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| "The Crucifixion" F. Zurbaran (Spanish 16th Cent.) |
“And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to
myself.” He said this to indicate the kind of death he was to die. (John
12:32-33)
There’s a big chunk of the Gospel lesson for Lent 5, Year B (John
20:20-33) which I can recite by heart. Verses 23 – 26 are found in the Lutheran
Occasional Service Book for the
burial of the dead. I guess this passage was chosen by the OSB’s editors
because of that particular image of the grain falling into the earth. The
passage is to be read at graveside for an in-ground burial.
As I think I’ve mentioned, I do a
lot of funerals. I consider it an honor to tell the tale of the departed
and to offer the comfort of eternal life to the bereaved. Sometimes, however,
the honor carries an emotional weight. Last week I was called on to say a
service for a young man who took his own life. Quite aside from the fact that
none of us should ever have to face the agony of burying one of our own
children, the sudden loss and the soul-numbing shock of a suicide create a state
of grief which, unless you’ve experienced it yourself, is unfathomably dark.
There was nothing of consequence I felt I could say to the grieving parents,
family members, and friends of this young man other than to implore them not to
allow the manner of his death to define his life.
That exhortation came to me a few years ago when I was asked to
memorialize two sister. These women were savagely butchered by a controlling ex-boyfriend.
The killer violated a restraining order, attacked his ex as she visited in her
sister’s home, and knifed both women to death. When I sat with the women’s
parents, I felt as helpless as I’ve ever felt. There was nothing I could do or
say that could possibly lesson their pain. I only knew I did not want the act
of a selfish, violent man to be the last word on the lives of two wonderful,
caring, intelligent, and accomplished women, both of whom left children as well
as parents behind to mourn them.
The manner of a death should not define a life—except sometimes it does.
Jesus taught his followers to love one another. He healed the sick, touched the
untouchable, dined with the despised, welcomed the foreigners and the outcasts,
lived in poverty and humility, and taught us all about the Kingdom of God. But
what matters most is that he died on the cross. He was lifted up to draw all of
us to himself.
It is when we see him on the cross that we know the depth of his love.
When we hear him forgive his enemies with a dying breath, when he cares for his
aging mother, and when he comforts a condemned sinner with a word of
love—that’s when Jesus speaks most profoundly to us.
It is the power of Jesus’ sacrificial love. It is knowing that he defied
the powers of this world and accepted the torment of their punishment. This is
what makes everything he did prior to Calvary resonate with unutterable depth.
Alexei Navalny may have been dismissed as just another idealist
attempting to expose and reform a hopelessly corrupt government. Even after
being poisoned by Putin’s agents, he returned to Russia—knowing he had been
marked for death. His death in an arctic prison camp has reverberated around
the world, underscoring his courage determination, and honor while further exposing
Putin’s ruthless barbarism.
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was a great reformer and theologian. His
stirring speeches about civil rights have inspired generations, and his
activism changed the course of history. Nevertheless, King’s willingness to
confront the powers of oppression and racism at the cost of his own life to an
assassin’s bullet forever enshrines him as a man of overwhelming integrity. The
bullet which took the life of Mohandas Gandhi and the Nazi noose around the
neck of Dietrich Bonhoeffer similarly elevated the righteousness of their
causes.
Sometimes the manner of death does, indeed, define the life. Every
police officer, firefighter, or warrior who has fallen in the line of duty is a
witness to this. It is their deaths which gave meaning to their lives.
The coming of the Greeks—foreigners who have heard of the wonderful
words and deeds of Jesus of Nazareth—is the signal to Jesus that his fame has
grown to the point where his opponents will want him dead. “Now my souls is
troubled,” he confesses, “and what should I say—‘Father, save me from this
hour?’ No, it is for this reason that
I have come to this hour.”
This is the final covenant, God’s last treaty with humankind. No longer
do we need a book of rules. Rather, we are to remember the cross and remember Jesus’
sacrifice, forgiveness, humility, and compassion which shone from that horrible
symbol of death and oppression. That’s the Law which is written, not with
words, but on the heart.
Look to the cross, my friend. Thank you for stopping by. Please come back next week.
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