Meditation on the Cross
A friend of ours created a Stations of the Cross meditation recently which took the traditional scenes from Jesus’ passion and death and put them together with materials from the recent news. The Station that struck me particularly was about the parents of Peter Greste, the Australian journalist recently gaoled in Egypt. Early in his imprisonment, his parents wrote a letter to the Egyptian president offering to be gaoled in his place as a proof of their utter belief in their son. http://amyfeldtmann.com/2014/12/29/timeline-of-freeajstaff/ has a copy of their letter.
For me, their offer is a window into what has happened for us because of that first Good Friday. Today, we’ve gathered to remember that on the Cross, Jesus has done for you and me what Peter Greste’s parents offered to do for their child; to take our sentence on himself.
Sermon
In Jesus, God has come to rescue us from our own predicament by taking our place; taking our sentence on himself. And like Peter Greste’s parents, Jesus’ reason for doing this is utter love for us; complete commitment to us.
Peter Greste got trapped in a cycle of justifying his actions—normal everyday actions in the day-to-day life of a journalist. But there he was, trapped, and justifying himself to some invisible, untouchable power. His arguments seemed alright, but no-one seemed to hear them. And his accusers never presented him with a tangible case to answer.
His experience with that justice system is very like us when we’re trying to satisfy invisible authorities that we’re okay; waiting on the results of an exam or a job interview; the results of a medical test. While we anxiously wait for the outcome, we speculate on what the decision-makers will think of us; we plead our case with any friend willing to put up with our worries.
But like Peter Greste was, we’re powerless to influence the outcome. We’re in a vacuum; disconnected—separated from the impersonal powers-that-be whom we have to satisfy. And we experience that separation as something like an invisible prison. And it cuts us off from everyone else around us because none of them seems to be in the same predicament.
People experience this as a type of gaol; a confining space that we can’t escape by our own strength or ingenuity. It might be the consumerist roundabout; it may be the online life we get caught in; it may be the consequence of a failed relationship; a toxic work situation; it may be the effect of chronic ill-health or our age. Whatever the gaol may be, we’re cut off from everyone else because none of them seems to be in the same predicament.
Strangely enough, this is something like a working definition of sin—being cut off from the source of our well-being, and seemingly cut off from everyone around us. This is what life can be like when we’re not consciously aware that God loves us unconditionally; when no-one’s told us that we don’t have to justify our own existence, because God has justified us already—and out of utter love for us. God justifying us? That’s where the Cross comes in.
The one who justifies another takes their side, and sees that all is well with them. God takes the lost cause of humanity and makes it his own in Jesus Christ. (Barth)
In more simple language, a perfect stranger called Jesus saw the bullet flying towards us, stepped in the way, and took it in the chest. And the question that leaves us with today is, how do we respond to him?
This Holy Week, we’re spending time with this story of God’s deep love for us. The most important thing to realize is that God loves you and me like any loving parent loves their child. And a loving parent will do anything to save their child from harm; a loving parent will go to prison to protect their child; a loving parent will die to save their child.
In Jesus, God died to save you and me. It’s happened.
God has this deep, deep solidarity with us.
God became a human being, a baby.
God was hungry. God was tired.
God suffered and died.
God is there
with us.
Amen