I just don’t “get” Jesus

The Last Sunday after Pentecost (Year C RCL, Proper 29)
November 25, 2007

The Reverend Paul R. Abernathy, Rector

Jesus was crucified on a hill outside of Jerusalem.^[1] A hill, whether factually or by writer’s invention, fittingly in the shape of a skull, in the Aramaic, Golgotha.

Of all the people Luke believed deserved mention, Jesus is the only one I don’t understand. The only one whose actions are so un-Pauline, so unlike mine.

Jesus, committed to a cause of love and justice in his life, pours out that commitment with his life, walking boldly into the valley of the shadow of death. Crucified, he comes to a criminal’s end. Mocked, stripped, abandoned. Defamed, denuded, discredited.

Would that Jesus might have endured the torment of his last hours, if not without pain or at peace, then, at least, alone. But no. Others gathered on that hill. The people. The leaders. The soldiers. Other criminals. All beholding the spectacle. Voicing their opinions. Passing their judgments.

Jesus, I don’t understand. All the rest, I do.

The people silently stood and watched. It’s the sort of thing that people, that we do. We come upon a horrific car accident. One moment before, we were speedily going about our business, attending to our affairs, now, we, as passersby, slow down, instantly becoming shameless sightseers, gratuitous gawkers.

Now, who knows what those people on that hill were thinking and feeling: “I wonder what Jesus did to deserve death.” “I wouldn’t wish crucifixion on my worst enemy.” “Humph, there’s someone worse than me!” “I’m glad it’s not me!” Who knows? It really doesn’t matter, for they neither hurt nor helped Jesus. They just stood and watched. Idle people, idly speculating about someone else’s trouble.

How often have I done that? I understand the people.

The leaders scoffed at Jesus. The Greek literally reads “kept scoffing.” In other words, they had settled on the truth of the matter. Jesus was an irredeemable criminal who deserved death. Not sympathy. Not pity. So, what’s a little humiliation thrown on top of a death sentence? It’s all fair. It’s only fitting.

On Sunday, September 15, 1963, four little girls, Denise McNair, Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson, and Addie Mae Collins were killed when a bomb exploded at the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. Thirty-seven years later when Thomas Blanton and Bobby Frank Cherry were arrested and charged with four counts of murder,^[2] I shed not a tear of human kindness for those then elderly, ailing men or their families and friends. I did cry with a shout of retribution. I shouted all the more when they were convicted and sentenced, for finally those irredeemable criminals had gotten their due.

I understand the leaders.

The soldiers, acting with a mob mentality, an animalistic pack behavior, followed the leaders, piled on, took cheap shots. Like football. An opposing player is tackled and others on the defense quickly join in. There are penalties should the hitting become too vicious. But not at Golgotha. Jesus was himself an offense tackled by the righteous forces for the defense of all that was right. He was crucified, taken down, and the soldiers simply piled on.

I hear an unsympathetic word spoken about another. How often have I, either with words or in silence, allowed myself to be led, adding my uncharitable commentary, even worse, character assassination about the one defamed. How often have I taken license, permission from the first speaker – after all, I didn’t start it – and piled on?

I understand the soldiers.

A criminal mocks Jesus – “Are you not the Messiah?” – but with a peculiar, given his opening taunt, self-interested twist – “Save yourself and (oh by the way) us!” Is this the word of one whose “misery loves company”? The word of one who perversely rejoices in facing death, perhaps afraid, but, at least, not alone? Or is there something more universal, but no less ironical here? Perhaps the projection of one’s self-loathing on another. The desperate act of one who, at the last, seeks to salvage some final shred of moral superiority, using as an abject foil a fellow sufferer. The despicable act of one whose sense of his own suffering has destroyed whatever capacity there is for mercy.

How often have I done that? When feeling hurt and violated, having no compassion for another sufferer.

I understand the criminal.

But I just don’t “get” Jesus. “Forgive them,” he says, “for they know not what they are doing.” Oh, I suppose I can make a case that at the deepest level of knowing, none of us can know fully what we do – not even our own intentions, let alone the consequences of our actions and their effects on others. Yet, as Jesus looked down from that cross at Golgotha, he knew that those people knew they were killing him. Nevertheless, he said, “Father, forgive them.” In fact, the Greek indicates that he kept saying it – over and over again, even with his last breath.

What is this? A sentimental, delusional utterance of an unimaginably idealistic grace? A provocative word meant to shame one’s tormentors? Or, simply and profoundly, an act of love. A love that knows that the only way to counteract violence – which has no limit save there being no one else to kill – is a limitless forgiveness that is willing to approach and surpass the limit of one’s own death.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu recently preached and lectured at the Washington National Cathedral. At the close of his weekday evening address on forgiveness, someone in the crowd asked him, “Archbishop, how could you forgive those who, under apartheid, committed such atrocities against your people in South Africa?” He replied, simply and profoundly, “Because there are no unforgivable sins.” I don’t “get” him either!

I just don’t understand forgiveness. It’s always hard and at times impossible to do. But in knowing that, I also know that this is where I need the most help. I need no instruction on how to retaliate. I need all the help in heaven and on earth to learn how to forgive.

That is why there is one other actor in this scene I understand. The other criminal who said, “Jesus, remember – help! – me.”

[1] The gospel passage appointed for the day is Luke 23.33-43.

[2] May 17, 2000