St. John’s Episcopal Church
Tallahassee, FL
John 18:1—19:42
Lord Jesus,
if we’re brutally honest,
the events of this day
are too much for us.
And yet, we have gathered.
We are here
to walk them with you.
Open the eyes of our hearts,
that we may see
what the people have done,
what we have done,
what you have done.
* * *
We watch as you leave
the high priest’s house
and are taken to the praetorium.
The scourging is awful;
it is no light affair.
They strip you down, Lord,
naked and cowering
in front of the entire cohort of soldiers.
You are already bruised
from what the high priest and his clergy have done;
your eyes and cheeks are already swollen;
your body is already soiled
from the agony
of your bloody sweat
the night before.
But still,
they flog you with heavy reeds,
striking your back,
your shoulders,
your legs
with fervor.
Others strike you with whips,
designed not just to brace or sting,
but to cut and tear.
In lightning quick flashes
they split your skin
faster than you created the universe.
And yet . . .
you say
nothing.
* * *
They seem so angry,
so mocking,
so cruel,
but really,
they have no personal beef with you.
This is just part of their job,
and—truth be told—
it’s one of the more
enjoyable parts.
It’s a release,
an escape from all the stresses
of being foreign occupiers
in a foreign land
over an uncooperative
and foreign people.
But for the release to work—
for this to feel like relief—
you cannot really be human,
and neither can they.
To them,
you are less than human,
so they can be
less than human
to you.
And yet . . .
you say
nothing.
* * *
One of the soldiers
cuts a thick, thorny branch
from a bush nearby.
“Didn’t they say
he said
he was ‘King of the Jews?’”
He wraps it into a circle,
a halo,
a crown,
and careful to avoid the thorns
with his own fingers,
he tightens it to your head
and pierces your brow.
The fit is just right.
And yet . . .
you say
nothing.
* * *
Another hangs a piece of purple cloth
over your wincing shoulders
and completes the tableau
with one of the reeds
he used to beat you,
thrusting it into your hand
like a scepter.
And yet . . .
you say
nothing.
* * *
They laugh,
deep in their throats.
Your nation is so small;
your people are so insignificant;
and so are you.
The differential in power
is hilarious to them.
And so they encircle you.
They mock-bow and laughingly yell,
“Hail, King of the Jews!”
You are a worm and no man,
scorned by all
and despised by the people.
And yet . . .
you say
nothing.
* * *
They parade you up the street.
We stand and watch.
We cheer.
We jeer.
We shout “crucify!”
But let us be clear:
it is not God
who demands
a blood sacrifice.
It’s us.
The ones you made.
The ones you love.
The ones you have come to redeem.
And yet . . .
you say
nothing.
* * *
And at last,
they hoist you up
and nail you down.
It’s an exact and excruciating science.
These are professionals;
they have done this before.
The nails must be placed
not too far to the right
nor too far the left,
lest they pierce an artery
and death come too fast.
Instead,
they catch your wrists ‘just so,’
so that your body will turn
against itself.
The cruelty is that
your body will become
its own executioner,
able to breathe in,
unable to breathe out.
And yet the irony is that
this manner of execution,
this kind of crucifixion,
is the only means of death
we’ve ever devised
that cannot be self-imposed.
Crucifixion
takes collusion.
It takes complicity.
It takes a volunteer
to nail a man to a tree.
This place smells
like blood,
and wood,
and iron,
and sweat,
and dung.
Honestly,
it smells exactly like your nativity
thirty-three years ago
in a barn just five miles away.
And yet . . .
you say
nothing.
* * *
Lord,
it’s all so scandalous.
It is damnable,
and unfathomable,
and unacceptable
how
your
divinity
hides
here
wrapped in the husk of a man.
Why would you hide your kingdom
within a crowd of ignorance?
Why would you hide your power
under the whips and jeers of thugs?
Why would you hide your glory
behind the shame
of nudity,
and weakness,
and sacrifice?
Why would you hide, Lord? Why?
Or . . . have you?
Lord, is this what you meant?
Lord, could it be
that this is exactly
what you came to show us?
Could it be, Lord,
that this IS
your kingdom,
your power,
your glory . . .
on full display?
Is that what you’ve done here?
Huh.
Maybe . . . you haven’t hidden yourself at all.
Maybe this is who you always were.
Maybe this is what you’ve been trying to tell us
since the very beginning . . .
that God was never far away . . .
that you were right here with us . . .
that you knew our pain
and our sadness
and our sin
and that you’d do anything—
anything—
even if it meant
laying your power aside,
to show us
the depth of your love.
Maybe the only place
you ever really hid your glory . . .
was within us . . .
and you’ve laid your own aside
to help us to find ours.
* * *
You say
nothing.
And yet . . .
somehow today,
you have said it all . . .
and it is finished.
Amen.