Guilty as charged--Good Friday, 2023
The Rev. Clare L. Hickman
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Ferndale
Good Friday 2023
What if Jesus was actually guilty as charged?
We talk a lot about the fact that he was innocent; that they crucified an innocent man. But if you look at it, he pretty much did everything they accused him of:
On the religious side: that he claimed he would destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days. Which, well, he definitely predicted the destruction of the temple, and while there’s no record of him saying the thing about three days, as a metaphor it definitely played out. So … fair. Also, that he claimed to the be Son of God, the Messiah. To which we have to admit, yes, he did do that.
In John, the complaints brought by the religious authorities are more vague. It’s hard to say what they are most afraid of. But whatever it is, they take him to Pilate.
Pilate’s concerns, of course, are not religious. He doesn’t care about blasphemy, or the state of the Temple. His only worry is that Jesus is another of these charismatic Jewish leaders who might inspire followers to revolt against the Roman authorities. So he really only has one question: “Are you the king of the Jews?” Which is to say, Are you about to stir up trouble? Are you setting yourself up as a rival to Caesar?
Pilate decides that he’s not. Admittedly, many religious scholars argue that the gospel writers wrote it that way to protect the fledgling Christian community from the anger of Rome. Safer to blame the Temple authorities, the theory goes.
But it’s also possible that Pilate really doesn’t see Jesus as that kind of threat. That he knows Jesus preaches against violence, that he doesn’t support the zealots who are fomenting revolution, that he doesn’t wish to set himself up as a political leader.
All true. But there’s more than one way to threaten the powers that be. And though Jesus doesn’t aspire to be a king like David, his teachings very much strike at the foundations of empire. Taken seriously, his teachings challenge ANY system grounded in privilege and exploitation.
So, you could say that Jesus is in fact guilty of the charges they lay against him. On the religious side, he does indeed call uncomfortable attention to the flaws of the religious leadership. But Jewish law can’t do anything, since the prophetic tradition of the Bible means that Jesus is still well within bounds. On the political front, however, he very much threatens the power structure, and Roman law is clear about what to do with those who make this kind of trouble: the death penalty.
The system, I would argue, did not fail. It worked exactly the way it was supposed to work.
Right here at the heart of the gospel story, we see the ways that people in power work to keep themselves in power. We bear witness to a hierarchy so twisted in its desire to protect its own wealth and influence, that it would put a person like Jesus to death. But we also see God, not on the side of the powerful, not lending divine authority to the power and justice of the state, but standing against it. Declaring on the side of the powerless, the side of the oppressed, the side of Life.
This story at the core of our faith draws us into hard questions. About crime and punishment. About power and authority. About laws and justice. And about the ways in which the kingdom of God stands in contrast (sometimes even opposition) to the nations of the world.
Because the story didn’t end 2000 years ago. The crucifixion and resurrection didn’t put an end to violent abuses of power. They simply declared, once and for all, which side God is on. And what will, ultimately, have the last word.
Until that last word is spoken, however, our faith will not allow us to turn away from these questions. It demands that we approach the horror of the cross not only with personal introspection, but allowing our eyes to be opened to the abiding realities of violence and oppression.
On a personal level, we can certainly imagine different ways we participate in injustice. We too might try to stay out of things, to save our own skin, as Peter does. We can probably imagine getting caught up in a witch hunt, allowing our fear and rage to be turned toward some chosen target. We might even bear false witness, if we are being lazy about confirmation bias, or convinced that the end justifies the means.
But such a focus on the personal can distract us from the larger systemic issues. Can actually serve to protect those in power, by focusing our attention on ourselves rather than what they are doing.
Consider Pilate, who wants to pretend that he cannot be held responsible for simply upholding the law. Pilate, who’s like, “I gave you the choice: Barabbas or Jesus. And you chose Barabbas. Not my fault, so bring me that bowl of water.”
But a colleague named Eric Biddy pointed out this past week that “by the time that we are choosing who should be killed, it is already impossible to … choose Jesus [in any faithful way. Because it] is always a devil’s bargain to choose which life matters more.” The framework itself has been set by death, and though the rulers of the world think they can use death for their own purposes, they invariably end up serving death. Which means that faithfulness to the God of life sometimes requires us to step outside the whole framework, rejecting the basic terms of those who have already made their fools’ bargain with death.”[i]
Good Friday brings sharp relief to the ways in which worldly power is so often tangled up with death: using the deaths of one person/group of people to create the illusion that another group will be safe from suffering and pain. The Cross offers a different path, the path of life. But unlike the worldly myth, the Cross demands that we accept the inevitability of suffering and pain. For all of us. Because the Cross is the sign of a God who knows that if we aren’t willing to accept pain and loss, if all we seek is our own profit and protection, we will end up making deals with death in our attempts to avoid them.
The Cross is an astonishingly difficult place to stand. An almost impossible place to trust. Because the Cross seems like the ultimate sign that love and forgiveness and “put away your sword” are a losing strategy. A failed strategy.
They are, admittedly, a long game. The way of Jesus, of abiding in him and with each other in radical love and trust is no quick fix. And when it comes to the reality of pain and loss, the only promise is that we will never face them alone.
That’s it. That’s what we get. We stand here, at the foot of the cross. Knowing that we ourselves will suffer in this life. Recognizing that we are called to stand against the powers of this world who are in league with death. And what we are given, is assurance that God will be with us. That we have a God who is willing to suffer all this pain, rather than be separated from us. Even unto death.
He is with us and in us. And we are bound together in him. Even in our deepest and most awful times. Even when the arc of the universe is bending far, far too slowly toward justice, and it all feels like a failed strategy.
The hope lies in the fact that Jesus was willing to die, in order to bear witness to the injustice. To die and rise again, to bear witness to the power of God’s kingdom as the path to Life, over and against the values of worldly power.
Even at the point when it all looks like failure.
Which means that the hope comes from the same place that hopelessness is tempted to rise. The hope, the blessing of Good Friday, lies in the willingness to face into the pain. May we be brave enough to tear. And may the blessing live within us. Amen.
[i] Eric Biddy, comment on a Facebook post by Miranda Hassett, March 29