Psalm 126
OT Reading: Isaiah 43.16-21
NT Reading: Philippians 3.4b-14
Gospel : John 12.1-8
To-day is Passion Sunday. We Christians are a people defined by a narrative, and the drama at the very heart of that narrative is the Passion of Christ, the story of Jesus’ suffering and death.
Last Tuesday, at the Lent Group which has been meeting in my house, we were struggling with the question: what do you think about the idea that the death of Jesus somehow shows us the image of God. We have been taught to believe that somehow, in and through Jesus’ suffering – his Passion – good triumphed over evil, life triumphed over death. On the cross Jesus won the decisive victory over the powers of darkness, the victory confirmed by his triumphant resurrection. Yet the harder we try to find words to explain how that decisive victory was brought about, the more difficult it becomes to make sense of it all as the plan of a God whose name is Love. The Passion of Christ is a bit like the elephant in the room – an enormous presence, but one we have to tiptoe around because we cannot begin to describe it, much less to comprehend its meaning.
If you feel like that, don’t be ashamed to admit it. You are not alone. Last week, a wide-ranging Church Times survey of the theology of salvation pointed out that the reconciliation between God and ourselves which flows from the cross is fundamentally an experience, something which happens to the Christian. Theoretical accounts of that process are inevitably more speculative, and less certain, than the experience itself. Since Jesus suffered and died as he had lived, his passion – his suffering and death – expressed what lay at the heart of his life – his understanding of the nature of the loving God whom he knew as his Father. But this too is an argument rooted in what we suppose to have been Jesus’ experience. The article goes on to suggest that we should take an eclectic approach to the many models of atonement, allowing each to offer its own partial perspective on the mysterious and multi-faceted drama of God’s action on the Cross.
The metaphors that have been used to illuminate Christ’s Passion include at least two that have their roots in the culture and language of sacrifice: one such approach sees Jesus’ sacrifice as a substitution for the death which would otherwise be the sinner’s fate. Many of us find great difficulty with such merciless justice. Another approach places more emphasis on the healing function of sacrifice. Others see the cross in terms of the slave’s redemption. Then there is the language of the victim, whose paradoxical victory has the capacity to transform our entire world view, especially if we link it with Paul’s perception that we can be ‘in Christ’. If our life is ‘hidden with Christ in God’ not only are we are safe from condemnation, we are gracefully included in his victory. Other important insights include the conviction that God really does suffer for us; in Christ God has in some way taken the experience of the cross into the divine experience, bringing the world’s suffering and its sin into and onto Godself. Whatever the mechanism, most Christians affirm that, somehow or other, the cross has been used by God to absorb evil, rather than to foment and spread it by a culture of retribution and retaliation. Thus Jesus’ acceptance of the Cross, provoking not his anger but the definitive expression of his love, makes the decisive break in the cycle of violence. Jesus’ reversal of the negative spiral of hatred, replicated in those who follow him, may indeed be seen to have the capacity to transform the world.
If you find this wealth of imagery contradictory and confusing, rather than helpful, you may prefer the alternative approach which draws inspiration from each scene within the Passion narrative. This is closer to the approach followed by Bach. The Passion according to St John, which is to be performed in church this evening, sets the whole text of John chapters 18 and 19, amplifying it with a selection of poems and hymns that seek to draw us into the narrative. When Peter and another disciple – perhaps John himself – follow Jesus into the palace of the High Priest, we have an Aria which invites the listener, like them, to follow Jesus. With the soloist we are moved to pray for God’s continual guidance, drawing us on, nudging, inviting us to go with him. When the soldiers strike Christ, the chorus does not merely reflect the injustice of such action, but asks us to recognise that it is our sins that have brought such misery on him and on the whole host of martyrs down the ages. When Peter denies his master, and Jesus turns to look at him, the chorus pleads that he will look at us too, when we have done wrong, and stir our consciences. And so the story continues, drawing us into each incident, so that we are part of the action and exposed to Christ’s influence as he endures his Passion, his suffering, for our sake.
Such an approach may not satisfy the theologian, who must strive to find the key to the whole mystery, but it remains a valid approach for many of us. This is our narrative, and as we meditate upon it, we open our hearts to the influence of the figure who quietly dominates the scene. We pray with the chorus in the opening movement that we will be shown the mystery of Jesus’ glorification in and through his Passion. At the end, as we gently lay to rest the body of Christ, we pray that we may continue to meditate upon that narrative, and give thanks. This is our defining narrative, leading us through the momentous events which somehow changed the world. If we immerse ourselves in them now, praying that the Spirit of Christ may enter into us as we do so, who knows how we and our world may be changed by his grace at work in our hearts.