O
sacred head, now wounded,
with
grief and shame weighed down,
now
scornfully surrounded
with
thorns, thine only crown;
O
sacred head, what glory,
what
bliss till now was thine!
Yet,
though despised and gory,
I
joy to call thee mine.
Coming
to faith and being enveloped in a welcoming community gathered in that faith
are two of the most incredible experiences in our lives. Some of us are lucky enough to be
raised in that faith from childhood; others accept invitations from friends or
go looking for that thing we’re missing or whatever and get found trying to
find what we’re looking for.
Either way, that’s the first naivete in every Christian’s life:
following Jesus when life is good.
When it seems like the right thing to do. When that sense of calling is so strong the rocks would
shout it out if we didn’t.
The
disciples felt this way those first few months and years with Jesus. When their rabbi was healing the sick,
forgiving sins and transforming lives, it was easy to follow. Everyone wants to follow the glorious
one, the up and comer, the hot prospect.
When the first prophet in 600 years points to your guy and says, “He’s
the One,” you follow.
But
what do you do when the high priest points to your guy and says, “He’s the
One?” When the crowd screams
“Crucify him!” When one of your
own betrays your beloved rabbi for a kiss and a bribe? What do you do when they point at you
and ask, “Aren’t you one of his followers?” What do you do when your conscience is screaming at you, but
so are the consequences? When
Jesus goes to places you can’t or won’t follow, what do you do?
You
run. You deny. You lose your temper. You hurt your friends. You abandon your responsibilities. You break your promises. You fail.
This
is sin. This is who we are. Broken, scared, betrayed, hiding,
angry, hurt, alone. In the church
or out, new to faith or lifelong believer, sooner or later the glory road of
certain faith turns and dives deep into the valley of the shadow of death. At the heart of that valley is a hill,
and on that hill stands a cross.
How
pale thou art with anguish,
with
sore abuse and scorn;
how
does thy face now languish,
which
once was bright as morn!
Thy
grief and bitter passion
were
all for sinners' gain;
mine,
mine was the transgression,
but
thine the deadly pain.
Behold the life-giving cross. The songs and poetry make it sound as though the cross was
the price Jesus paid to God to release sinful humanity from God’s
judgment. But God does not demand
the cross so that sin might be forgiven.
In Jesus, God came among us, forgiving sin from the very start. We demanded the cross. The church insisted sin could only be
expiated by sacrifice. The high
priests and scribes, the pastors and council members and lay leaders and elders
of their day, insisted that there were statutes to observe, formalities to be
followed. “You can’t just go
around forgiving sins!” God wasn’t
threatened by forgiveness: we
were. So we demanded that justice
must be served. We brought Him
before the highest council and threw accusations against Him and the sort of
people He called around Himself.
We stacked the crowd with people who would shout, “Crucify Him!” We watched in horror as they took our
beloved Rabbi away, and rather than die with Him, we fled for safety.
Our innocence dies when we see how quick the church is to abandon
its Savior. “Love one another as I
have loved you” is easy as a theological abstraction: actually loving one another with the love of Jesus
is impossible. We run. We deny. We lose our temper.
We hurt our friends. We
abandon our responsibilities. We
break our promises. We fail. And we come to the cross.
What
language shall I borrow
to
thank thee, dearest friend,
for
this thy dying sorrow,
thy
pity without end?
Oh,
make me thine forever,
and
should I fainting be,
Lord,
let me never, never
outlive
my love to thee.
Behold the life-giving cross. We may run. We
may deny. We may lose our
temper. We may hurt our
friends. We may abandon our
responsibilities. We may break our
promises. We may fail. But not our Savior. Not our Lord Jesus. When our sin turns us down the road
through the valley of the shadow of death, we find the cross, God’s pledge of
love and faithfulness that will never be broken. On the cross Jesus takes upon Himself the worst and best of
all that we are: all our anger,
all our piety, all our sorrow, all our pride. Jesus takes upon himself our ugliest lusts and our highest
aspersions to purity, and gives us His steadfast love and faithfulness in return.
Behold the life-giving cross. To the follower of Jesus struggling
to believe because someone has failed her, the cross is God’s promise that
human failings will be overcome by God’s overwhelming love. Behold the life-giving cross. To the follower of Jesus struggling to
believe because he has failed someone, the cross is God’s promise that God is faithful
even when we are not. Behold the
life-giving cross. Here is God’s
love, arms spread wide to envelop you.
When our faith is killed by human
sinfulness, the cross reminds us that God's love is stronger than human
sinfulness. Behold the life-giving cross, on which our Lord Jesus Christ redeems the
world. Be redeemed, child of God. Amen.
Lord,
be my consolation;
shield
me when I must die;
remind
me of thy passion
when
my last hour draws nigh.
These
eyes, new faith receiving,
from
thee shall never move;
for
all who die believing
die
safely in thy love.
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