In Matthew’s account of the Passion, there was an earthquake not only on Easter Sunday when the rock blocking the tomb was opened.^[1] But there was a spectacular earthquake at the moment of Jesus’ death two days earlier. The emphasis on rocks and hills is consistent with Matthew’s storytelling.

During the past season of Lent we have visited the mountains which were significant places of Jesus’ life and ministry—the five mountains of temptation, beatitudes, feeding, transfiguration and the Mount of Olives. Indeed, Matthew is the Gospel of mountains. But today, we can go no farther. 

Today, on Good Friday, Jesus makes his solitary journey of death. It’s his alone to make. He is deserted and abandoned, left alone to make the final crossing from life to death by himself. He is the Son of God who has followed his call to the end. This is the final step on his earthly path.

And we watch from a distance, from the foot of this final mountain: It’s the hill outside the city gates, called Golgotha.

The mountains have something to say in Matthew’s narrative. And today, we witness the incredible power unleashed at Jesus’ death. The death of Jesus is a force that cracks open the foundations of the earth. Literally.

The earth shook, and the rocks were split.^[2]

We would think the rocks that cement the very structure of mountain ranges are impregnable, unbreakable. How can the physical make-up of igneous rock be split open? What power is this?

In the world of The Lord of the Rings by J.R. Tolkien, the Dwarves are the masters and hewers of stone. They live in the bowels of the mountains mining for precious, valuable metals. 

In a scene from the recent season-one prequel of the Rings of Power TV series, a young Elrond the Elf enters the Dwarven kingdom, later known as the Mines of Moria. But instead of getting a warm greeting from his old friend the Dwarf Prince Durin, Elrond receives a cold welcome from him. In order to remain in the Dwarves’ company, Elrond invokes an ancient rite, a competition to see who can smash more rocks with a giant hammer. Exhausted at the end of the dual, Elrond concedes when he fails at breaking his last rock into smaller pieces.

This is fantasy, of course. In the real world, average human beings don’t go around splitting apart large boulders of rock. Rocks cannot be split by the force of our hand alone. 

The mountains and rocks—symbols of majesty and glory on earth—bind all creation and all creatures together. We all share the same earth, despite all that divides us. The mountains and rocks which hold all together, have something to say to us this day. Because the earth itself grieved when Jesus died. The earth broke its heart open. What are we to make of this?

Perhaps we can consider all that contributes to death in our world, all that serves only to divide, separate and isolate us from each other: Violence, fear, anger, hatred. These are the rocks that seemingly cannot be broken, destroyed. Violence, fear, anger, hatred form part of our human condition that appears on the surface as insurmountable, impossible to overcome. These are the rocks that form the foundation of human character, human nature and society. It seems.

The effect of Jesus’ death exposes the rocks for what they are. The power of everything that separates us from God and from one another is destroyed. Jesus’ death destroys the power of death. Violence, fear, anger, hatred—the recipe for human division—are rendered impotent in the face of God’s love and mercy. The power unleashed by Jesus’ death is greater than anything imaginable or created by our own hand.

No longer are we separated from God. The death of Jesus inaugurates an age where fear and death will be no more.^[3] This is God’s justice at work, here. We are united, brought into everlasting union with God through Christ.

It is ironic that the chair Pilate sits on is called the judgement seat. From the judgement seat, Pilate renders the final verdict upon Jesus.^[4] It is ironic because in the end it is Jesus and his Father who renders not judgement but justice, not retribution but reconciliation. This is God’s justice at work.

What is righteous, what is good, what is just, what is loving—this is the power unleashed at Golgotha. Jesus died, not to change God’s mind about us; Jesus died to change our mind about God. God is all about reconciling creation—including us—to one another in a holy union. How we view God now must change because of Jesus’ death.

God is not a judge who brings punitive judgement, punishing us for what we did. We may be punished, yes, but not for our sins. We are punished by our sins. The consequences of our sins continue to bring us suffering for which we alone are responsible. Jesus’ death exposes those rocks in our lives that keep us shackled, imprisoned, stuck, and bound.

But Jesus’ death also splits open those very rocks so that we can now turn every new day to a God who loves us beyond any measure of our own undoing.

Thanks be to God. Thank you, Jesus, for what you did for us.

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^[1] Matthew 28:2

^[2] Matthew 27:51

^[3] Revelation 21:4; see also Romans 8:35-39

^[4] Matthew 27:19

This year we hear Luke telling the Passion of Christ. Since Luke is the only Gospel of the four in the New Testament who mentions Herod in the Passion story^[1], I want to start here: The confrontation between Herod and Jesus before his crucifixion. Herod and then Pilate will determine Jesus’ fate, after all. This is the climax of the earthly conflict, so to speak.

Recall just as Lent was starting over forty days ago, we heard from Luke also when Jesus called Herod a fox: “Go and tell that fox for me …” Jesus instructs the Pharisees to address Herod.^[2]

Herod—Jesus’ ultimate earthly enemy, at the climax of the drama of Jesus’ life—Herod is the fox. Herod is dangerous. Herod holds all the cards. And he comes out on top, so it seems. And Pilate and Herod become friends that day.

It’s incredible that God chooses to submit to this danger, be swept up in it, and die. How can God be like this—vulernable to the wiles of the power brokers of the day, subject to the abuse and torture of human evil? Many have rejected the Christian God on these grounds alone. Because to follow this God is risky if it doesn’t promise some protection from what is dangerous in the world. Protection from the foxes.

We would rather Jesus be the fox, the one with all the cards to play, the one aggressive, defensive and wily.  But, no, Jesus is the hen. In contrast to Herod, from that Lukan text we heard last month, Jesus described himself as a mother hen: “How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings…” Jesus laments over Jerusalem.

Being a follower of Christ doesn’t take the danger out of life. Being Christian does not mean becoming magically immune to suffering. Being Christian does not mean being protected and secured against the foxes of this world.

But it does mean something more important: Being gathered under wing, nurtured and held in loving embrace. The fox may still have his way. The fox may still be a predator upon the mother hen and her chicks.

But in acts of violence and aggression the fox will never know love the way the mother hen will give it. In this image it is clear: Being with Jesus in times of danger is not about removing the danger. Being with Jesus in times of danger is about giving and receiving love in relationship.

On Good Friday, the poetry of the ‘servant’ poems from the prophet Isaiah are often read. But one of the first of these poems in the second half of Isaiah offers another vivid and meaningful image about who God is: “A bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice. He will not grow faint or be crushed, until he has established justice in the earth …”^[3]

God, in the crucified Christ, is accomplishing justice. How so? In Jesus’ dialogue with Pilate^[4], Jesus makes it clear that God’s ways are not violent. Let’s be clear: The poetry of Isaiah implies that God does indeed have the power, the capacity, to bruise a broken reed and snuf a dimly burning wick. But God doesn’t do it. A bruised reed he will not break; a dimly burning wick he will not snuff out.

God enacts justice by withholding the incredible power God has to wield. God chooses, in God’s freedom, not to use the full capacity of God’s might. Instead, God chooses mercy, gentleness, forbearance, patience and grace. God shows love by self-limiting himself.

At the brutal end of Jesus’ earthly life, I reflect on his life described in the Gospels and I go back to the beginning of Jesus’ ministry: he spoke in the synagogue in Nazareth. And he said that his mission would be “to let the oppressed go free.”^[5] That was his mission: the ultimate freedom of people who were imprisoned, oppressed and stripped of privilege. He went to the public places, the city streets and gates. He healed the sick, brought sight to the blind, raised the dead. Jesus spent time with those who were despised. He loved those who were marginalized in a culture dominated by violence, aggression and retribution.^[6]

Many of those around Jesus wanted a Messiah to liberate them from the Romans and restore a Jewish kingdom. Many, indeed, wanted Jesus to be the fox. No, he said to Pilate, that’s not what his kingdom is like, at all!^[7]

And when God’s justice is restored in the earth and Jesus returns in glory, where will his disciples find him? How will they know him? The disciples did ask these questions of Jesus before he died: “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?” And in Jesus’ usual parable-style story-telling, Jesus answered, “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.”^[8]

How do we love Jesus? How do we respond on holy, Good Friday, when we recall Jesus’ horrible death? What would Jesus have us do? 

Even as Jesus’ earthly path got him killed, his true legacy is the practice of enduring love, of doing unto others as you would have them do unto you. In God’s ways of love and mercy, we may give up our privilege and power to support those in need. By doing this, in our life on earth, we love Jesus. We respond on the day he died by recommitting ourselves to his mission, and remaining true to his legacy.

That is why the church today doesn’t merely go through ritual and liturgical motions, though helpful they may be. We didn’t just wave palm branches last Sunday to praise him and remember his journey to the cross. But we also collected clothing, basic needs for the poverty-vulnerable, the underprivileged, the less fortunate. Because we are Christians. And we follow Christ, and Christ’s ways, even and especially in difficult times.

And then God will raise us up with all the faithful. God will raise us up as a garden flourishing in the desert.^[9] Let the words of Isaiah fill your imagination and your heart as you go this day …

An image from Isaiah, describing that day when justice is restored in the earth, when indeed the fox and hen will not be predator and prey. Rather, God’s vision is one in which “the wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the young goat, and the calf and the lion and the fattened calf together; and a little child shall lead them …”^[10]

Let Christ Jesus be our guide, over these coming days, and beyond to the realization of new life, a new beginning. Amen.

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^[1] Luke 23:1-49

^[2] Luke 13:31-32, 34

^[3] Isaiah 42:3-4, NRSV

^[4] See John’s rendition of the Passion narrative; John 18:33-36 and 19:8-11

^[5] Luke 4:18 NRSV

^[6] Luke 6:27-36

^[7] John 18:36

^[8] Matthew 25:34-40 NRSV

^[9] Isaiah 58:10-12 NRSV – “If you offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted, then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday. The Lord will guide you continually, and satisfy your needs in parched places, and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water whose waters never fail. Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt; and you shall rise up the foundations of many generations; you shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to live in.”

^[10] Isaiah 11:6 NRSV

Jesus said, “Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.” Pilate asked him, “What is truth?”^[1]

The Globe and Mail recently reported that Canadians who have already received the vaccine have ambivalent feelings about it.^[2] And it’s not about being anti-vaccination. It’s about realizing that individually having the vaccine does not change much in the way of social interactions. The land borders are still closed. Travel restrictions continue indefinitely. Wearing masks, limited access to public buildings, social distancing – these all continue.

We’re sad, even when we get the vaccine because the vaccine doesn’t wipe away all our losses. We still need to grieve.^[3]Why? Because we realize that the vaccine isn’t a silver bullet solution to dealing with the emotional, spiritual and physical pain in our lives today. 

At the molecular level what is happening inside our body is significant when we get our vaccine, in building immunity against a deadly virus. But, outside of us, nothing really changes in the social, material world. “My frustration at this point is outweighing my happiness,” confessed someone who just got their first dose. “Because when I go outside, I’m still in a COVID world.” 

Have we fooled ourselves into fantasizing that once we get the vaccine, everything at the snap of the fingers will be like it used to be? Here we touch on a truth, dare I say, a truth that reflects the way of Christ. And perhaps a way through the grief.

During the torturous hours leading to Jesus’ death on the cross, the Passion stories from the Gospels depict Jesus appearing before various authorities who stand in judgement over him: Judas who betrays him, the soldiers who arrest, beat and mock him, Peter who denies him, Caiaphus who questions him, Pilate who cross-examines him, the crowd who condemns him. 

And in all these scenes, Jesus appears by himself. The disciples have abandoned him. It seems Jesus’ Passion revolves around just one individual.

But he is not alone. That’s the truth. Throughout his ordeal, Jesus appeals to God. The Gospel of John, especially, emphasizes how connected he is to God the Father through it all. Multiple times in the midst of his suffering, Jesus mentions the heavenly realm, and the kingdom of God to which he belongs. “Yet I am not alone,” Jesus says, “because the Father is with me.”^[4]  

Even when Jesus cries, “O God why have you forsaken me?”^[5] he identifies with the words of the Psalmist, words that unite him to the expansive community of faith spanning centuries. Jesus identifies with his humanity in those words of grief, through which he connects our humanity to his, and to all the saints of every time and place.

We are not Jesus. I am not saying that because Jesus, Son of God, did this we also should, easily. I am not denying our own human limitations nor uniqueness. I am saying that we are in Christ, and therefore in his consciousness we too can appreciate the pattern of our own renewal and path to new life. That is, we don’t face our crisis alone. That our salvation is tied to a larger truth beyond our own individual perception.

On Reformation Sunday we often will read the words of Jesus from John’s Gospel: If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.^[6]

On Good Friday we confront the truth that we are not alone. No one is free until everyone is free. No one is safe until everyone is safe. The effects of COVID will not be subdued until eveyone is vaccinated.

The truth is, Jesus came to save all people. Not just the rich. Not just the privileged. Not just those who have political, social clout. Not only those who live in developed countries.

The truth is, Jesus came to save – using the Old Testament formula – “the stranger, the orphan, and the widow” which is code for the poor, the marginalized, the vulnerable, the weak.^[7] The cross of Christ represents God’s love even for the enemy, those for whom you would not give the time of day.

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son…^[8]

Our existence, our living and our dying, is not an episodic, indivualistic event. We are connected all to one another. The virus, if anything, is certainly teaching us this truth. The virus knows no human-made divisions. And any one individual who wishes to engage the community at any level, won’t be ‘free’ until everyone is.

Because at the end of the day expressing grief is recognized in the presence of another. The act of grieving allows us to see beyond our own, private interests. The tears of loss make room to see and strengthen the bonds of mutual love that connect us to a larger community in the reign of God. While our grief is our own, our healing comes in expressing it in the presence of another.

The cross cannot be the cross unless both directions are bound together as one. The symbol of the cross reminds us that we are not only in an up-and-down/vertical relationship (“me and Jesus”), but in a side-to-side/horizontal relationship (“me and you”). May the truth of the cross of Christ fill our hearts today.

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^[1] John 18:37-38

^[2] https://www.theglobeandmail.com/canada/article-mixed-emotions-as-canadians-receive-their-covid-19-vaccine/?utm_source=Shared+Article+Sent+to+User&utm_medium=E-mail:+Newsletters+/+E-Blasts+/+etc.&utm_campaign=Shared+Web+Article+Links

^[3] https://www.nytimes.com/2021/03/15/well/mind/grief-pandemic-losses.html

^[4] John 16:32

^[5] Psalm 22:1

^[6] John 8:31

^[7] Deuteronomy 24:19-21, Psalm 94:6;146:9, Jeremiah 7:6;22:3,  Zechariah 7:10

^[8] John 3:16-17