This sermon was preached on March 20, 2016 for Palm/Passion Sunday at Grace Episcopal Church in Medford, MA. The texts for this sermon were: Isaiah 50:4-9a, Philippians 2:5-11, Luke 22:14-23:56, and Psalm 31:9-16.
In the midst of all this horrific torture and sadness, we hear Jesus's words to the weeping women, the criminals beside him, and to God his Father. However, Luke only writes down three words that Jesus has to say directly to his accusers and torturers. "Then Pilate asked him, “Are you the king of the Jews?” Jesus answered, “You say so.”"
When I was a kid, there was this saying that adults would tell us to say in response to bullying. “I’m rubber, you’re glue,” they’d instruct us to chant. “Whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you!” The intent, of course, was to demonstrate that another person’s cruel comments reveal more about the bully’s character than they do about their victim’s. Granted, every time I’ve ever seen a kid try it, it’s backfired spectacularly. But that doesn’t stop me from trying to read Jesus’s response to Pilate as that defiant chant. Jesus may be physically overpowered by nails and spears and thorns, but I desperately want his spirit, and his ego, to remain unbroken. "Whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you!"
When I was a senior in high school, my father declared that it was his sacred duty to embarrass his teenage daughters as much as possible before we graduated. He finally got his chance at a mandatory, all-school rally, when he kicked off his team’s obstacle relay with the dizzy bat race. And so I watched, along with all of my classmates, as my father preceded not only to completely wipe out, but managed to take out two other math teachers on his way down. On one level, I was mortified. And on another, I was secretly proud. He’s my dad, after all. And there’s a certain goofy way he goes all in to everything he does that even my 17 year old self had to admire. I could watch and laugh and blush and know that in end he’d still be respected by the audience as the passionate, caring teacher he is. “You’re a klutz, Dad,” I’d say, rolling my eyes and he’d grin. “You say so.”
Part of me wants and needs Jesus to be rubber just as much as I wanted and needed my father to be invulnerable to the mocking of my classmates. I needed him to show me how to eat it in front of all of my colleagues and friends and get back up laughing. A bit bruised perhaps, but socially and emotionally unaffected, still cool. Rubber.
Unfortunately, there's so much more to the story today than Jesus's three word reply. There are details that force me to confront the possibility that Jesus's self-esteem wasn't as spared as I'd like it to be. Last year, Maggie and I retold today’s story to our second grade Wednesday Godly Play class. Once we got over the initial shock of the revelation that someone killed Jesus and everyone’s attention meandered away again, the topic of underwear cropped up, as it tends to do. “Actually,” I said offhandedly to the class, “Jesus was probably naked when he was on the cross.” “Naked??” one of the boys jumped up and yelled, absolutely horrified and unable to restrain himself. “NAKED??!!”
Secretly, that's my reaction, too. I recoil in horror at thought of Jesus’s public nudity on the cross. Every Sunday, we give thanks for our savior’s physical woundedness, the painful brokenness of his body, the tangible shedding of his blood. I've learned to take the unspeakable torment that is crucifixion for granted.
Instead, it is Jesus’s emotional and social vulnerability in today’s Gospel that really challenges me to accept the extremity of Christ's openness to human weakness. The public shame of Jesus’s nakedness suggests that Jesus’s sense of self may have been shaken by the soldiers’ mockery and the crowd's contempt. And that's really terrifying for me. I’m okay with Jesus’s body being horribly tortured, but I’m not okay with his feelings being hurt. As long as Jesus remained emotionally defiant and his ego protected with a securely fastened loincloth, the bad guys won't really have won. "Sticks and stones may break my bones," we also were supposed to chant. "but names will never hurt me."
But what if Jesus isn’t rubber? What does it mean for us if he is truly flesh, through and through (even his uncovered dangly bits)? What does the implication that Jesus felt humiliated on the cross and in the courtroom mean for our understanding of God's love? Are we able to accept that Jesus was ready and willing to be hurt and ashamed, to lose his followers and his dignity right along with his life?
The naked truth of the cross uncovers my reluctance to allow Jesus to give all of himself up for me. But when that's stripped away, that's when the realness of Jesus’s complete exposure to the world knocks the air out of my lungs. When it comes to love, Jesus is all in. Even to the point of death on the cross. Even to the point of ultimate shame.
Perhaps Jesus’s response to Pilate, “You say so,” can be better described as a mirror. A mirror Jesus holds up to Pilate not to protect himself from humiliation, not to bounce back a taunt and remain unscathed, but to reflect something essential back to all of us. To reveal the worst aspects of our human response to God’s radical call to love. What do we see when we look in that mirror? When we witness someone go all in for love, what do we do? Do we join in the mocking? Sit back and make cynical comments? Do we inwardly cringe at the vulnerability of it all and choose to look away?
I’ve also got to question the glue part, too. I don’t think Jesus wants us to stay stuck in those parts of ourselves. Yes, everything that Pilate did, the demands of the have done or made to others, in one way or another. I have found the seeds of every impulse to tear down and humiliate another one of God’s beloved children within myself. Maybe in dark moments you have, too.
Jesus knows this, subjects himself to those horrifying pieces of humanity, and still, in his precious few last dying breaths, he prays. “Father, forgive them.” His last act is to unstick us all.
In the midst of all this horrific torture and sadness, we hear Jesus's words to the weeping women, the criminals beside him, and to God his Father. However, Luke only writes down three words that Jesus has to say directly to his accusers and torturers. "Then Pilate asked him, “Are you the king of the Jews?” Jesus answered, “You say so.”"
When I was a kid, there was this saying that adults would tell us to say in response to bullying. “I’m rubber, you’re glue,” they’d instruct us to chant. “Whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you!” The intent, of course, was to demonstrate that another person’s cruel comments reveal more about the bully’s character than they do about their victim’s. Granted, every time I’ve ever seen a kid try it, it’s backfired spectacularly. But that doesn’t stop me from trying to read Jesus’s response to Pilate as that defiant chant. Jesus may be physically overpowered by nails and spears and thorns, but I desperately want his spirit, and his ego, to remain unbroken. "Whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you!"
When I was a senior in high school, my father declared that it was his sacred duty to embarrass his teenage daughters as much as possible before we graduated. He finally got his chance at a mandatory, all-school rally, when he kicked off his team’s obstacle relay with the dizzy bat race. And so I watched, along with all of my classmates, as my father preceded not only to completely wipe out, but managed to take out two other math teachers on his way down. On one level, I was mortified. And on another, I was secretly proud. He’s my dad, after all. And there’s a certain goofy way he goes all in to everything he does that even my 17 year old self had to admire. I could watch and laugh and blush and know that in end he’d still be respected by the audience as the passionate, caring teacher he is. “You’re a klutz, Dad,” I’d say, rolling my eyes and he’d grin. “You say so.”
Part of me wants and needs Jesus to be rubber just as much as I wanted and needed my father to be invulnerable to the mocking of my classmates. I needed him to show me how to eat it in front of all of my colleagues and friends and get back up laughing. A bit bruised perhaps, but socially and emotionally unaffected, still cool. Rubber.
Unfortunately, there's so much more to the story today than Jesus's three word reply. There are details that force me to confront the possibility that Jesus's self-esteem wasn't as spared as I'd like it to be. Last year, Maggie and I retold today’s story to our second grade Wednesday Godly Play class. Once we got over the initial shock of the revelation that someone killed Jesus and everyone’s attention meandered away again, the topic of underwear cropped up, as it tends to do. “Actually,” I said offhandedly to the class, “Jesus was probably naked when he was on the cross.” “Naked??” one of the boys jumped up and yelled, absolutely horrified and unable to restrain himself. “NAKED??!!”
Secretly, that's my reaction, too. I recoil in horror at thought of Jesus’s public nudity on the cross. Every Sunday, we give thanks for our savior’s physical woundedness, the painful brokenness of his body, the tangible shedding of his blood. I've learned to take the unspeakable torment that is crucifixion for granted.
Instead, it is Jesus’s emotional and social vulnerability in today’s Gospel that really challenges me to accept the extremity of Christ's openness to human weakness. The public shame of Jesus’s nakedness suggests that Jesus’s sense of self may have been shaken by the soldiers’ mockery and the crowd's contempt. And that's really terrifying for me. I’m okay with Jesus’s body being horribly tortured, but I’m not okay with his feelings being hurt. As long as Jesus remained emotionally defiant and his ego protected with a securely fastened loincloth, the bad guys won't really have won. "Sticks and stones may break my bones," we also were supposed to chant. "but names will never hurt me."
But what if Jesus isn’t rubber? What does it mean for us if he is truly flesh, through and through (even his uncovered dangly bits)? What does the implication that Jesus felt humiliated on the cross and in the courtroom mean for our understanding of God's love? Are we able to accept that Jesus was ready and willing to be hurt and ashamed, to lose his followers and his dignity right along with his life?
The naked truth of the cross uncovers my reluctance to allow Jesus to give all of himself up for me. But when that's stripped away, that's when the realness of Jesus’s complete exposure to the world knocks the air out of my lungs. When it comes to love, Jesus is all in. Even to the point of death on the cross. Even to the point of ultimate shame.
Perhaps Jesus’s response to Pilate, “You say so,” can be better described as a mirror. A mirror Jesus holds up to Pilate not to protect himself from humiliation, not to bounce back a taunt and remain unscathed, but to reflect something essential back to all of us. To reveal the worst aspects of our human response to God’s radical call to love. What do we see when we look in that mirror? When we witness someone go all in for love, what do we do? Do we join in the mocking? Sit back and make cynical comments? Do we inwardly cringe at the vulnerability of it all and choose to look away?
I’ve also got to question the glue part, too. I don’t think Jesus wants us to stay stuck in those parts of ourselves. Yes, everything that Pilate did, the demands of the have done or made to others, in one way or another. I have found the seeds of every impulse to tear down and humiliate another one of God’s beloved children within myself. Maybe in dark moments you have, too.
Jesus knows this, subjects himself to those horrifying pieces of humanity, and still, in his precious few last dying breaths, he prays. “Father, forgive them.” His last act is to unstick us all.
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