“And many women were there, watching from a distance;
the same women who had followed Jesus from Galilee
and ministered to Him.” –Matthew 27:55
My usually approach to contemplating scripture is to see what stands out to me as I read it—what troubles me, or confuses me; what makes me pause and wonder why. And this morning as I was reading the Passion narrative from Matthew, there were a few bits and pieces that caught me off guard. First this passage about the women, which makes me think about how often it is the women who remain faithful, who stand up when there is trouble and never turn away: mothers, wives, sisters standing by the bedside of the dying, visiting the sick, holding the hand of the prisoner . Why is that women are the ones who so often show this courage (or faithfulness)? Is it because women so often go unnoticed? That soldiers and guards don’t feel threatened by their presence, don’t even acknowledge it often enough. Them—they’re just women. That humility and that invisibility, is it something that women learn early in life and is it that abuse or that bias that gives these women the courage to remain close to Jesus, after all the apostles (males) have fled in terror and confusion?
I wondered about that for a bit. And then I wondered about an interesting image from the Garden of Gethsemane scene. What caught my attention this time was the three disciples that Jesus took with Him when he went off to be alone: Peter, James and John (cf. Mt 26: 36-46). The same three He took with Him when He was transfigured on the mountain (cf. Mt. 17: 1-8). I also noticed another similarity. In both cases a cloud comes over Jesus. On the mountain it is a literal cloud (the presence of God), but here it is a figurative cloud—a sadness and anguish. And reading this morning, I wondered: Was this moment not another kind of transfiguration? On the mountain the disciples witnessed the Godliness of Jesus through a transfiguration, and here they glimpse (perhaps only for a moment) the fullness of His humanity through His anguish. He tells the three, “My soul is sorrowful to the point of death…” And just like on the mountain, the three friends are found on the ground, there in fear and awe; here in the garden they are exhausted and have fallen asleep. So again I wonder, why? Is Matthew trying to tell us something with these parallels, or am I just misreading these stories through my own idiosyncratic lens?
But then something else occurred to me. The story itself: the Passion and death of Our Lord. What does it mean to us? What does it teach us about the Love of God? And what does it teach us about what we should expect from a Christian life?
“Take up your cross, the master said, if you would my disciple be…” sings the old hymn. And so we are reminded again and again of that call to follow Christ, and what it means to follow Him.
But still, we hear this same story year after year, over and over again. For almost 2100 years, now. And yet, we still seem to expect a different ending. Every year as we read this story—a kind of strange anticipatory hope comes over me, as if this time—perhaps—the disciples won’t flee, this time, the guards won’t abuse, this time the priests won’t spit, this time Pilate won’t give in, this time Judas won’t betray. This time, things will be different. This time victory won’t come in the form of a cross. But that is my way, that is our way; it isn’t God’s way.
“Take up your cross, the master said, if you would my disciple be…” the old hymn sings. And yet we still look for another way, an easier way. We look for a victory that feels more safe, that seems more comfortable, more to our liking—more victorious (by our standards). But that isn’t the victory God chose, and it isn’t the victory He calls us to.
Each time you look at the cross, you see the victory of Christ, the throne—so to speak—of God’s victory. So why after hearing this story for 2100 years do we keep looking, hoping, expecting something easier, something different? Why do we keep thinking we should be able to have victory without the cross? Hosannas without the Passion?
Recently I read or heard someone talking about how anti-Catholic (or anti-Christian) bigotry was the last acceptable prejudice. I don’t know if this is true or not, but the speaker seemed quite indignant about it. And this morning I am wondering –why not? If Christians are truly following their master, shouldn’t they expect to be rejected? Shouldn’t they expect that the only crown they will receive in this world will come with thorns, and it will be bejeweled only by the drops of their own blood.
Instead of demanding glory, or mercy or even respect, when faced with the brutality of sin, Jesus accepted the abuse and gave "[His] back to those who beat me/ [His] cheeks to those who plucked [His] beard;/ [His] face [He] did not shield from buffets and spitting." (cf. Isaiah 50:4-7).
Why do Chrsitians imagine anything else? As Jesus warned us, if they treat the
Master in this way, will they treat His servants any better? (cf. John 15:20) Instead of demanding respect, perhaps Christians should follow the example given in Isaiah; stop trying to protect our faces from the spitting and our backs from the beatings, and take up our Cross and follow our King--to His throne.
After 2100 years, there are still so many lessons for us to learn, and I fear—none of them will come easy.
I wish you a blessed Holy Week and I pray that you will find, as you take up your own particular cross, that you are not alone. There is someone’s shoulder lifting it right there beside you.
God Bless you, and I will see you the other side of Easter!
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