Good Friday Sermon: The Crucifixion Continues

But I have no tears on this Good Friday.

When I mentioned I was scheduled to preach on Good Friday a friend asked: “You’re not going to cry are you?”

I was surprised by this question. I didn’t know what to make of it. Great I thought: here’s another treasured seminary tradition for me to bungle. Luckily my friend was not advising me of how CDSP graduates are supposed to preach on Good Friday. It seems that she knew a priest who once was overcome with emotion while preaching on the crucifixion. I can understand that. Preaching requires living with and sometimes wrestling a set of scriptures, and today’s scriptures are heartbreaking.

Consider today’s reading from the Jewish scriptures, words by the great prophet Isaiah: He was despised and rejected by others; a man of suffering and acquainted with infirmity; and as one from whom others hide their faces he was despised, and we held him of no account.

“Despised and rejected,” of “no account:” a brutal description of a human being who must face a “perversion of justice” by themselves, all alone, without comfort or consolation. What a cruel picture Isaiah paints: to be “one from whom others hide their faces” is to be invisible, to be denied existence.

Whether Isaiah is writing about Jesus or the people of Israel or recounting personal experience, this is enough to make you cry. But I have no tears on this Good Friday.

Today’s psalm, Psalm 22, can sound even more desolate: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? and are so far from my cry and from the words of my distress? O my God, I cry in the daytime, but you do not answer; by night as well, but I find no rest. I am poured out like water; all my bones are out of joint; my heart within my breast is melting wax. My mouth is dried out like a pot-sherd; my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and you have laid me in the dust of the grave.

The Psalmist sings of deep desolation, painting a picture of one who has come to the end of their rope, one who is all played out. Whether it references King David or King Jesus or someone we know or a path we have walked, such suffering is enough to make almost anyone weep. But I have no tears on this Good Friday.

Today’s Gospel tells a story of horrific violence. Writing towards the end of the first century of the common era, John recites a chilling inventory of pain that ranges from betrayal to flogging and the agony of the cross. But I have no tears on this Good Friday.

It is intimidating to preach on Good Friday, a day that served as one of the hinges between what had been and what is now. When I first learned I would be preaching today, I wondered what I could possibly say that has not been said with more eloquence and theological detail. Then I close my eyes. When I opened them I knew what I had to preach today.

Come with me as we go back to that moment, to see what I experienced. We’re all riding together in the front seat of pickup truck. We can all fit because this is my vision and I say we all fit. We’re in ranch country – you know, a ranch is a farm where you can’t grow corn. Last night was one of those evenings when we’re glad to be out west, out where you can look up and get lost in the wonder of God’s starlight heavens. Yes, last night was crystal clear and bitter clear.

We’re driving along a ranch road as the early morning light slowly strengthens. At first we couldn’t see the fence going by, now we can see into the land beyond the fence. You see it first, something’s that’s out of place. “What’s that over there by the fence?” you ask. I admit that I don’t know, taking my foot off the accelerator. “Think it’s a scarecrow some kids tied up there?” you ask. “Could be,” I allow.

We stop and it looks for a minute as if it might be a scarecrow, arms tied to the fence, legs splayed out on the ground. Only scarecrows don’t bleed. It is, we realize, a man. A young man named Matthew Sheppard. And he is dying. Beaten almost beyond recognition because he was gay, Sheppard was left to die on that fence. He hung there for much of the night, in a 20th century crucifixion.

On Good Friday some Christians focus solely on Calvary. They see only Jesus on the cross. But if we pivot, if we expand our vision from Jesus on the cross and look slowly at history up to our time, we see a long line of crucifixions. Some are Christians, some are Jews, some are Muslims, some agnostics, some atheists. Some died on the cross, others tied to a heretic’s burning stake or in Hitler’s camps. Some died for their religion others for the color of their skin or the language they spoke at home.

What’s my point this Good Friday? The point is: the crucifixion continues. And the point is: what are we going to do about it? If nothing else, Good Friday calls us to walk what talk on our pilgrimage through life.

Today’s Gospel presents several options. We can stand near the cross and try to comfort Mary. We can stand with the Romans and follow orders. We stand with the scornful, cynical crowd of spectators. Or we can stand with most of the people in Jerusalem and just go about our business, oblivious to the pain and suffering all around.

The crucifixion continues. And we, you and I both individually and together, get to decide where we stand in this process. We can’t stop the crucifixions. But we can act on the great commandment Jesus gives us, the commandment to love our neighbor as ourselves.

The crucifixion continues: where will you stand?

Tom Jackson, Candidate for Ordination