D., 1958-

A cry from the cross : sermons on the seven last words of Christ / Robert D. Cornwall.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 0-7880-2506-6 (perfect bound : alk. paper)
1. Jesus Christ—Seven last words—Sermons. I. Title.

BT457.C67 2008
232.96'35—dc22
2007039769

For more information about CSS Publishing Company resources, visit our website at
www.csspub.com or email us at csr@csspub.com or call (800) 241-4056.

Cover design by Barbara Spencer

ISBN-13: 978-0-7880-2506-8
ISBN-10: 0-7880-2506-6 PRINTED IN USA
 Dedicated to
the clergy from
Santa Barbara, California,
who shared with me in preaching the
Seven Last Words of Christ
each Good Friday
at First Presbyterian Church
from 1999 to 2005
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 Table Of Contents
Preface

Acknowledgments

Introduction

The First Word PA

Father, Forgive Them
Luke 23:32-34

The Second Word 27

Paradise
Luke 23:39-43

The Third Word 31

Woman, Here Is Your Son
John 19:26-27

The Fourth Word 3]

Abandonment
Mark 15:34-35

The Fifth Word 43

I Thirst
John 19:28-29

The Sixth Word 49

It Is Finished
John 19:30

The Seventh Word 55

The Final Word
Luke 23:44-49

Endnotes 61
 Preface

Observances of Good Friday necessarily focus on the cross of

Jesus. Often the “Seven Last Words of Christ” will have a central
place in our meditations. Taken from all four gospels, these “seven
words” have inspired musical compositions from the likes of Franz
Joseph Haydn and Theodore Dubois and have provided the orga-
nizing principle for local community observances during Holy
Week. These words and phrases invite us to consider the magni-
tude of Jesus’ sufferings on the cross, but they do not allow us to
dwell on this suffering. More importantly, they draw us into Jesus’
intimate relationship with God. In the course of our meditations on
his words, his suffering becomes our suffering, his sense of aban-
donment becomes our abandonment, his cries are our cries, and
God’s silence in the face of these cries becomes God’s silence to-
ward us during our own times of trial.
As it is traditional to preach and to meditate on these words
during Good Friday services, these particular seven meditations
have their origins in sermonic contributions to an annual ecumeni-
cal Good Friday service held in Santa Barbara, California. Each
year, seven local clergy would take a word and briefly meditate
upon its meaning. For seven years, I participated in the annual ser-
vices held at First Presbyterian Church of Santa Barbara, working
through the words on a rotation basis. I began the rotation with the
sixth word on Good Friday 1999 and concluded my contributions
with Good Friday 2005. My fellow preachers never failed to en-
courage me and they enabled me to reverently remember my Lord’s
passion, making this annual observance one of the more memo-
rable activities of my pastoral experience in Santa Barbara.
I have chosen to revise and expand the brief meditations given
during those services for use by preachers as they prepare their
own Good Friday sermons. I would also hope that these messages
might prove beneficial to those who seek a word to meditate upon
during Lent and Holy Week. Hopefully, these short meditations
will lead the reader into a deeper consideration of Jesus’ life and
ministry. For the cross, in all of its mystery, does stand at the center
of our faith as Christians.
 Acknowledgments
One of the grand experiences of my life was joining my fellow
pastors in preaching the Seven Last Words of Christ from 1999 to
2005. This group of clergy, which rotated through the seven words,
included representatives from local Presbyterian, United Church of
Christ, Methodist, Lutheran, and my own Disciples of Christ con-
gregation. In addition, on several of these occasions, we were joined
by the chaplain from the local hospital and hospice. I would like to
thank each of these women and men whose own words enriched
my experience of Good Friday. They helped draw me to the cross
of Jesus so that I could hear with them the cries of Jesus. I joined
this group at the invitation of the Reverend Doctor Dale Morgan,
Pastor of St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church of Santa Barbara.
At the time I began this series, I was serving as pastor of First
Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) of Santa Barbara and con-
cluded my contributions as pastor of First Christian Church of
Lompoc, California. I would like to thank these two congregations
for encouraging me in my participation.
An earlier version of this series of sermons was used in 2006
by the Lompoc church as a Holy Week devotional. I asked several
members to read through the sermons and offer their suggestions.
Their advice has helped enrich this collection. In addition to this
group of readers, the manuscript was read by three others. These
include the Reverend Lloyd Saatjian, Pastor Emeritus of First United
Methodist Church of Santa Barbara, who was himself among the
preachers during this series. His encouragement and affirmation of
the project are deeply appreciated. My former colleague at Man-
hattan Christian College, Doctor Scott Caulley, Director of the In-
stitute for the Study of Christian Origins, Tuebingen, Germany,
offered helpful advice and direction from his vantage point as a
New Testament scholar. Finally, my colleague from the Lompoc
First Christian Church, the Reverend Bill Denton, carefully read
through the manuscript with his usual keen eye looking for gram-
matical and stylistic issues. To him, I’m especially indebted.
Mention must finally be made of my wife, Cheryl, whose love
and support I treasure each day.
9
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 Introduction
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Oh! Sometimes it causes me to
Tremble, tremble, tremble.
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
— African-American Spiritual

Good Friday is the decisive moment in Jesus’ life and minis-

try. In many ways, it is both the end and the beginning of the story.
The gospel stories lead up to this one event, which is maybe why
the story of the cross forms an outsized portion of the four stories
of Jesus’ life. And yet, as central as the cross of Jesus may be to the
Christian faith, it is also a stumbling block for many who would
consider him worthy of attention. Why should we pay attention to
someone who was executed by the state? Surely he was a criminal
and thus unworthy of our sympathy and attention. Then again, he
could have been a rebel for a cause and therefore his death 1s that
of the martyr, whose death inspires others to follow his path. If this
is what occurred, then maybe the attention given him is more un-
derstandable. What then should we make of Jesus and his cross?
Though the cross 1s scandalous — whether Jesus was deserv-
ing of it or not — it is foundational to the Christian faith. In fact, it
is impossible to consider the Christian faith without giving at least
some attention to it, though we may try to ignore it when it proves
too challenging to our own inclinations as modern people. Yet, it is
for this reason that the cross has importance for modern Chris-
tians. Whereas we have a tendency to embrace the more triumphal
aspects of our faith, it is the cross that keeps us grounded. Now,
there is a tendency on the part of some to give too much attention
to the blood of Jesus. There is much in our hymnody that glorifies
the blood of Jesus, in that he is the sacrificial victim required to
satisfy God’s wrath. For those who feel extreme guilt, such atten-
tion might be understandable, but for most of us, guilt is not our
problem. We live in an age that wrestles with meaning and pur-
pose, not guilt. Singing the songs about the power of the blood that

is
washes away sin does not connect with many who would consider
Jesus, because they are asking different questions.’
In our day, we wrestle with the end of Christendom. The tri-
umph of the church has come to an end. Whereas once the church
reigned supreme over Western culture, the church has in recent
years retreated to the margins. Unfortunately, many Christians seek
to reclaim what was “lost,” and yet its loss is not necessarily a bad
thing. When considered in this way, the cross becomes an antidote
to the temptation that has plagued the church ever since Constantine
decided to embrace Christianity as the new religious foundation of
his empire. With Constantine, this imperial instrument of execut-
ing rebels became the symbol of imperial conquest. Martyrdom
gave way to heroism.
A theology of triumph, glory, and power is much more appeal-
ing than a theology of the cross, unless the cross is marginalized. If
all that happened on the cross was a transaction sparing me from
the penalties of my transgressions, then the cross has little to say
about the rest of my life. Once saved, I can leave behind the cross
and attend to the gospel of success, prosperity, power, and glory.
Such a theology is attractive to a world, indeed a nation, that val-
ues such things over a call to humility, service, and personal sacri-
fice. In this modern purpose-driven age, we find the prayer of Jabez
that God might bless us and expand our borders (1 Chronicles 4:10)
more inviting than the call to pick up the cross and follow Jesus
(Mark 8:34). Dying on accross is not emblematic of the successful
visionary religious leader we so want to embrace. If given the
chance, we relish the opportunity to hobnob with the rich, the fa-
mous, and the politically powerful.
When we are tempted by the message of glory and power, the
gospel accounts of the cross remind us that the one we claim to
follow and serve was executed by agents of those who held power
using an instrument of torture. In John’s gospel, Pilate declares to
Jesus that he has the power to bestow life or death. Jesus responds
to the governor’s claim to power by reminding him that whatever
power he may have had was given to him from above — whether it
is God or Caesar that is meant here is subject to interpretation (John

12
“=
19:10-11). Ultimately Jesus controls his own destiny and he chooses
to embrace the way of the cross — even if this decision for him is
wrenching and sorrowful.
God stands at the center of this conversation about the mean-
ing of Good Friday. Douglas John Hall writes helpfully:

One dimension of the significance of the cross remains

steadfast, however, and is the presupposition of all pos-
sible interpretations of this event: namely, faith’s as-
sumption that the cross of the Christ marks, in a deci-
sive and irrevocable way, the unconditional participa-
tion of God in the life of the world, the concretization
of God’s love for the world, the commitment of God to
the fulfillment of creation’s promise.*

This assumption that God is to be found in the agonies of the

cross marks our meditations upon the events of that day and it con-
tinues to impact the faith of those who claim to be followers of
Jesus. In the end, we are people of the cross, called upon to take up
our own crosses and to follow Jesus wherever he chooses to lead
us (Mark 8:34). In doing so, we, like Jesus, are on a journey with
God.
The life of Jesus was a life lived before God — this is an un-
questioned assumption of the Christian faith. Whatever we may
think of Jesus, whether he is the third person of the Trinity or not,
we begin with the special relationship that Jesus shared with the
Creator of all things. In delving into his story, we discover that he
proclaimed to all who would listen a word of love and compassion.
He was not averse to speaking the truth in ways that made people
uncomfortable, but usually these words were spoken to the elite. In
the course of his short ministry, he spoke of transformation and
liberation, and along the way, his life gave way to death, and it was
a death that confounds us to this day.
Our response to his death is often muted by our gilded and
bejeweled crosses, which hang around our necks and sit on our
altars. It can be distressing to see this cross, which was intended as
a mode of execution, reduced through commercialization to just

13
another piece of jewelry. Our contemporary usage of the cross too
often lacks context and definition; however, if we are willing to
focus our attention on Jesus’ cries from the cross, Good Friday will
call into question this misrepresentation of the meaning and pur-
pose of the cross.
When we consider Good Friday, we must begin by recogniz-
ing that it was, and is, a day of broken dreams and dashed hopes.
Christians honor, revere, and even worship Jesus, but he remains
for us and for all who consider him, something of an enigma. Many
try to remake him in their own image, something Albert Schweitzer
famously described, as an act of looking into a well and seeing our
own faces. Others find it more convenient simply to ignore him.
They build religions around the name Jesus, but ignore his life and
teachings. This is the Jesus of Christendom, an institutional shell
more attune to the politics of power than the spirit of love, mercy,
and peace.
There are, of course, many who have been and continue to be
fascinated with Jesus, even if they aren’t always within the pale of
orthodox or traditional Christianity. Thomas Jefferson was drawn
to Jesus and his teachings, but not to the idea of divinity or that he
was a worker of miracles. Jefferson, who might be best catego-
rized as an agnostic Anglican, couldn’t affirm the deity of Jesus,
but he was so taken with Jesus that he carved out from the gospels
a composite that placed the words of Jesus front and center. It was,
of course, the effort of one seeking a rational religion. Then there
is the Jesus of Islam.
We hear a lot these days about clashes of culture that involve
Islam and the Christian West. Too often we forget that Jesus is
considered to be a prophet in Islam. In fact, Muslims affirm many
beliefs that have been typical of orthodox Christianity, including a
belief in Jesus’ virginal conception, and they even look forward to
his eventual return to earth (of course, as a Muslim). They do not,
however, have a place for Good Friday, for in Islam a prophet of
God cannot die such an ignominious death.
For Christians, however, Good Friday remains foundational.
Without it, Jesus is someone other than the one Christians call
Lord. Unfortunately, we who are Christians are prone to adopt a

14
theology of glory — a theology marked by triumphalism and nar-
cissism. But if we will attend to the message of Good Friday, then
we will be led to a theology of the cross: a theology that invites us
to a life of humility and circumspection.

The Road To Good Friday

Good Friday did not happen in a vacuum. It did not happen
just because God needed a sacrificial victim and Jesus showed up
on the appointed day. There is a discernable trail that leads from at
least the time of his baptism by John to the time of his death. Addi-
tionally, Good Friday is not the concluding moment of Holy Week;
instead, it is the penultimate event.* Holy Week begins with Jesus’
glorious entrance into Jerusalem astride a donkey. A crowd gathers
and throws palm branches in front of him, hailing him “Son of
David.” Palm Sunday is a scene out of Zechariah’s prophetic vi-
sion of Zion’s coming king. “Rejoice,” Zechariah shouts, for “your
king comes to you; triumphant and victorious, humble and riding
on a donkey....” With his reign, peace will come to the nations and
his “dominion shall be from sea to sea, and from the River to the
ends of the earth” (Zechariah 9:9-10). Jesus knew the symbolism
of his act and so did the crowd, but the aura of victory soon gave
way to other forces. The time was not right, for neither Rome nor
its collaborators among the priestly class would let such an effort
catch hold.
In the days following this “triumphal entry,” the gospels tell us
that Jesus lashed out at the merchants and money changers who
are said to have taken over the temple courts. He continued teach-
ing and proclaiming his gospel of the kingdom, but this time we’re
told he did much of his teaching in the very public temple pre-
cincts. His teachings and his parables turn darker and more pro-
vocative as the week wears on. Finally, on Thursday evening he
gathers his closest friends and followers in an upper room to cel-
ebrate Passover. The picture da Vinci and other artists give us is of
twelve men who surround Jesus, and among them is one prepared
to betray the master. Surely there were others in the room with
him. Maybe there were some of the women who had followed the

15
disciples and provided financial support. Maybe his mother was
there, as well. We just do not know who was present.
In his final meal, Jesus shares the bread and the cup and charges
his disciples to regularly commemorate this sacred meal as a me-
morial of his death. And so, in honor of his request, we remember
Jesus and his death when we gather around the table of the Lord
and share in the bread and cup. While the synoptic gospels focus
on the bread and cup, John’s gospel focuses on Jesus’ symbolic act
of getting on his knees to wash the feet of his disciples. In doing
this, the master becomes the servant, and the disciples learn that
the way of the kingdom would turn the ways of the world upside
down. Instead of being the conquering king, he comes to us as the
servant king, and thus the kingdom of God becomes the domain of
the servant.
From the upper room, the band of disciples moves to the gar-
den of Gethsemane where Jesus goes to pray. Of course, not every-
one goes with Jesus to Gethsemane. By now, Judas has made his
way to those who would take the life of Jesus. He becomes the
betrayer — whether this is by design or not. In the garden, Jesus
faces the prospect of death and asks that the cup be turned aside,
but in the end he accepts his destiny (Mark 14:36). In John’s gos-
pel, Jesus prays for the unity of his disciples (John 17), praying
that they might not be scattered after his betrayal and death. The
quietness of this scene, one marked by sleep and grief, soon gives
way to the noise of the mob that comes to seek his arrest. In the
lead is Judas, the disciple of Jesus. It’s Judas who kisses Jesus,
giving the signal to the mob that Jesus is the one to be arrested.
From there, the soldiers take Jesus off to be tried.
With four separate accounts telling the story of his arrest and
trial, we learn of separate visits to the Jewish ruling council, Pilate’s
court, and even to the Jerusalem home of Herod Antipas. Herod is
Jesus’ Galilean sovereign, which suggests that judgment is passed
on him by the religious establishment, an occupying army, and a
collaborating traditional monarchy. According to the gospels, Jesus
is challenged by his accusers on the basis of false testimony, so
that the judgment upon him is a forgone conclusion. But is the
testimony false and ill-gotten, or is it simply misunderstood? Surely

16
Jesus preached a kingdom, but what kind of kingdom did he preach?
In the end it does not matter, because he is sentenced to die a
criminal’s death — yes, even the death of a rebel against the estab-
lishment.
By Friday morning, the beaten and bruised Jesus of Nazareth
is found dragging a piece of wood up a hill. He carries with him
the instrument of his brutal and humiliating death. Mel Gibson’s
The Passion of the Christ illustrated this act of suffering with bru-
tal and gruesome detail, but the gospels are much more subtle and
even humble in their presentation of the day’s events. They leave
much of the scene to the imagination. But as we read the four ac-
counts of his death on that Good Friday, we hear his final words,
what we call the “Seven Last Words of Christ.”

A Theology Of The Cross

It is tempting to skip over Good Friday. The triumph of Palm
Sunday stirs in our hearts songs of glory and praise. We shout “Ho-
sanna” to the king and process up the church aisle with palm
branches and banners. Such is the emotional power of the scene
that we want to pull out the old hymn: “Onward Christian Sol-
diers” and begin “marching as to war.” Of course, the song does
mention the cross going before us — but this cross is a symbol of
victory and triumph. But thinking of the cross leading an army to
war seems a bit incongruous. As we dwell on this most
Constantinian of moments, our minds contemplate other songs of
power and conquest. Another song comes to our minds, so we stand
and sing:

Stand up, stand up for Jesus, ye soldiers of the cross;

Lift high His royal banner, it must not suffer loss.
From victory unto victory, His army shall He lead,
Till every foe is vanquished, and Christ is Lord indeed.*

That is truly a thrilling and triumphal message, if only we manage

to skip across the intervening period known to us as Holy Week
and spy the open tomb. You see, Good Friday gives the lie to this
triumphalism that is engendered by the scene from Palm Sunday.

ity
 We often jump from the triumph of Palm Sunday to the glo-
ries of Easter out of convenience. It is, after all, a jump from one
Sunday to the next. To remember Good Friday we must step out of
our normal comings and goings and gather on a Friday to hear the
message of Jesus’ passion read for us. To give in to convenience is,
however, to undermine the true message of the Christian faith, for
it eliminates the theology of the cross.°
The skipping of Good Friday tempts us with a triumphalism
that resonates with a society that worships success. It tempts us to
accept cheap grace, for without the cross we have no context for
understanding the costly nature of God’s grace. True grace requires
much of God, but it also requires us to change, to be transformed.
Yes, it means being born again. The cross is not a symbol of suc-
cess — unless, of course, its wooden frame is transformed into
bejeweled and golden jewelry. Good Friday suggests that what-
ever “success” may come our way, it will come at a cost. Dietrich
Bonhoeffer helpfully reminded us of this in his book on disciple-
ship: “Whenever Christ calls us, his call leads to death.” Bonhoeffer
understood well the meaning of Good Friday, and he paid the cost
in service to his Lord with his life. Although Bonhoeffer’s death
seems very different from that suffered by Jesus, there are similari-
ties. While Bonhoeffer was involved in active resistance to a tyran-
nical regime, choosing to involve himself in an assassination plot
despite his own pacifist inclinations, Jesus’ acts of resistance were
more subtle, but they were perceived by all as political. What
Bonhoeffer understood was that following Christ ultimately requires
us to give up our lives.

Bearing Witness To The Cross

The importance of bearing witness to the cross of Jesus has
been magnified in recent years by the release of Mel Gibson’s
movie, The Passion of the Christ (2004). As a result of this block-
buster film produced by a self-identified conservative Catholic,
much attention has been given to the physical agony that Jesus
endured during his trials and crucifixion. Although many Chris-
tians confess to being spiritually moved by this film, I found it
disturbing, grotesque at times, and even pathological in its focus

18
on the violence of the scene. Whatever the factualness of the movie’s
presentation ofthe scene on Golgotha, the gospels don’t delve into
that aspect of the event with any relish or focus. While these seven
words spoken from the cross reflect the physical agony experi-
enced by Jesus, they do not focus on it. Instead, they draw us into
Jesus’ spiritual agony, which includes a sense of separation from
God and separation from humanity.
At the same time, these words provide us with a window into
Jesus’ relationships with those who surround him in his moment
of death. Indeed, we get a glimpse of his relationship with the
crowd who gathered out of morbid curiosity to watch him die. It
seems to be something out of old Westerns, where the town gath-
ers to watch a hanging. They’re not sure who is in the right, but
they have to watch. Those who gathered must have come with
many different perspectives. Some in the crowd were supporters,
while others were uncommitted. Finally, there were those who
came to make sure that he got what he deserved. Therefore, in his
dying words we are drawn into Jesus’ conversation with God,
friends, family, and detractors.
Ours is, or at least it should be, a faith marked by a theology of
the cross. These seven words of Christ uttered from the cross give
voice to that theology. They expand our understanding of the one
we who are Christians affirm and call Lord. As we begin to better
understand the nature of his passion, we become better able to share
in the wonders of the resurrection. Tempted as we are to jump from
Palm Sunday to Easter, Good Friday frees us from being tempted
by a triumphalism that is uninformed by the anguished cries of
Jesus from the cross to the God he called Father. It is this Jesus of
Good Friday who beckons from the cross and invites us to share in
service to a world that is loved by the God who heard his cries and
who also hears our cries.
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 The First Word

Father, Forgive Them

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.” — Luke 23:32-34

All dressed in his imperial splendor, the Roman governor,

Pontius Pilate, sits in judgment of Jesus. Surrounding Pilate is a
group of Jesus’ accusers. It would seem that the governor doesn’t
know what to make of Jesus. He appears to be just some kind of
religious teacher, but as he listens to the charges he begins to see
Jesus in a different light. Maybe this Jewish teacher is really a threat
to the stability of his province. If the charges are true, then he will
need to take the threat seriously, and that means condemning his
prisoner to die on across. He comes to this decision after a night of
debate and his decision is final; there will be no appeal. It’s inter-
esting that Pilate tries to wash his hands of this sordid affair. Isn’t
that the way it is with the rich and the powerful? They don’t like to
get their hands dirty.
It is strange to watch Jesus stand before this seat of judgment.
Only a few days earlier, he’d been acclaimed by the crowds as a
deliverer; now he’s being sentenced to die a criminal’s death on a
cross. From our reading of the gospels, Jesus doesn’t seem to be the
type, and yet maybe there is more to the story than meets the eye.
Since executions were always public spectacles, the soldiers would
have led the prisoners, including Jesus of Nazareth, through the
streets of Jerusalem, toward the place of execution. It’s a place known
to Luke simply as The Skull. Exhausted by the previous night’s
ordeal, Jesus falls under the weight of the crossbeam. Being in a

ZA
hurry to finish the job, the soldiers force a pilgrim from Cyrene, a
man named Simon, to carry the beam the rest of the way up the
hill. That’s the way it was in Roman times. The soldiers could force
you into labor whenever necessary. Jesus had even commented on
this: “... if anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second
mile” (Matthew 5:41).
Once they arrived at the execution site, the soldiers laid Jesus
out on the cross and nailed his body to the posts. They hoisted him
up into the air so that he would die a slow, humiliating, and painful
death. The Romans used this method of execution because they
believed that it was a deterrent to rebellion. Watching such a cruel
death must have given any potentia! rebel cause to think twice about
engaging the Romans. Jesus may have been deemed “deserving”
of this special treatment, but he is not alone in his death. In the
words of Isaiah, he “was numbered with the transgressors; yet he
bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors”
(Isaiah 53:12). He died in the company of two others, Isaiah’s trans-
gressors. We never learn the nature of their crimes, but perhaps
they had been partners with Barabbas, the one released by Pilate at
the request of the people. It’s quite likely that these two men had
been arrested for stirring up trouble in Jerusalem, just like Barabbas.
Maybe they’d killed a soldier of occupation. Theirs was an insur-
gency designed to run out an oppressive foreign invader. It was for
people like them that the Romans devised this horrific form of ex-
ecution, and Jesus had been caught in the web. So here between
the insurgents hangs the Prince of Peace.
As Jesus hung there on the cross, a crown of thorns sat uncom-
fortably on his head. The crown has symbolic value, but it’s also
designed to inflict pain. As the thorns dig into his forehead, the
blood trickles down his face. His back bleeding from the flogging
he had endured during the night adds to his agony. But it was the
crush of his weight that forced him to struggle with ever more dif-
ficulty to remain upright, which caused him the most physical dis-
tress. Still, there he hung, God’s suffering servant, the one of whom
Isaiah spoke. This one who poured himself out in death “was num-
bered with the transgressors” (Isaiah 53:12). Yes, he took his place

NOi)
among us and was counted as one of us, counted as a sinner, and he
suffered with us, but for what?
At the foot of the cross one could find a few followers, most of
whom were women. Covering their eyes and weeping, they might
have moaned out loud, “Oh, how could this happen?” But others
jeered at him, both Roman soldier and coliaborator from the Jew-
ish establishment. Maybe there were also a few former admirers
and some disappointed revolutionaries in this crowd, each voice
adding further insult to his humiliation.
As he struggled to catch his breath, Jesus uttered his first word
from the cross: “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what
they are doing.” Do you hear these words with a sense of disbelief?
How could he say this? How could he forgive his tormentors? Yes,
how can anyone forgive the ones who have participated in such an
evil deed? But, while we recoil from such a thought, Jesus reached
out to his tormentors and offered them words of forgiveness. As
we listen to these strange words, we discover that we are included
in them. We, too, are recipients of Jesus’ offer of forgiveness.
The recipients of this gracious offer of forgiveness are many,
but Jesus began with the most obvious offenders, the soldiers sit-
ting at the foot of his cross. These are the ones who have just fol-
lowed orders and have nailed him to this cross. In truth, they prob-
ably didn’t understand the consequences of what they were doing.
They were just doing their jobs. They’d rather be doing something
else, but here they were standing guard over some local rebels.
Yes, Jesus was just one more rebel who needed to be taught a les-
son. They probably weren’t even listening as Jesus offered them
forgiveness. Even if they were listening, they probably didn’t un-
derstand Jesus. As he cried out offering them forgiveness, they were
busy dispensing with his clothes. It’s possible that these soldiers
would periodically look up at him and shout insults at him. But
then again, they were simply following orders from on high.
There might have been a few Jewish leaders in the crowd, as
well. These were the collaborators, the ones granted power, not by
the people, but by the occupying forces. They saw themselves as
protectors of Israel, and they believed that their act of conspiring

Zo
with the Roman officials was a defense of their nation. Collabora-
tion helped preserve the status quo, but it also kept the nation alive.
Did they know what they were doing? The destruction of Jerusa-
lem just a few decades later would seem to support their position.
If Jesus was in fact a rebel, then they would be correct in their
actions. But Jesus offered them forgiveness.
Finally, there were the seemingly fickle crowds. According to
the gospels, the crowd had at first acclaimed Jesus the Messiah.
But things changed when he didn’t prove to be the hoped-for de-
liverer. Disillusioned with him, they turned:on him and when given
a choice by Pilate, they chose Barabbas instead of Jesus. Which
one would you have chosen? I don’t know who I would have picked.
I’d probably have picked Barabbas, too! After all, he seemed to
have more potential as a rebel leader. Surely Barabbas would free
his people from Roman domination.
To each of these conspirators Jesus offered a word of forgive-
ness. From the cross he asked God to wipe the slate clean.
Oh yes, there’s one last group that needs to be considered. This
final group was much larger than the crowd gathered at the foot of
the cross. Its numbers exceeded calculation and extended into eter-
nity, for in truth, we’re all numbered among those standing there
calling for his head. We’re like a herd of cattle that’s easily stam-
peded. We act first and think later. We don’t think things through
because it’s safer to go along with the crowd than it is to act inde-
pendently. It’s by our deeds and even by our omission of deeds that
we're led to join in crucifying the Son of God.
Our involvement in this act of violence isn’t a matter of Jesus
serving as our sacrifice designed to placate an angry God — as
Jonathan Edwards would have us believe. Nor does he die to sat-
isfy God’s honor, as Anselm believed. Still, we find ourselves in
the judge’s chamber crying for his head. We do this whenever we
hate our brother or sister, or when we push others aside to take our
place at the head of the table. It can happen when we refuse to help
the hungry and the thirsty among us, because in saying “No” to our
neighbor, we say “No” to Jesus. And when we say “No” we place
him on a cross in the hope that we might be done with him. We

24
have no use for his offer of reconciliation because we have no use
for God. In our own sense of self-righteousness, we choose to nail
the one who reveals God’s love on a cross.
Jesus’ offer is a generous one, even if we’re not sure why we’re
included. We’re puzzled with the offer he makes to his tormentors,
but why would we be included? After all, how often have we said:
“T didn’t have anything to do with it. It’s not my fault. No, I didn’t
do anything wrong”? The problem isn’t with what I did, but with
what I didn’t do. Yes, my inaction and my neutrality require divine
forgiveness. Perhaps we find these words troubling because they’re
not consistent with the way we deal with life. To our mind, forgive-
ness requires a recognition that wrong has been done, a recognition
that should be followed by repentance and an apology. To our sur-
prise, Jesus seems to offer a blanket word of forgiveness — a gen-
eral amnesty. Now, while we might find Jesus’ words to be strange,
they do comport well with his life and with his teachings. He was a
person who welcomed the sinner, the outcast, and the marginalized.
Perhaps that’s why it’s so difficult to hear these words — we don’t
put ourselves in the place of those needing forgiveness.
But maybe that’s not really the issue that baffles us. Perhaps
it’s the excuse that Jesus makes for his oppressors that throws us
off. It just seems too easy and implausible. “Father, forgive them;
for they do not know what they are doing.” Surely they knew what
they were doing. And yet, do we always know what we’re doing?
Theologian Karl Rahner gets it right: “Really they knew it all.
But they did not want to know it!’ We know what we’re doing, but
we don’t want to face the consequences of our thoughts and ac-
tions. We have our excuses, but deep down we know that they’re
hollow. Nevertheless, Jesus reaches out to us and offers us forgive-
ness. It’s as Isaiah says: He has “made intercession for the trans-
gressors” (Isaiah 53:12), on behalf of all those who would crucify
him — including me. There, on the cross, Jesus acts as our high
priest, interceding for us, the transgressors, and excusing us of our
ignorance. He excuses us, however, of the ignorance we have often
chosen for ourselves. Why? Maybe it’s because we cannot grapple
with the depths of our crimes.

pds)
 If it were me, I don’t think I could offer such a gracious word
of forgiveness. I would want justice done, or at least I’d want to
appeal to a higher authority. But Jesus didn’t cry out for justice;
instead, he offered gentle words of forgiveness. As we stand before
the cross, we benefit from his compassionate words: “Father, for-
give them; for they do not know what they are doing.”

26
 The Second Word

Paradise

One of the criminals who were hanged there kept de-

riding 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
into your kingdom.” He replied, “Truly I tell you, today
you will be with me in Paradise.” — Luke 23:39-43

“Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.” That
was the first word from the cross, and it’s amazing. How could
someone who is dying on a cross forgive the very ones who put
him there? How could he forgive people who mocked and scorned
him? Yet, to our amazement, Jesus did just that, reaching out in
love to those who rejected him and his message. He spoke these
words because he wanted to gather them to himself, even as a mother
hen seeks to gather her chicks to herself (Luke 13:34).
We find this offer of forgiveness strange, but then this is who
Jesus was. He was always forgiving the seemingly unforgivable
people, whether they were sinners or tax collectors, rich or poor.
Jesus touched lepers, healed the blind and lame, and talked theol-
ogy with “disreputable” women. At the beginning of his ministry,
he turned to Isaiah and claimed the mantle of God’s anointed. Hav-
ing been empowered and commissioned by the Spirit of God, Jesus
came to bring good news to the poor and proclaim release to the
captives; he came to bring recovery of sight to the blind and to set
the oppressed free. Yes, he came to proclaim the year of jubilee,
the year of the Lord’s favor (Luke 4:18-19). Setting prisoners and
captives free was Jesus’ mission, but now with his life hanging in

27
the balance, how would he set anyone free? Now it was Jesus that
needed to be set free.
Could it be that in his very act of giving up his life, he offered
a way of freedom? Could it be that to die is to gain life? (Philippians
1:21). What we count as important doesn’t seem important to Jesus.
As Paul says of Jesus, though in the form of God, he “did not re-
gard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied
himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness”
(Philippians 2:6-7). And being found “in human form, he humbled
himself and became obedient to the point of death — even death
on the cross.” Here we have Jesus, the servant king, taking on hu-
man flesh and putting his life on the line for others, even for people
who scorn and mock him. This is unthinkable to us, but this is the
way of God.
As we ponder Jesus’ offer of forgiveness, we hear a man cry
out from one of the adjacent crosses. He shouts at Jesus: “Save
yourself, why don’t you? That is, if you really are the Messiah.
And, then while you’re at it, save us as well.” Do you hear the tone
of this voice? It appears to be the cry of an embittered man, a man
who had seen his share of messiahs come and go. Perhaps he’d
been part of a messianic band, the follower of one of the many
pretenders to messianic glory. First-century Judea was full of such
liberators, but they’d all fallen short of their goal, and most of them
had ended up on crosses, just like Jesus. Perhaps this man thought
that Jesus was going to be the one to toss out the hated Romans,
but now his presence on the cross marked him as a failure.
Whatever this “transgressor’s” earlier loyalties, he expressed
the feelings of the many who'd failed to find freedom and peace
under Roman rule. Like so many others who’d experienced unend-
ing oppression, he seemed ready to turn his back on God — the
God of Israel — in frustration. After all, if the God of Israel was
the one Lord of the cosmos, why did Israel suffer under foreign
domination? Why didn’t Israel find its freedom? Why must it con-
tinue to be the suffering servant?
In the midst of this stream of bitterness and anger, another voice
was heard. This voice came from the other cross. Like the first
voice, this second one was probably that of a rebel, since the Ro-
mans liked to use crucifixion to send a message to would-be rebels.
The cross, as a symbol, said to each person: “This could happen to
you if you should choose to disobey!” Although we don’t know
anything about either man, this “transgressor” evidently saw some-
thing different in Jesus. Instead of bitterness, this voice expressed
a sense of hope for the future. Looking within himself, he saw a
life that was less than perfect, but when he looked over at Jesus, he
saw innocence and hope. Instead of mocking Jesus, this man asked
Jesus to remember him in the kingdom.
Two voices were heard from men who shared the agony of the
cross with Jesus. One was full of bitterness and disillusionment,
while the other one was full of hope and expectation. Did this sec-
ond voice really understand the request he was making? Perhaps
he still hoped Jesus would find a way to climb down from the cross
and lead a rebellion that would bring Israel back to its former glory.
But unless God intervened or Jesus’ followers rose up to rescue
him before his death, how could this happen? We will never know
the meaning of the man’s request, but it appears in the gospel as a
word of faith.
Whatever the man meant by this request, the truth is that Jesus
experienced the same agony and pain as his fellow victims. In the
midst of his suffering, Jesus reached out to the one who sought his
help and said, “Today you will be with me in paradise.” Yes, he
promised the man, “You will be with me in the garden of God’s
presence, in that promised place of peace and reconciliation, of
freedom and joy.” Karl Rahner caught the spirit of Jesus’ words:

You are now in the agony of death, your heart isfilled

to the brim with anguish, and yet you Still have a place
in that heart for the sufferings of another. You are at the
point of death, and yet you are concerned about a crimi-
nal, who even in his agony must admit that the hellish
pangs of his death are but the just punishment for his
evil life.®

Here on the cross, Jesus spoke for the welcoming Father, who
reached out to the prodigal, to the one who had squandered life’s

29
possibilities. Jesus invited him to celebrate a homecoming. Yes, in
Jesus, God reaches out to the man, offering him reconciliation by
beckoning him to paradise and to rest (2 Corinthians 5:17).
In these words of grace we hear the heart of Jesus reaching out
to the one in need:

Come to me all you who are weary and are carrying

heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke
upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and
humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
— Matthew 11:28-30

In offering paradise, Jesus offers peace and healing and rest.

Standing at the foot of the cross, we expect to hear words of
bitterness, anger, and pain. We hear some of this, but we don’t hear
such words coming from Jesus’ lips. It’s true that in time we’Ilhear
anguished sounds coming from him, but for now, what we hear is a
word of grace and forgiveness. While experiencing his own pain,
he reached out to the one who suffered, and he offered the man a
word of healing, as well.
Numbered among the transgressors, Jesus reached out to this
one who was a transgressor and promised reconciliation. It was an
offer made to the one, but it is also extended to the man. The one
who sought forgiveness from Jesus was like the prodigal. He real-
ized that he’d made the wrong choice in the past. Back then, he
hadn’t chosen wisely; but perhaps, at the end of his life, he could
make the wise choice. In response, Jesus, like the prodigal’s father,
offered him a word of grace. Surely there is something of the prodi-
gal in all of us, and so these words strike deep into our hearts.
Perhaps you’re like me and you don’t know what to make of the
offer. But our hope, it seems, lies in the one who died on the cross.
Yes, even those of us who may have spurned his call are offered
the promise of paradise.
 The Third Word

Woman, Here Is Your Son

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 dis-
ciple, “Here is your mother.” And from that hour the
disciple took her into his own home.
— John 19:26-27

Family comes first. We say this even if we don’t always mean

it. It’s easy, when faced with the crunch of life, to take our families
for granted and put them and their needs on the back burner. Often
we neglect our families as we work on other important concerns
— perhaps even justifying ourselves by our claim to be working
for God. These are, after all, laudable goals and activities — church,
work, the helping of others. Surely, this is what God would have us
do.
Much has been said in recent years about family values. Pun-
dits often equate family values with moral or faith values. We read
books and journals and attend seminars that will teach us how to
create family-friendly churches. Christian publishers crank out
books on family life and how to build a family ministry in your
church. Many seminaries offer degrees in marriage and family coun-
seling. These days, it’s not enough to hire a youth minister who’ll
watch over the children while the adults are doing more important
things. Now churches need to hire family life pastors who can coun-
sel families and help coordinate their recreational and devotional
lives. There’s so much talk about family values that it’s easy to
begin feeling guilty about our level of attention to family duties.
Yes, good Christians are attentive to their families!
And yet, if you read the gospels closely, you might discover a
few surprises. You might even begin to wonder if our glorification
of the family isn’t a mistake. Jesus isn’t much of a family-values

31
kind of preacher. Much of what he says about the family can be a
bit shocking. At the very least, Jesus seems to be ambivalent about
the family and one’s duties to it. In fact, at times, he can sound
downright hostile toward the family. According to Luke, Jesus had
the temerity to declare that “whoever comes to me and does not
hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes,
and even life itself, cannot be my disciple” (Luke 14:26). Surely,
Jesus must be exaggerating; after all he was known to stretch things
at times to make a point. If not, then he sounds a lot like one of
those cult figures — you know — Jim Jones or David Koresh. But
surely Jesus wasn’t like Jim Jones. So what point is he trying to
make?
If we can assume for a moment, and this is a big assumption,
that Jesus was stretching this word “hate” a bit, then when it comes
to discipleship, maybe it means that Jesus wants us to put our fami-
lies after God’s claims on our lives. Being God’s child, it would
seem, trumps all our other relationships.
When Jesus talks about the family, he usually has something
in mind that is much larger than simply our blood relations. My
mother and brothers and sisters, he says, are the ones who “hear
the word of God and do it” (Luke 8:20-21). Yes, when it comes to
family values, the community of faith seems to have first call on
our lives. This family is the true family. Remember, when some
prospective disciples told him that they needed to first bury their
parents before coming with him, he told them: “Let the dead bury
the dead” (Luke 9:60).
If we’ve been wrestling with statements like these, then we
might be a bit surprised to hear this third word from the cross. Of
course, this is John’s account and not Luke’s. Maybe John has a
different perspective on family than Luke does. But even if this is
true, what do we make of this third word? As I read this third word
I’m not ready to say that Jesus was getting on the family-values
bandwagon. But, since this is a word that comes from a man hang-
ing on a cross, with life itself hanging in the balance, perhaps it’s
instructive to listen closely to the way in which Jesus reaches out
to a mother who has come to watch her son die. As he looks down
at her from the cross, it’s possible that thoughts of his childhood

32
and the time he spent with his mother went through his mind.
Though we don’t know much, if anything, about his childhood, it’s
likely that it was a difficult one. There were those rumors about his
parentage, and it seems quite likely that Joseph died fairly early in
Jesus’ life. But now, Mary was there for him. She’d come from afar
to give him comfort and encouragement.
Struggling for breath, Jesus tenderly and compassionately
makes provision for his mother, and as he takes care of his mother’s
future, surely those memories of his youth began to wash over him.
Though the family of God may have prior claim on our loyalties,
the thought of a mother’s love must have had a place in his heart. If
we believe at all in his humanity, then this would have to be true.
When life had been at its worst, she was there to reach out and
comfort him. In fact, it’s that one image, of a mother comforting a
little boy who has fallen, that gives some humanity and grace to
the otherwise lurid depiction of Good Friday found in The Passion
of the Christ.
In the throes of death he cries out to her, “Woman, here is your
son.” And to the beloved disciple he says, “Here is your mother.”
The scene is poignant. Mother and son are together one last time,
and of course, the mother is heartbroken, as would be true of any
mother who is forced to watch her child die. I expect that as he
spoke to her, she began to weep, perhaps uncontrollably. This scene
is full of sadness and shame, for not only is her son dying, but he
dies the death of a criminal, and if not a criminal then as a failed
revolutionary. This isn’t something a mother should have to en-
dure, and yet here she is, standing at the foot of the cross, bringing
a sense of humanity to an otherwise lifeless hero story. Although
their conversation was likely more involved than what we read here,
even without words we’re drawn into this encounter and we can
feel Mary’s despair and pain.
He may have been struggling for life, but surely Jesus was af-
fected by her tears. He may have spoken of a family that tran-
scends the family of birth, but she was still his mother. His death
would leave her all alone. And yet, she won’t be alone because the
beloved disciple will be at her side. I believe it’s likely that Mary
had other children, but for some reason they don’t seem to be with

33
her here. Maybe they’re embarrassed by Jesus’ change of fortunes,
but a mother can never turn her back on her child. And if her other
children can’t be with her in her time of deepest sorrow, then Jesus
will turn to one who is closer to him than a brother, and he will
commit the care of his mother to him and not to his immediate
family. Oh, his brother James will become a follower, but this comes
later, after the resurrection.
By turning over the care of his mother to the beloved disciple,
Jesus commits her to the care of the family of God. It will be one
from among the band of disciples who will stand by and comfort
his mother in her grief. As the beloved disciple takes on this new
role as son to mother, she becomes our mother as well.
As touching as this scene might be, something else is going on
in this story. It’s not just about mother and son, it’s also about the
birth of a new family, a family rooted not in blood but in faith. At
the very beginning of John’s gospel, the author declares that those
who receive Jesus and believe in his name will be given “power to
become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the
will of the flesh or the will of man, but of God” (John 1:12). Here,
on the hill we call Golgotha, this new family of God is born. Flesh
and blood become irrelevant, and a family created by faith in God
emerges from this moment in time.
Now we must be careful about how we apply Jesus’ statements
concerning the family. We could easily fall prey to destructive ten-
dencies and break apart our families. But if we can really under-
stand what Jesus is doing here in relativizing our family bonds and
in broadening the notion of family, then we'll be prepared for any
eventuality. Family is everything, but at the same time it isn’t ev-
erything. By re-imagining the family and broadening our under-
standing of family, we discover a whole new set of relationships.
Good Friday poses a question to us: In what way do our rela-
tionships as brothers and sisters in Christ transcend lines of family,
race, and nationality? What does this mean for the way we live
together as the body of Christ in the world? If we’re all family
because we’re children of God, then shouldn’t we learn to love
each other and care for each other as brothers and sisters? In a

34
letter that is reminiscent of the gospel — perhaps it comes from
the same community — a leader of the church reminds us that if
we can’t love the neighbor whom we can see, then how can we say
that we love God whom we cannot see? (1 John 4:20). In showing
compassion to his mother, he showed us how to love God.

35
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 The Fourth Word

Abandonment

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.” — Mark 15:34-35

If you’re a young child, it can be quite traumatic to get lost in

the crowd. You don’t know where your mother or father is and you
feel abandoned. If you’re that child, you hope that your parents are
nearby so that when you cry out to them they’II hear and recognize
your voice. You want to hear them call out to you, “Here I am, I’m
coming for you.” You hope that once they hear your voice coming
through the crowd, they’II quickly come and rescue you. But what
if all you hear is silence? What if no one comes running to sweep
you up in their arms? What if you look around and all you see are
strange faces and all you hear are unrecognizable voices? With no
one there to reach out and embrace you, you feel alone and aban-
doned. And when that happens, you begin to lose hope.
In recent years, as we’ve watched a war unfold on television,
we’ve seen the faces of Iraqi women and children crying out to
God. At the beginning of the war, their eyes showed the terror of
having experienced the shattering noise of falling bombs and mis-
siles. If only it would stop, then there would be peace. Unfortu-
nately, this terror has given way to new terrors, for as the war has
dragged on and insurgents’ bombs began exploding in their neigh-
borhoods, and while armed gangs terrorized them, they once again
cried out for help. As we watch scenes like this from the safety of
our living rooms, we can see the confusion, the terror, and the hope-
lessness in their eyes. Yes, they feel abandoned. They are lost and
alone. Where is God? Why does God seem to remain deaf to their
plaintive cries?

37
 It had been six hours since the soldiers put Jesus and his two
companions on their respective crosses. Darkness had covered the
city since noon, and bystanders and gawkers wandered by, mock-
ing and taunting him. They peppered him with questions like:
“Where is your God now?” or “You saved others, why can’t you
save yourself?” “Yes, why can’t you climb down from your perch
and save yourself and us?”
I’m sure that these thoughts had entered his mind. In his agony,
he must’ve pondered ways of avoiding his destiny. In Gethsemane,
Jesus had, in fact, asked God to remove this cup from him. But
even then all he heard was silence from God. This was, of course,
the “last temptation” as Nikos Kazantzakis imagined it. Why not
come down and live a normal extended life? Why not enjoy the
pleasures of family and friends far away from the maddening crowd?
Even one of the men crucified with him couldn’t keep from shout-
ing at him in derision. In that moment, surely, Jesus felt alone and
abandoned.
At around three in the afternoon, Jesus once again cried out to
God. Now the pain was becoming unbearable, and the questions
running through his mind were too unsettling. Surely the taunts of
the crowd put seeds of doubt in his mind, and he clearly felt a sense
of God’s absence. In these moments, as the day began to fade, he
cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” As he
cried out, surely he wondered why God didn’t seem to hear his
pleas. He must have wondered: “Why are you silent in the face of
my tormenters?” Perhaps it was here in this moment that Jesus
most completely identified with us. He called out to God, but no
one answered. That link with God that sustained him had now been
severed, and he tasted the alienation we as humans so often feel.
Yes, when darkness strikes our lives, we feel alone and we wonder
why God doesn’t do something.
But Jesus wasn’t the first to utter this cry of dereliction. His
question for God has a history, since these words come from Psalm
22, a psalm that once gave voice to Israel’s sense of abandonment
as it lived through exile in Babylon. In that moment, Israel found
itself alone and powerless. Though once they’d been something,

38
even if that something was small, now they were beholden to oth-
ers, and God didn’t seem to care. Just as the psalmist cried out in
anguish, pleading for God to end the silence, now Jesus picked up
this cry and made it his own. Though the noise of the moment may
have been great, all that the psalmist, and now Jesus, heard was
God’s deafening silence. The words that follow this anguished cry
give further depth to his cry of dereliction: “But I am a worm, and
not human; scorned by others, and despised by the people” (Psalm
22:6). This is the word that gets our attention. We look at our life
and we wonder: does it have any meaning? Is there a purpose to
what I’m doing and experiencing? Yes, in our time it is the ques-
tion of meaning and purpose that haunts us more than the question
of guilt.
To be scorned and despised is not just disheartening, it’s dehu-
manizing. Surely there can be no worse feeling than to be rejected.
A child wants to play a game, but the other children refuse entry. A
friend turns her back on you for no apparent reason. Silence exists
where conversation once prevailed. The leper in an earlier age was
the epitome of abandonment. A leper would cry out, “Stay away,
because I’m unclean.” Today, it might be the person who is HIV
positive or who suffers from AIDS who knows what it means to be
marginalized or feel abandoned.
We can see here that Mark frames Jesus’ closing moments of
life with Psalm 22. Just as it was in the psalmist’s experience, Jesus
faced the question: “Where is your God? Yes, why doesn’t God
rescue you?” All around him, he heard people shouting at him words
of scorn and dismissal, and in their abuse they posed a distressing
question: “Are you not a godforsaken person?”
Yes, in these agonizing moments before death, Jesus experi-
enced true “god-forsakenness.” We use that term to describe a de-
serted place, a place in the wilderness where not even God would
want to dwell. Jesus understood what it was like to dwell where no
one wished to be. It seemed as though God had slammed the door
in his face, leaving him out in the cold. Oh, we’ ve all felt this way
on occasion. It’s insult added to injury. When it comes to our cries
to God, our prayers of desperation, we begin to wonder, is God
even listening? Prayer is always a difficult proposition. We pour

By)
out our hearts, always wondering if someone is really listening.
How can we be sure that God is even there? We cannot hear God’s
voice or see God’s face, because God is invisible to us. Yet, we cry
out anyway, just hoping that someone will rescue us from this feel-
ing of abandonment.
There is, however, more than simply silence here. In the back-
ground, we hear the psalmist begin to sing a song of deliverance.
Having reflected on Jesus’ experience of being abandoned in his
moment of greatest need, Henri Nouwen writes:

When Jesus spoke these words on the cross, total

aloneness and full acceptance touched each other. In
that moment of complete emptiness all was fulfilled. In
that hour of darkness new light was seen. While death
was witnessed, life was affirmed. Where God’s absence
was most loudly expressed, God’s presence was most
profoundly revealed.°

Even as we, together with Jesus, feel God’s absence, even when
the answer we seek doesn’t seem to be forthcoming, God remains
present.
I think it’s instructive to remember that the psalm following
this song of abandonment is Psalm 23. This is a most beloved song
that speaks of the shepherd’s presence in the midst of our despair.
When we feel alone and abandoned, it’s the shepherd who is there
walking alongside us. The shepherd guides us through dangerous
canyons and prepares a table for us in the very midst of those who’d
do us harm. There is no need to fear. Even when we dwell amongst
those who would do us harm, we feel safe because the shepherd is
with us. Here in the midst of our agony and our sense of aloneness,
we hear the promise that even when we walk through the darkest
valley, there is no need for fear. Evil may have its say, but it will
not prevail, for God is present!
The seeds of this promise of vindication are already present
in Psalm 22. Mark knew the whole of this psalm and its prom-
ises. Whether on Jesus’ lips or not, the psalmist sings, “For he did
not despise or abhor the affliction of the afflicted; he did not hide

40
his face from me, but heard when I cried to him” (Psalm 22:24).
The promise of vindication is there. Abandonment is not final, but
the agony of this wall of separation is quite real. Easter may come,
but it’s not here yet. And so for now, the silence of God remains
deafening.

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 The Fifth Word

I Thirst

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 ofthe wine on a branch of hyssop and held
it to his mouth. — John 19:28-29

Parched lips! Dry throat! Difficulty breathing! Jesus hangs from

a cross and cries out: “I thirst!”
We've all known what it’s like to be thirsty. It could be a long
race, a difficult hike, a long conversation, or maybe it’s the recov-
ery from surgery. Your throat burns and all you can think of is get-
ting something to drink, something, anything that will soothe the
ache you feel in your throat. It really doesn’t matter what kind of
liquid it is, as long as it soothes the throat for a moment.
There’s no way to really know the depth of Jesus’ experience
of thirst, but after six or seven hours in the sun, with nothing to
drink, surely he was suffering from severe dehydration. When think-
ing about it, we don’t really know how long it had been since he
last had something to drink. It was probably at dinner the night
before, when he gathered in the room with his disciples to cel-
ebrate Passover. But it wasn’t just the sun; Jesus was also hanging
from across, his wrists and ankles pierced by nails. His body must
have been quickly losing the fluids that sustained his energy, and
so the end had to be drawing near.
As we consider the depth of this thirst, the words of the psalm-
ist come to mind. The psalmist speaks of a different kind of thirst,
a thirst that’s not physical but is instead spiritual.

As a deer longsfor flowing streams, so my soul longs

for you O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living
God. — Psalm 42:1

43
This is a thirst that neither Mountain Dew nor Crystal Springs can
quench. Though Jesus was experiencing a very real and physical
thirst for liquid, there is no denying this truth: His was more than
simply physical thirst. The spiritual dimension of his thirst included,
and yet transcended, the physical nature of his thirst. His was a
thirst that could only truly be quenched by the living water, water
that flows from the heart of God.
This fifth word is a simple one. It’s short and to the point. It
speaks of something we can all understand and identify with. It’s a
sign of his humanity and of frailty. After he’d spent hours trying to
breathe, his remaining strength was quickly ebbing and he must have
begun to realize that only a few more breaths were possible. At that
very moment, Jesus cried out to anyone who would listen, but most
of all to the Father, “I thirst.” Yes, it’s simple, but it’s also profound.
Perhaps as we hear these words from Jesus’ lips, our minds
travel back to a conversation at a weil in Samaria. On that day as
well, Jesus had been thirsty, and so he asked a woman standing by
the well for a drink. Now this woman was Samaritan, which made
her a despised woman, since Jews and Samaritans were ancient
enemies and rivals. So in making this request for a drink of water,
Jesus crossed a boundary — one that is ethnically and culturally
defined. He crossed another boundary, because it was not deemed
proper for a man to talk with a woman, especially a woman who
wasn’t part of his family or tribe. Their conversation quickly moved
from a request for a drink of water to a theological debate. It moved
from the physical to the spiritual, because we’re all subject to spiri-
tual dehydration, making it necessary for us to drink from the sus-
taining waters of God.
Jesus began his conversation with the woman by asking her
for a drink of water from the village well to quench his physical
thirst. But, before long Jesus offered her the opportunity to drink
from a well whose waters would satisfy her thirst forever. The Sa-
maritan woman was quite proud of her village’s well. After all, it
was supposed to have once belonged to the revered patriarch, Jacob.
But as happy as she was with this well of hers, she was equally
open to hearing about a well that would satisfy her thirst forever. If
she could just take one drink that would forever satisfy her thirst,

44
then she wouldn’t have to make the long lonely trek to the well to
acquire her water. This was an enticing thought, because by her
own admission she was an outcast in her own community. Every
time she went to the well, she put herself at risk of being harassed.
The woman did what we so often do, she took him literally.
She couldn’t catch the metaphor, the spiritual side of the conversa-
tion. What she heard was — just a drop or two, and Ill never have
to go to the well to gather water. But Jesus was speaking to matters
of the heart. The drink he offered her would satisfy the cries of her
soul, because it’s the soul that longs to drink from a “spring of
water gushing up to eternal life” (John 4:1-15).
There are, of course, two kinds of thirst, one that’s physical
and the other that’s spiritual. The man who was nailed to the cross
on Golgotha’s summit experienced both. Yes, both the body and
the spirit are crying out, “I thirst!” With his voice now barely au-
dible to the crowd at the foot of his cross, he cried out in the hope
that someone might take pity on him and quench this physical thirst
of his. But, he was also crying out to God, hoping that God would
quench the spirit’s deep thirst as well. Water yes, but more impor-
tantly, he cried out for living water.
This is the paradox of the cross: The very one who offers us
living water is now crying out to us, asking us to quench his thirst.
How can this be, that the one who would offer us living water needs
us to give him a cup of water? This is the foolishness of the cross
and why it’s a stumbling block to Jew and Gentile (1 Corinthians
1:22-24). If we hear the double meaning of this cry from the cross
then we must understand that the God who is the author of all things
is on the cross suffering with us. We want a God who is powerful.
We want a Savior who will be strong for us. Now we find that the
Savior is thirsty. He is weak and we must now be strong for him.
Though we want him to provide for our needs, here he’s asking us
to provide for his needs.
Yet, it is to this one who is crying out for our help that we must
turn to find our rest and the satisfaction of our thirst for God. As
Saint Augustine famously wrote: “Our hearts are restless until they
rest in you.” There is a restlessness in our hearts, it’s a restlessness
that pushes us toward God. It’s somewhere deep within us. It’s a

45
longing that nothing seems to satisfy. But maybe the living water
that comes from God will do the job. We go looking to and fro
trying to find peace in our souls, but no matter where we turn, we
can’t seem to find what we’re looking for. As we pass by the cross,
it doesn’t occur to us that we should look to the one who hangs
from the cross for assistance. He might need my help, so how can
he help me? Yes, we want a strong God, a triumphant God, so surely
this man isn’t the one who will bring rest to our hearts.
We want to look elsewhere, but for some reason, we stop to
consider this man hanging on the cross. We know that our own
thirst won’t be assuaged until we drink from the springs of heaven,
until we experience first hand the touch of the Spirit. We’re turned
off by the sights and sounds of the moment. This can’t be the one
who will satisfy our own thirst. And yet this is the one who says to
us: “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who
believes in me drink.” Yes, for out of the heart of the believer will
“flow rivers of living water” (John 7:37 ff).
Someone milling around Golgotha heard his weary voice and
sensing the need of the moment, grabbed a branch of hyssop, dipped
it into a bowl of sour wine, and placed it on his lips. It wasn’t
much, but it gave him strength to utter a further word.
In another gospel, Jesus speaks of the day of judgment, and on
that day Jesus will say to the righteous:

“Iwas hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and

you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and
you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me cloth-
ing, | was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison
and you visited me.” Then the righteous will answer
him, “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and
gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to
drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and
welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And
when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and vis-
ited you?” And the king will answer them, “Truly I tell
you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who
are members of my family you did it to me.”
— Matthew 25:35-40

46
 What does it mean to give him something to drink when he is
in need? How can we quench his thirst? Jesus says to us, “You do
this for me when you take care of the least of these my children.”
Though someone, maybe a disciple, maybe his mother, maybe even
a soldier standing at the foot of the cross, reached out in an effort to
relieve his thirst, Jesus had already told us how we could quench
his thirst. His thirst would be quenched only when we reach out
and touch the least of his brothers and sisters, the members of his
human family — our human family.
In our own thirst, we seek out the one who offers living water,
and as we drink of this water, we find that the love of God begins to
flow from us. Having tasted the living water, which is, in truth, a
relationship with the living God, we reach out and we touch the
hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, with the love of God.
And then Jesus thirsts no more!

47
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 The Sixth Word

It Is Finished

When Jesus had received the wine, he said, “It is fin-

ished.” Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.
— John 19:30

Standing at the foot of the cross, we hear what seems to be the

final word from the one who is dying on the cross. There will be
one more word, but this word sounds final. After hearing this word,
we don’t expect to hear anything else from his lips. What more
could be said after the sixth word? Jesus says, “It is finished!” The
end must have come, and so as we hear him utter this word, we
begin to walk away from the place of execution. Our heads hang
down and our hearts are broken, because we never expect to hear
another word from the one we had hoped would be our champion.
It seemed like it was just yesterday that we heard a different
voice crying in the wilderness. “Prepare the way of the Lord. Make
his highways straight” (John 1:19-24). It was the Baptist, clothed
in skins and eating locusts, who proclaimed a message that said
that God was about to do a new thing. The Baptist promised that
the Lord of glory was about to make his way onto the pathway of
history, igniting our dreams and inspiring hope, because a new day
was on the horizon.
Alas, several years had passed since that landmark proclama-
tion. Despite the dreams, the way of the Lord had become a dead
end. What we hoped would be a glorious road to victory had ended
in a most inglorious way. Jesus’ journey started out with such prom-
ise. Hadn’t John said, “I am not worthy to untie the thong of his
sandal’? (John 1:27). John declared him to be God’s Lamb, the
one on whom the Spirit descended like a dove. Yes, this was the
Son of God, the one who baptized with the Holy Spirit (John 1:29-
34). Oh, we had such grand hopes, but those hopes were now dashed.

49
The young man upon whom we had counted for deliverance cried
out weakly and with great anguish and pain, “It is finished.”
With our hopes and dreams dashed by this admission of fail-
ure, we began to contemplate his death. It’s not just the fact of his
death that troubles us so much as it is the manner of his death. Had
he died a more glorious death that would have been different. But
he didn’t die from wounds suffered in battle, leading the charge
against the Roman occupation. Such a death might have inspired
others to take up the sword and continue the battle. Neither did he
die peacefully in bed. Had he lived to an old age, we could have
honored him for his achievements as a sage and teacher of wis-
dom. That, too, would have been an honorable death. No, Jesus
died on a cross, hanged between two criminals, having been con-
demned to die the death of a criminal. In the back of our minds
ring the words of scripture: “Cursed is the one who hangs on a
tree” (Deuteronomy 21:23; Galatians 3:13). This is the stumbling
block of which Paul spoke. There was no honor in dying such a
humiliating death, naked and beaten, his humanity stripped from
him. No, there was no glory in this death.
We hear these words knowing the rest of the story. We know
about the resurrection and its vindication of Jesus, but for those
who were standing at the foot of the cross, there is only disappoint-
ment and regret. We want to move on to the final and “true” ending
of the story, because we like happy endings. And it’s true — with-
out the resurrection, this death was fruitless, but we’re not ready to
go there. What we hear is a voice of resignation and despair. Easter’s
glories may follow, but they’re not here yet.
So what do we make of this word from Jesus? Was it really a
cry of dereliction or was it instead the voice of completion? This
second option sounds much better to our ears. He finished the job
and now he can move onto bigger and better things. The cross was
simply a transitional moment on the way to glory. But, when we
hear the word in this way, Jesus sounds almost bored with his lot.
I’ve been here long enough, it’s been fun, but I’m ready to move on
to other things. So, let’s wrap it up and get on with business. Of
course, it’s possible that Jesus was simply stating the obvious. I’m
done, I’ve finished my job. But then, why bother with the cross?

50
 I suppose if all that Jesus was doing here was completing a
transaction with God — his life for ours — then this might be true.
I mean how much blood is really required? If we watched The Pas-
sion of the Christ, it might seem as if more is better, but that is not
the gospel story. Surely there is more to this cry from the cross
than a statement of completion.
Standing at the foot of the cross, with the darkness covering
the land and Jesus about to die, what is it that we really hear in our
hearts? Is it a voice of triumph? Or, is it one of anguish and de-
spair? Because a written text can’t convey the inflection of a voice,
it’s difficult to say. Because we can’t see his face, we can’t tell if
it’s serene or is anguished. Such details are absent here and so we’re
left to our imaginations. When we turn to our imaginations, what
do we see and hear? As we look up at him, is it not agony that we
see lining his face? As I contemplate this scene and these words,
what I see and hear through the ears and eyes of faith is the cry of
death’s finality. Death is having its say and the one who lived life
modeling God’s compassion and mercy is at the mercy of death
itself. Soon death will take its toll and the agony will give way to
nothingness. Yes, surely this man is cursed by God.
Thinking back to those early days of promise, it’s hard to be-
lieve that his life and ministry would end in failure. But that’s what
seems to be happening. In the words of Barbara Brown Taylor, he
is a “spectacular failure.”'” Those of us moderns who value suc-
cess over all things can’t seem to fit Jesus the failure into our own
religious sentiments. We want the “Christ triumphant,” the one who
reigns overall, the one who lives the “purpose-driven life.” Surely
there isn’t any purpose to be found in this event. When we hear
him cry out, “It is finished,” we hear the cry of one who has given
up. There is no hope, no vindication to be expected. There is only
defeat.
We have come to the end of the game. There are two outs in
the bottom of the ninth and there are too many runs to make up.
We’ve been defeated and we must face the facts. We trusted him,
but he has failed us. He was our hope, the one who promised us a
new way of life. It’s true, he’d brought healing to broken people
and he lifted up the downtrodden, while challenging the rich and

ef|
the powerful. We cheered him as he rode into Jerusalem, and we
listened intently as he taught us on the hillside. We paid attention
when he raised Lazarus from the grave. But all we hear is, “I give
up.” “It’s over.” There is no energy left in his voice. There is no
potential left in his life. And we begin to weep. We ask God: How
could it end this way?
As we hear these seemingly discouraging words from the lips
of Jesus, we’re brought back to our own reality. This cry from the
cross forces us to ask the question — yes, we who value success
above all else and who scream for celebrities and who toast the
winner — where does Jesus’ death leave us? What does it do to our
theology?
In our churches, we listen to the paragons of success. They call
us to live purpose-driven lives and they ask us to pray with Jabez
that God would “bless me and enlarge my borders” (1 Chronicles
4:10). Success, it seems, is the true bedrock of American theology.
Tall steeples, massive sanctuaries, numbers incalculable; that is what
we value. It’s the basis for judging what is true and right. What is
small and seemingly insignificant isn’t worth the bother. But today
we Stand at the foot of the cross, listening to the one who is cursed,
and we can only conclude that this is a life that has ended in failure
and in futility. With him, our hopes and dreams will perish. It’s
time to move on and find another teacher who will give us what we
seek. Or maybe we’ll just return to our old lives and hope for the
best. Perhaps there is another word to come. Maybe we should
wait just a moment longer.
We turned to Jesus looking for glory, but instead we ended up
with a cross. If we’re to remain at the cross, what does it say to us?
Ultimately, if the cross is all that there is, with nothing else to show
for his life, then we’re left with nothing but death. There must be
more to the story, and of course there is, but what do we learn from
the cross itself? In what way does the cross define us as a people?
It would seem to suggest that to walk with Jesus is to experience
suffering. It’s a call to be a servant and embrace those who are on
the margins. It’s a theology that requires us to look beyond easy
success. Indeed, we are to find hope in hopeless situations.
 If we’re willing to wait, then we’ll experience the promise that
life comes out of death, but we must wait and understand that God
is present to us in our suffering as well as in our successes. We
must, in the end, have the message of Easter to make sense of this
seemingly senseless act. Iremember coming to the end of Gibson’s
The Passion of the Christ and feeling empty at the quickness of the
resurrection scene. I needed more to make sense of what had come
before. I needed to know, just as those who gather at the foot of the
cross need to know, that death’s finality can give birth to some-
thing new. The scriptures say that the one hanging from the tree is
cursed, and so we wait to see if the one who is cursed will be vin-
dicated. At the moment of his sixth word, we’re not sure that such
vindication is possible, but there is hope — there’s always hope.
What we hope for is that the old will be put away and that we
can take up something new. Of course, that word remains to be
heard. It waits for another day. But for now we must struggle with
the finality of this sixth word.

33
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 The Seventh Word

The Final Word

It was now about noon, and darkness came over the

whole land until three in the afternoon, while the sun’s
light failed; and the curtain of the temple was ‘torn in
two. Then Jesus, crying with a loud voice, said, “Fa-
ther, into your hands I commend my spirit.” Having said
this, he breathed his last. When the centurion saw what
had taken place, he praised God and said, “Certainly
this man was innocent.” And when all the crowds who
had gathered there for this spectacle saw what had taken
place, they returned home, beating their breasts. But
all his acquaintances, including the women who had
followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watch-
ing these things. — Luke 23:44-49

The end had come; Jesus had but one more word to speak.
John concluded his account of Jesus’ death with the words, “It is
finished.” Having spoken a word of resignation, Jesus died. When
you hear a word like that, what more can be said? It’s time to face
reality and accept the truth: What we hoped to see happen, doesn’t
happen. A life has run its course, and hope is gone.
Looking up at the broken body of Jesus, we must ask ourselves:
Who would have thought that he would end his life in this way,
nailed to a cross, bleeding, and struggling to breathe? Just think of
what he could have done with his life. Who knows what he might
have become? After all, he was so young when he died. People
said the same about Martin Luther King Jr. and Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
Dead at 39, what a waste! Just think what might have been!
But that is John’s final word. We must now return to Luke for
one final word from the cross. This was it; there would be no fur-
ther cries from the cross. Death was just moments away and the
pain was surely unbearable. Soon it would be over, but with the

my)
end of the agony would come the end of all our dreams and all the
possibilities and the opportunities of a life shortened by an inglori-
ous and seemingly unnecessary death. By all accounts, he was a
good man. He was compassionate and gracious to everyone. He
stood up for the poor and the marginalized and brought healing
and wholeness to those whose lives were broken by disease, in-
jury, and life’s challenges. There was no one quite like him in the
land.
Now, the Jesus of our dreams was experiencing incredible suf-
fering, and in the midst of this he may have heard the taunts of the
crowd, which only compounded his agony. Just a few days earlier,
the crowds had shouted, “Hosanna,” but now they tossed insults at
him. Where once the people saw him as the harbinger of a new
order, now they saw him only as lonely and defeated, and no one
wants to follow a failure.
That is, of course, one interpretation of this scene. Luke seemed
to take us in a somewhat different direction than John, at least for a
moment. He seemed to assume that his audience knew the ending.
For Luke, Jesus’ impending death was described in cosmic terms
of judgment and vindication. There’s a dash of triumphalism, but
it’s just a dash.
Luke tells us that darkness settled in at noon and covered the
land until three o’clock in the afternoon. The darkness was a sign
of judgment. It was an omen that said God would not be mocked.
Just then, we’re told, the veil of the temple, which blocked access
to the holy of holies, was torn in two. What did this mean? Was it
possible that in tearing open the veil of the Temple God opened a
way for all people to enter his presence? Could it be that these
signs serve as a cosmic reminder that God was vindicating the mes-
sage and ministry of Jesus? For Luke’s audience, this act of vindi-
cation included the message that everyone, Jew and Gentile, could
now share equally in the presence of God. Where once a wall of
separation kept Jew and Gentile apart, that dividing wall was torn
down and in Christ both were made one (Ephesians 2:14-15).
These cosmic signs marked the end of Jesus’ earthly life. Hav-
ing endured all that was humanly possible, Jesus called out one
last time to God, “Father, into your hands I commend my Spirit.”

56
Having given this one last word, he breathed his final breath. It was
over. He fought the good fight, but the body could go no further.
There is no cry of abandonment here as in Mark. For Luke
there is in the end only a sense of peace and fulfillment. Here we
have a word of trust in God. He seemed to know that God would
receive his spirit. Though he had fought the good fight and lost;
in a way, he had also won the day. What seemed like defeat opened
up to something else, but it would be some time before that some-
thing was revealed. What Jesus had done was to show us a differ-
ent way. He showed us that triumph came not by way of the sword,
but through suffering and death. It was clear that Jesus under-
stood that death was not the final word. Instead, death was only
the beginning.
This sense of trust is reflected in a prayer, written by theolo-
gian Karl Rahner, that sums up the feelings of the moment.

You give everything to Him who gave everything to You.

You put everything into the hands of Your Father with-
out guarantee and without reservations. That is doing
a great deal, and it is a hard and bitter thing to do. All
alone You had to bear the burden of Your life: all men,
their meanness, Your mission, Your cross, failure and
death. But now the time for enduring is past. Now You
can put everything and Yourself into the hands of the
Father. Everything. Those hands are so gentle and so
sure. They are like the hands of a Mother. They em-
brace Your soul as one would lift a little bird carefully
and lovingly into his hands.''

How should we respond to the scene of his death? What should

we say? Death has a way of capturing our attention. If we’ve ever
been there at the moment of death and witnessed the final breaths,
we got a sense of what was happening. There was agony and yet
there was peace.
To have witnessed his death must have torn at his followers.
They must have felt a mixture of depression and anger. Surely,
some of them wanted to fight back and take revenge. That’s what a

ST
Christian soldier would surely do, and yet, this isn’t what Jesus
asked of us as he breathed his last breaths.
If we can’t exact revenge after witnessing such an odious act,
what can we do? It would seem that Jesus showed us the way. In
releasing his own spirit to God, he invited us to do the same. He
invites us to embark on a journey led by the Spirit of God. As our
journey takes us to Golgotha we discover that it’s a thin place.
Alan Culpepper writes that this is a place where the “separation
between heaven and earth was very thin.” Golgotha is that place
where God’s presence is so palpable that you can feel it and even
taste it. It’s as if you’re separated from God only by a thin veil. The
place itself isn’t one of great beauty, but here on the place of the
skull there is such a thinness between the two realms that we’re
drawn into Jesus’ final conversation with his Father. Because of
the poignancy of the moment, Culpepper reminds us, “Those who
hear his prayers are moved to confession and contrition.”””
As we move from Jesus to the crowd, we discover that Luke
lifts up three different witnesses to these events. First, a Roman
Centurion seems to declare Jesus to be innocent and righteous, of-
fering confirmation to the previous verdicts of Pilate and Herod.
Still, this innocence wasn’t enough to save his life. For in our own
sinful rebellion, we humans choose to put the innocent one on the
cross. He is our scapegoat.
There are the crowds who leave the scene in mourning, beat-
ing their breasts. Though Luke doesn’t record their words, their
actions tell us that they left the scene feeling both grief and contri-
tion. Culpepper reminds us that we must also go home “beating
our breasts with those whose hopes seemed to die there.” There-
fore it is “only by witnessing the darkness of his death and the
despair of the loss of hope [that] we [can] fully appreciate the joy
of the resurrection.”!?
Finally, on the periphery of the crowd, we find Jesus’ friends
and family, including the women from Galilee. They stood at a
distance, perhaps afraid of arrest, but they were also there to give
witness to their devotion to the one who had died that day on a
Roman cross. It would seem that they were the last to leave. Maybe

58
they waited to see what would happen next, perhaps hoping that
this wasn’t really the end.
Together these three voices confirm that this man was no ordi-
nary criminal. In fact, he’s not even an ordinary man. They might
not fully understand all that had happened, but they recognize that
they’ve been touched by the hand of God. At the moment of their
witness, they didn’t know the rest of the story. This isn’t true of
those of us who know the story of the resurrection. What do we
make of the cross? Luke seems to invite us to stay a while and take
in this sight so that we may fully appreciate the blessings of Easter.
It’s this moment of quiet that gives full meaning to what happens
next. And as we meditate on this scene, perhaps we could pray to
Jesus in these words of Karl Rahner:

Have mercy on me, Receive me into your love. And when

I come to the end of my pilgrimage, when the day be-
gins to decline and the shadows of death surround me,
speak your last word at the end of my life also: “Father
into Your hands I commend his spirit.” O good Jesus."

59
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 Endnotes
Introduction
Ihe Douglas John Hall, The Cross in our Context: Jesus and the Suffering World
(Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003), p. 127 ff.

. Ibid, p. 35.
to

. On the events of Holy Week, see the treatment by Marcus Borg and John
Dominic Crossan of Mark’s account of Jesus’ final week oflife — Marcus J.
Borg and John Dominic Crossan, The Last Week: A Day-by-Day Account of
Jesus's Final Week in Jerusalem (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2006).

. “Stand Up, Stand Up For Jesus” by George Duffield, 1858.

. Op cit, Hall. A wonderful meditation on the theology of the cross can be

found in Douglas John Hall’s The Cross in our Context.

. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, “Discipleship,” in Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, Geotfrey

B. Kelley and John D. Godsey, eds.; Barbara Green and Reinhard Krauss,
trans. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996), 4:87.

The First Word

UE Karl Rahner, Prayers for a Lifetime (New York: Crossroads, 1984).

The Second Word

8. Ibid, p. 50.

The Fourth Word

g) Henri Nouwen, Seeds of Hope, 2nd ed. (New York: Image Books, 1997), p.
126.

The Sixth Word

10. Barbara Brown Taylor, “Spectacular Failure,” Christian Century (February
22, 2005).

61
The Seventh Word
11. Op cit, Rahner, Prayers for a Lifetime, pp. 58-59.

12. Alan Culpepper, “The Gospel of Luke,” in the New Interpreter’s Bible (Nash-
ville: Abingdon Press, 1995), 9:462-3.

13. Ibid, 9:463.

14. Op cit, Rahner, Prayers for a Lifetime, p. 59.

Sermons / Good Friday

Christianity is a faith centered around an instrument of suffering and

death — a cross. The hope of every believer is rooted in it. Over the cen-
turies, the cross has become a universal symbol of both suffering and —
redemption.

On Good Friday, the cross takes center stage in our worship. Passages
from the gospels retelling the agonizing tale of Jesus’ betrayal, trial, cru-
cifixion, and death are recited to the point where the words may become
commonplace tor some Christians. We may know the words, but have we
explored their meaning?

A Cry from the Cross, a series of seven sermons, explores each of the last
seven statements given by Jesus as recorded in the gospels of Mark, Luke,
and John. As each statement is explored — statements like “Father,
Forgive Them” or “Woman, Here Is Your Son” — Robert Cornwall offers
deeper insights into the meaning and significance of the cross as it relates
to the Christian faith.

This is a useful resource for pastors and lay ministers, one that can be
used as an inspiration for Good Friday sermons, a Lenten study series, or
simply a window to greater personal insight into that day on a hill outside
Jerusalem so many years ago — a day that shaped the future of the entire
world.

Robert D. Cornwall is the pastor of First Christian Church (Disciples of

Christ) in Lompoc, California. He is currently the editor of Sharing the
Practice, a publication of the Academy of Parish Clergy. He has previous-
ly taught courses on theology and church history at Manhattan Christian
College in Manhattan, Kansas, and Fuller Theological Seminary in
Pasadena, California. He has received degrees from Northwest Chr
College (Eugene, Oregon) and Fuller Theological Seminary. He ira= = apeaniaal

California with his wife, Cheryl and their son, Brett. =

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