Good Friday
Sermons preached by The Reverend Dr Matt Bullimore, Chaplain, Corpus Christi College.
‘For I have set you an example’
Hebrews 12.1–4
May we know what this new teaching is that you are presenting? It sounds rather strange to us, so we would like to know what it means. (Acts 17.19–20)
St Paul is confronted with this question on the steps of the Areopagus in Athens. The strange teaching concerns, of course, the Passion and resurrection of Jesus. And the questioners find it hard to hear, hard to understand. What does it all mean? What does this death mean for them?
The question at the Areopagus reminds us of another question: a more direct and startling one. A personal question. When Jesus turns to his disciples on the road to Caesarea Philippi and asks them: Who do you say that I am? He invites us to seek an answer, an answer that will be faithful to our experience of him. Who is he to us? And he wants us to respond – to him – and how we respond will change us.
Whatever we answer, who Jesus is – as he will go on to tell them on that dusty road – who he is, and who he will always be for us, is The Crucified. But then, as now, we are left wondering: what does this mean? We would like to know. How is it real for us? How do we lay hold of the power, the saving power, of this death?
People will talk about models or theories of the atonement, ways of answering these questions about what Jesus’ saving death means, but of course they can’t just be theories. If Jesus’ death does atone, does bring us into communion with God in saving and redeeming ways, then it’s not a theory. It’s a relationship. It’s a living experience – not a theological abstraction.
Atonement is a truth that touches us in our humanity, because it is about a God who reaches out to touch us and save us from all that besets us as we really are. It is about our God who reached out in the most intimate way possible, becoming one of us, one amongst us, with the same dirt on his feet and thirst in his throat. It’s about the Son of God being human for us in ways that we cannot be: being human in perfect communion with the Father whilst in this world of sin and corruption.
But what he achieves on calvary, this atonement, has to happen for us and with us, among us and in us – otherwise how can it atone? If this is a relationship it has to touch us from the depths of our being to the surface of our skin, has to touch the full breadth of all our human relationships, has to guide my restless and confused desires. It has to touch us as we are, entire and whole.
For what atonement seeks to redress is nothing less than the full scope of human deathliness – spiritual death and physical death – it has to meet head on all that binds us, oppresses us, deforms and distorts us. If we are nothing but gift, given to be images of God, then we know in ourselves how we have distorted that gift and marred that image
with our pretensions to control, power, and pride. We have turned away again and again from the source of our life: and it leads us into deathliness. We find ourselves in the dark and we cannot save ourselves.
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One way we Christians have understood how Jesus’ death atones is to see Jesus as giving us an example to follow. We gaze upon our crucified Saviour, we cry out at the foot of the cross, and we see a love so tenacious that it has never flagged nor faltered, even in the face of trial and torture.
The letter to the Hebrews draws it well, how when we look upon the crucified Lord we are moved; a moral commitment stirs: Yes, Lord, let me love as you have loved.
The letter’s author exhorts us to lay aside sin, put down our burdens, and now run the way that Jesus ran for us, looking ahead to him who is our pioneer. He endured the shame of the cross, he endured the hostility of sinners – and now we too should run the race without losing heart. We should take courage, have hope, and follow in his way.
As a student I used to have a picture, painted from the point of view of Jesus on the cross. We looked down on to a tortured body, and down further to the figures on the ground. The artist’s aim, I think, was to help us see things as Jesus saw them, so that we could imagine ourselves being like Jesus.
Following in his way, imagining ourselves into his life, we feel that imperative to become more like Jesus. Putting ourselves into the mind and heart of Jesus, we allow his example to lead us out of the darkness in which we have found ourselves. In changing our behaviour to mirror his behaviour, we become more loving, more Christ-like. For I have set you an example, that you should do as I have done to you, we heard Jesus say yesterday (13.15).
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Daniel Berrigan, the Jesuit priest and activist, once said: If you want to follow Jesus, you better look good on wood. In a crucifying world, the risk of love is that we’ll be crucified for loving. But the example of Jesus is there to say that this is the cost of love, this is the cost of never returning violence for violence. This is what it takes to show that evil is perverse and unnatural. Jesus’ love, the love that we imitate, is costly and yet beautiful – and in stark contrast to the ugliness of the world that seeks to extinguish it.
And yet… I am not yet sure that I have the resources to run this race. Are you? How can I lay aside my sin? How do I find the strength and the capacity to love like this? I fear I may be a better imitator of those who betray and deny Jesus, who fall asleep in Gethsemane; a better imitator of those who mock and accuse and judge. I look to the cross and I need more than an example. How does this death change me so that I can even begin to be like Jesus? The sin does indeed cling so closely and I don’t know how to rid myself of it.
This death, this fearful and awesome loving death, is not just something I can see and say: yes, I can love like that. If that were the burden placed upon me then I fear I would find myself in a perpetual Gethsemane, praying that the cup will pass from me, and – in all likelihood, legging it as soon as I saw the soldiers coming or, like Peter, at least throwing a punch. It is too much for me to achieve. I still want to cry: Lord, save me from myself.
Jesus moves us with his example of obedient love. There is no doubt of that. He shows us the need to love in a violent and crucifying world, but there is still more for the cross to give us. Otherwise I would not be at one with him. Because this I know: I will fail to follow.
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‘While we were still sinners Christ died for us’
1 Peter 2.21–24
St Peter, too, sees in Jesus an example for us. How could he not, as one who followed Jesus across hill and vale, who listened to him teaching in the shade, who shared his table and watched him touch the sick and the outcast. Peter looks back at the cross and sees that the abused did not abuse, his suffering friend never threatened force or violence. He saw Jesus entrust himself to his just and loving Father.
But Peter failed, oh how he failed. As his friend was snatched in the night, Peter was busy denying any connection, any relationship with him. Peter knew that his sin, his denial, his inability to love well or love enough, his instinct for self-preservation, needed to be dealt with – and not by him. He needed to be saved, and he knew it.
Peter writes: Jesus himself bore our sins in his body on the cross, so that, free from sins, we might live for righteousness; by his wounds we have been healed.
I need Jesus to save me, to bear my sin, to deal with it, to pull me out of the clutches of deathliness. For me to be at one with Jesus, he will need to break the hold of my fallen desires, my past failures, shoulder the burdens I carry, break the chains of all that oppresses me.
So we look to the cross to see what Jesus does for us, on our behalf. Our sin is real and it has real effects. Death is real and it has real effects. It has to be redeemed; needs to be dealt with. Look on the crucified and see there: the effect of human sin. See the death that we choose by turning from life, the death visited on him who alone did not deserve it.
Already in Gethsemane, we heard the anguish of this burden of ours he carries. Let this cup pass from me, he prays (Matt 26.38–42). Agonizingly, this man beseeches his friends to pray with him: I am deeply grieved, even to death; remain here, and keep awake (Mark 14.33–34). Then, fearfully, we hear that cry of desolation and isolation, the cry of the human-being cut off from life, from love, My God, my God, why have you forsaken me (Matt 27.46). This is the full weight of sin, of broken relationship, bearing down on his pierced hands and feet; it is the heft of sin shouldered, tearing at his heart and soul.
The only innocent carries the burden of human sinfulness – and the deathliness that is its result. The whole horror of its darkness, the irrational, nonsensical, terrifying and abysmal rebellion against the light, is taken on by him; suffered by him.
Until the cry: It is finished. It is achieved. He has borne it all without falling into the temptations to cease loving or to return violence for violence.
The psychological power of this should not be underestimated. That Jesus has suffered for my sin and liberated me from its power. It’s why our Evangelical brothers and sisters especially emphasise this facet of the cross. My failure, my sin, is now rendered otiose. No longer final or insuperable. Jesus has suffered the burden of my sin and I am not held accountable: Father, forgive them.
There are modern versions of this salvation that are less powerful, though no less influential. But more troubling. The idea that God’s desire to punish us for our rebellion against him requires a death, if justice is to be done. His wrath must be appeased by a bloody sacrifice.
It does not quite stand up, of course, in the light of his love. Origen, in the third century, asks: what was it that God suffered that made him send his Son? Was his passion an anger or rage? What is this passion he felt for us, Origen writes, it was the passion of love. (Homily on Ezekiel, 6.6).
Because he loved us, he sent his Son, not because of his wrath toward us. So Jesus’ death does not turn the Father from wrath to love. Jesus’ bearing of our sin is the result of God’s passion of love that sends him to us in the first place. It is God coming to us to save us from ourselves, coming as the remedy, despite the cost. It is not God who is not reconciled to us. It is we who are unreconciled to God. And that is what Jesus must change.
But why a death? As Jesus Christ, Superstar, sings to his Father in Gethsemane: Why should I die? You're far too keen on where and how, but not so hot on why.
Is the Son sent to die? Is this his purpose? St Anselm’s answer was a firm no. Anselm writes: God did not compel Christ to die when there was no sin in him. Anselm reminds us that Jesus was the only one never to sin, never to turn away from the Father’s gift of life and love. The only one who hadn’t chosen deathliness. Anselm continues: Christ himself freely underwent death…on account of his obedience in maintaining justice; because he so steadfastly persevered in that he brought death on himself. (Cur Deus Homo 1, ix).
In other words, when we look at the cross, we see Jesus there not because God wanted another death. Not because God needed to satisfy his wrath. Not because Jesus was commanded to die.
Jesus is the crucified because we crucified him. Jesus loved, and because he loved he stood for divine justice, which looks like forgiveness and blessing. He loved us even while all our pride, jealousy, fear and desire for power and control, overwhelmed us and we murdered him. It is our world, not yours, we cried. The full force of our collective sin, sunk in darkness and nothingness, we wrapped around him.
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The God who loves us only ever called us to love him – this is the great covenant. And we do not do it. And so, out of love, he has come to uphold our side of the covenant. In Jesus, God does for us, our part. As man, as one of us, the Son loves the Father as we should. He has lived as we should have lived.
And he continues to do so even as all our sin breaks upon his body. And he carries it – without violence or retribution, without curse or retaliation – and lets it spend itself on his wracked body.
The power of this sacrifice – this example of faithful love that will never falter – this love that takes our sin and does not condemn – that suffers our sin and does not hate us – that renders our sin no longer final – well, is it not immensely powerful? Jesus saves us from our sin by bearing its weight for us, instead of us. He shows that not even our sin can separate us from his love. Jesus suffers our deathliness so that we can know that it is consumed and destroyed because, at the far side of Easter, we will see it is powerless, futile.
So very powerful. I need to hear it. It is done for me. I am not left alone to save myself. But how does it touch me. How does it involve me?
Peter wrote: free from sins, we might live for righteousness; by his wounds we have been healed. Are we yet sure how we are free to live righteously? How do Jesus’ wounds really heal me?
I still want to pray, Lord, change me, break me – mould me into your likeness. Take my sin, but redeem me – how can I break out of myself, free me from the things that bind me, so that I can be your child again, can be your friend again.
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‘He disarmed the rulers and authorities’
Colossians 2.6–15, 20a
Simon the Zealot in Jesus Christ Superstar – and yes, again, I’m referring to my guilty pleasure – I am quite a fan –
Simon reveals himself to be a zealot, a rebel. An anti-Roman guerrilla. A first century Che Guevara.
Christ you know I love you, did you see I waved? He’s a faithful follower but he has a few suggestions.
Christ, what more do you need to convince you That you've made it, and you're easily as strong As the filth from Rome who rape our country, And who've terrorized our people for so long.
He sees Jesus’ popularity growing, sees that he could become the revolutionary leader they’ve been waiting for. He could win them back their kingdom. So, he suggests:
Keep them yelling their devotion, But add a touch of hate at Rome. You will rise to a greater power. We will win ourselves a home.
You'll get the power and the glory For ever and ever and ever.
The Superstar replies: Neither you, Simon, nor the fifty thousand, Nor the Romans, nor the Jews,
Nor Judas, nor the twelve
Nor the priests, nor the scribes, Nor doomed Jerusalem itself Understand what power is, Understand what glory is, Understand at all.
Power, glory – these are not won by violence. Scandalously, Jesus the Superstar laments: To conquer death, you only have to die.
What is it about this death that conquers death? How does this death triumph over all the powers to which I find myself in bondage? What Paul calls those elemental spirits of the universe: The power of death, of sin, of curse, of Law. The power of the oppressor and the corrupt. The power of my pride and weakness and selfishness. The power of despair and fear and self-doubt. The power of violence and horror? How does this death conquer the powers and set me free? How do I die to them with him?
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There’s a way of seeing Jesus’ victory as a wily act of cunning by which we’re set free. It runs like this. We have handed ourselves over to Satan: by choosing darkness over light – in every act of sin and falling short – we sell ourselves into slavery to corruption and vice. We listen to the serpent and not the Lord. We turn our backs on life freely offered. We opt for deathliness.
So Satan – the architect of all the powers that oppress – claims us as his own. We are given over to his power. But wouldn’t he prefer a greater prize? Wouldn’t Satan prefer the death of God’s Son? Yes, he would! And so Jesus freely gives himself as a ransom in our stead. His death for our death. The death of God for the life of humanity.
I am a worm and no man, says the Psalmist, and Jesus, like bait on a line, hands himself over. Satan takes the bait – engulfing Jesus in death. We are duly ransomed from Satan’s grip. But Satan wails when he discovers that the life of God in Jesus is stronger than death. The innocent one cannot remain dead. Divine justice would not be served. So life prevails. Satan’s power is deactivated, his weapons of oppression are disarmed. He is tricked by life.
It may sound familiar. Like a lion called Aslan who gives himself to the White Witch in the stead of naughty Edmund. Edmund is freed. Aslan is slain – but a deeper magic is at play. The one who offers his life in innocence is already free of the power of death. Lion 1: Witch nil.
It’s neat. We see how Jesus’ death draws out and then defeats the powers that stand against us. It makes, as Paul says, a public example of them. Triumphing over them by showing them to be ultimately futile, redundant.
Though it might strike us as a little too neat. It all happens in an imagined realm of supra-cosmic law. With all its bargains and superterfuge and supernatural actors. It makes a good story – as C. S. Lewis knew – and it sets the theological imagination in play – but does it show how this death triumphs over all the powers to which I find myself in bondage?
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There’s a moment in his second letter to the Corinthians where Paul points out that under the law, the man killed upon a tree, is cursed. It proves for Paul that the law itself must be unjust if the man on the cross is actually sinless, is the Son of God. His being there breaks the power of the law.
And, indeed, when we see Jesus on the cross – the victim of the Empire, and of the High Priest and the Sanhedrin, and of Herod’s kingship, and of the people who shout Crucify him! – we see that what Jesus does is show that none of these powers are final and ultimate. They have made outcast from the world the one who created it. They have all failed. None are just. None reckon with the power of love and life. Our humanity has failed.
When we look up to the cross we see that all the old orders, the former powers, and their cycles of prideful violence, have been broken. Jesus has brought them out into the open and shown them to be futile.
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Remember the sheer confusion of Herod and Pilate. Herod can’t get anything out of Jesus who remains silent. He mocks him with a royal robe and sends him on his way. Pilate is confused by Jesus’ talk of another Kingdom; a Kingdom that cannot be defended by force of arms. He is confused by his commitment to a truth that Pilate can’t fathom or recognise. Jesus is to him like an alien, from another world, and Pilate cannot comprehend him. He just doesn’t make sense from the world’s perspective.
Indeed, on the cross, Jesus opens up space for a different Kingdom, reveals another truth, one that confuses, refuses – even defuses – all of our fallen logics and laws. It confounds our ways of doing things by opening up an alternative order: a new way of life, with its own distinctive practices and virtues. One characterized by faith, hope and love. By forgiveness, compassion and peace. An order characterized by a different commandment: to love one another as we have been loved. To belong to that Kingdom will change us, mould us into his likeness.
So Paul asks the Colossians: If with Christ you died to the elemental spirits of the universe, why do you live as if you still belonged to the world?
We don’t have to live oppressed by the world we have created because a new order is now available to us. We can begin to shed the burden of the powers that oppress because a new and living way is opened up for us, a new creation – one that exists beyond the power of all that oppresses – and it begins – as we’ll soon see – when Jesus looks down from the cross, and sees his mother and his beloved friend and speaks to them.
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‘Present your bodies as a living sacrifice’
Ephesians 1.3–14
It’s not an easy passage to read – Ephesians 1 – long sentences with clause after clause falling on top of one another, as the author’s enthusiasm begins to mirror the shower of grace that they’re describing.
But let’s pick this out: he chose us in Christ before the foundation of the world to be holy and blameless before him in love.
Before the world was made, before the word of creation was spoken, we were chosen, chosen out of God’s love for us. We are chosen to be in Christ, chosen so we could be holy and blameless before our loving Father – chosen so we could dwell with him, in his presence – in love.
The world was made so that he could know us and we could know him. The whole cosmos thrown into being so he could call us friends.
Jesus looks down from the cross, he sees his mother and his beloved friend, and he says to his mother: Woman, here is your son. And to his friend: Here is your mother. He again calls into being that very community, a new family of friendships, in which we are no longer to be blamed, but called again to be holy, set apart in love, to love.
He made the world for our communion with him. So, when darkness falls, he comes us as one of us and shows us what communion with the Father looks like. Our great pioneer, we saw, sets us an example of true human living – glorious and free.
From the cross he then declares us to be always forgiven and our sins powerless to stop him loving us.
He draws out the powers that hold us in bondage and publicly displays their ultimate powerlessness. He undergoes our deathliness and death to show that even that great enemy has no power over the Living God.
And then he restores our communion with him, making us one with him, by creating a new community of love: of friendship with him and with one another.
It is in that new community that we will experience our atonement. In that new community with its distinctive practices and virtues he will draw us into relationship with himself. For God does nothing for us, without us. Always drawing us in, asking us to share in his plans and providence. He does nothing for us, without us.
So yesterday he gave us a meal, that we might always re-member today – this day on which the Son, loving the Father and loving the world until the end, is murdered by sinful humanity. But what we still see in Jesus on the cross
through the pain and the blood – through the desolation – is that perfect communion that our humanity – in Jesus
shares with the Father. His love never falters. Even the worst we have to offer cannot disrupt that love, that communion.
And what’s more miraculous is that the Son invites us to share in that love – offering us a meal that will bind us to him. Offering us a pattern of mutual service. Giving us the commandment to love – to love God and one another. To love in a new community beyond the powers and logics of the world: an enclave of love and life in a violent world.
Jesus takes up our human story and tells it correctly, lives it perfectly. In his life – and death – he re-tells our story, lives it out according to its true pattern of loving service, humility, and charity. This retelling shows all our all-too- human stories to be tales of violence, falsehood, and deathliness. But by telling our story, living that story, as one of us he allows for all of humanity to be resituated within his retelling of our story.
Bound to him, embraced by him, he recalls us to communion with the God of infinite love who created us before the foundation of the world, who created us for that very purpose: communion.
As we share that holy meal we are made again and again and again into the community of the Kingdom, set apart from the world and its powers. We are made anew. We are made into living sacrifices – together living a life of offering, of service, of love.
So Paul writes to the Christians in Galatia: May I never boast of anything except the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, by which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world. For neither circumcision nor uncircumcision is anything; but a new creation is everything! (Gal 6.14–16).
Every time you and I – we – come to share in the meal he gave us, we are gathered by the Son before our Father, their friendship wrapped around us, drawing us in, the love of the Father overflowing from the Son to us in the grace of the Spirit.
A communion of friends – living in the friendship of Father, Son and Holy Spirit, alongside our friends in Paradise where our full and final redemption is complete, and with our friends in the pews next to us, freed from darkness and deathliness, all at one in love and service.
But our friendship was won at a cost: and one we must now, with fear and trembling, encounter in the liturgy to come so that it may touch us, body, mind and spirit. So that it may once again, in the midst of our darkness, win us for love.
Amen.