Emphasis Preaching Journal

I have lived long enough to discover the truth of this principle time and again. In any given relationship, it is the party that wants less from the relationship that gets what they want. The party that wants less is the one who ends up determining what that relationship will be.

We see that principle played out poignantly in so many love stories through the years. Scarlett and Rhett, as a classic example, couldn’t seem to manage ten consecutive minutes of happiness together, for they were so rarely both all-in at the same time. And, at a much more ordinary level, if this boy wants to date this girl but this girl only wants to be friends, they’re just going to be friends.  The party that wants less is the one who determines what will become of the relationship.

And the phenomenon isn’t limited to just human relationships.  Here is the happy dog that comes jumping and happily greeting the owner, but if the owner isn’t in the mood, then there won’t be any lap time for that dog.  Conversely, the person who beckons and clicks and sweet-talks the aloof cat will likely come up empty: the cat, for the moment at least, wants less, and so less is what the relationship will be. 

The most serious version of this principle, of course, gets played out in the relationship between human beings and God. We are in no position to force ourselves on him, and he shows again and again that he will not force himself on us.  This is the one, after all, who stands at the door and knocks (Revelation 3:20).  What an astonishingly unforceful thing for an omnipotent God to do! 

And so the question is how the relational principle applies in this divine-human relationship. Is it like Scarlett and Rhett where the two parties have varying levels of commitment at different times?  Is it like the boy who has a crush on a disinterested girl? Is it like either the curmudgeonly dog owner or the disinterested cat? 

The Lord assures us that he does not change (Malachi 3:6) and the writer of Hebrews tells us elsewhere that Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever (13:8).  We may assume, therefore, that if a person’s relationship with the Lord runs hot and cold, the variance is not on the divine end. Furthermore, as we shall see in our selected passages for this week, the Lord’s remarkable will is always to draw us nearer to himself. In this relationship, amazingly, he seems to be always the one who wants more. And so, if the principle applies in our relationship with him, then the mind-boggling truth of the matter is that we are the ones who determine what will become of this relationship.  He has his gracious way of working in our lives, to be sure, but he does not force his will on us. 

On this Good Friday, then, let us meditate on the God who comes to us, and who is eager that we should come nearer to him. 

Isaiah 52:13--53:12
Twice on the first Easter — once in the afternoon (Luke 24:27) and then again in the evening (Luke 24:44-45) — Jesus employed the Old Testament to teach his disciples about himself. We are not privy to the details of that lesson plan.  It is easy for us to imagine, however, that this passage from Isaiah 52 and 53 was a part of what Jesus explained to them.  And we know that this passage was instrumental in Philip bringing the Ethiopian eunuch to faith in Christ (Acts 8:26-40). 

The preacher will have a choice about how to present this material. Clearly there are historical questions, theological predispositions, and hermeneutical principles that might factor into our presentation of this material. Yet my heart tells me that, on Good Friday, those sorts of issues would be quite out of place. They would be a distraction from what should be the spirit of this occasion — and of the role of this passage on this occasion. This is a moment for a devotional spirit and a meditative focus.

Accordingly, let us read and reflect on our Old Testament lection in a devoutly contemplative way. Specifically, let us hear it as the voice of God as he looks on the cross. He is, after all, the implicit speaker in the passage. And the cross is, we conclude with Philip, the ultimate setting of the passage. So hear what the Father says of the son as he dies on the cross.

The initial reference to “my servant” may strike us as impersonal at first, for we have a narrower understanding of “servant” than what is found in scripture. To be the Lord’s servant is not to be oppressed or confined; it is the highest honor. And to the extent that a servant does the Master’s will and serves the Master’s purpose, who is more rightly called “servant” than Jesus on the cross?

We are met immediately with a paradox, which pervades the passage, and which we understand is appropriate to the cross.  On the one hand, the Lord says that his servant is high, is lifted up, and is greatly exalted. And yet, in the next moment, we are reading that he was unspectacular in his appearance, not one to whom others are drawn. Indeed, quite the contrary: he became one from whom people hide their faces. Despised and rejected.  A man of sorrows.  Surely this is the Christ of the cross.

Meanwhile, some human being has taken over the role of speaker. We don’t know who he is, but his identity does matter, for he speaks for us. He looks at Christ on the cross, and he speaks on our behalf in the first-person-plural.  Our sicknesses. Our pain. Our transgressions.  Our wounds. The cross is not an arm’s-length event.  It may be two-thousand years ago and six-thousand miles away, yet it is a personal event. It involves us, and we are invited to join the human speaker in turning our reverent attention to the cross.

Then come the explanatory statements: what is being done to him is being done for us. He does not deserve the pain, and we do not deserve the redemption. Yet this was the will of God, and his servant is carrying it out.

Some in our day reject the doctrine of substitutionary atonement. In Isaiah 53, though, it is more than a doctrine: it is a portrait. The prophet paints a profound and beautiful picture of the Lord using his servant to bear the sins of others and to affect their justification. 

And the faithful servant is not left for dead. No, for he will see his offspring and he will prolong his days. God’s purposes will prosper in him, and he will be satisfied.  And so, even in the midst of this poignant portrait of the cross, we find language and promises that point beyond.

Hebrews 10:16-25
In newspapers, magazines, many online sites, and so many social media posts, pictures have captions. We have long claimed that a picture is worth a thousand words, yet still we seem to find it necessary to add words to our pictures. And rightly so, for pictures so often deserve explanation or elaboration.

I think, for example, of the numbers of times that I have read a children’s book to one of my children or grandchildren before they were capable of reading for themselves the words that were on the page. I would read the words, but I would go beyond that as they sat on my lap. I would point to elements of the picture — the part of the page that they could understand at a young age — and talk about the things portrayed there. 

So it is that our selected passages for this week feature both a picture and a caption. The pictures are offered in the Old Testament and gospel lections. The author of Hebrews, meanwhile, furnishes the caption.  Both Isaiah and John in their own paint pictures for us of Christ’s suffering and death. But those pictures — beautiful as they are — benefit from some elaboration and explanation. And so the epistle passage gives us the words to proclaim along with the pictures that people will see on this Good Friday.

The caption begins with a recitation from the prophet Jeremiah. Jeremiah lived in unspeakably troubled times, yet even in the midst of the people’s sin and the necessary judgment, still the Lord spoke to them Good News of what he had in mind and in store. The heart of God, after all, is always one of love and redemption. And so he speaks to those people a good word about a new covenant, and the New Testament author of Hebrews understands that that promise of a new covenant is being fulfilled in Christ. 

And then, interestingly, immediately in the wake of the prophecy about a new covenant, the writer of Hebrews takes the reader back into images and language of the old covenant. With the Tabernacle of the Old Testament in view, the writer speaks of entering into the holy place, the veil, the blood, a priest, and washing with water. This is all the sort of stuff we find in Exodus and Leviticus.  What of the new covenant just mentioned?

In God’s wisdom, the new covenant is not a 180-degree departure from the old. Not at all. Rather, the new covenant is built upon the foundation of the old.  The new completes and fulfills the old.  And so there is, in fact, great continuity between the two, which is why the language and imagery of the old serves to explain the new.

The people of Israel were accustomed to a tabernacle/temple architecture, along with a ritual system, that spoke to them of the holiness of God and their separation from him. Blood and water were the means of cleansing so that a person could come into even the holy precincts of his presence. Blood and water were necessary for the priests to do their holy work even nearer to God’s presence.  And, in the greatest move toward proximity with God, the high priest could carry blood behind the veil into the most holy place.

Against that backdrop, then, the writer of Hebrews invites us — all of us — to come into the holy place, into the very presence of God.  How is that possible?  Through the flesh and blood of Jesus.

That, then, is where Hebrews offers the caption to go beneath the pictures painted by Isaiah and John. Jesus’ death on the cross inaugurates the new covenant. And in that new covenant, we are not kept at a distance from God as in the old.  Rather, we are invited near, the way having been made for us by Christ. His blood is sufficient, and by it we are atoned for and cleansed.  The passages from Isaiah and John show pictures of suffering and death. The caption from Hebrews, meanwhile, tells of salvation and nearness to God.

John 18:1--19:42
Our gospel lection is a long one, but it, like Jesus’ tunic, is seamless, and it deserves not to be torn in pieces. And so, on this Good Friday, we hear and meditate on the whole story. We cannot do justice to the whole thing, but still it deserves to be held before our eyes as a whole.

The story moves quickly from one place to the next.  It begins in the setting where the Last Supper has just concluded and moves from there to a garden across the Kidron. Next, the narrative moves to the house of Annas. From the house of Annas, we follow Jesus to Caiaphas. From there, Jesus is taken to the Praetorium.  That larger setting likely featured several different locations within it where Jesus was questioned, was beaten, and was presented to the crowd. From there he was sent to Golgotha. And, finally, his body was taken to a garden where there was a tomb. 

Across the quick changes of scenery, the one constant is Jesus. The supporting cast (though that term is rather a misnomer in this case) changes from one setting to the next, but Jesus is always at the center. And He is, indeed, the constant. As we noted above, the writer of Hebrews declared that “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever” (13:8). Indeed, he is. And, specifically, we see that he is the same in suffering, in injustice, and in death as he had been in life. 

The fact that Jesus is always at the center is its own sort of message. At a human level, of course, we might dismiss the fact that Jesus is at the center just by reason of the fact that the entire book is written about him. Yet there is something bigger going on.  For in that moment, Jesus was a seemingly powerless figure.  He had no rank.  The chief priests were free to conspire against him with impunity. The soldiers could mock and torture him without fear. And Pilate could sentence him or not — the power, he thought, was entirely his.  Yet we look back on the whole story, and we see that Jesus was indeed at the center of it all.  Pilate, arguably the most important (certainly the highest ranking) human being in the whole narrative is, twenty centuries later, known around the world mostly just because of his encounter with Jesus.  Jesus was at the center.  Scripture assures us that he always has been and that he always will be. 

The character of Christ in this narrative is seen clearly in contrast to all of those around him. In Judas, we recognize cowardice and betrayal. In Peter we see violence, fear, and disloyalty. In the Jewish leaders, we sense vindictiveness and dishonesty. In Pilate there is indecision, arrogance, and a lack of courage to do what he knows is right. There is a numb, brutal, and bloodthirsty quality to the soldiers. And even the good souls who come forward to honor Jesus’ corpse are suggestive of weakness, for Joseph followed Jesus secretly for fear of the Jews while Nicodemus is remembered as having come to Jesus by night. 

Over against all of those stands the example of Jesus. He knows what is coming for him, but he does not flee or seek escape. He does not resist or even resent. He deals straightforwardly and fearlessly with everyone — those who arrest and those who defend; those who accuse and those who judge. And while he is dying on the cross, he is not self-absorbed: not angry and self-pitying.  Instead, he is compassionate, thinking of others and caring for his mother.  He is faithful and unselfish from beginning to end.  And so, while the events reported and remembered this day are unlovely, the one who is at the center of them all is beautiful beyond compare. 

Application
Sometimes, in our admittedly vain and superficial world, we see a couple and wonder how those two people ended up together. The one, it seems to us, is so very much more desirable than the other.  “How did he ever get her,” we wonder — or perhaps the other way around. 

But there is no greater mismatch than the love relationship between God and humanity. He is holy and eternal. He is beyond description and comprehension. For him we employ words like majesty, glory, otherness, and a series of “omnis.” 

Human beings, on the other hand: well, we are finite and puny. In many ways, we resemble the animal kingdom more than the kingdom of God with our sensuality, our devotion to our appetites, and our sometimes cruel survival instincts.  We are often self-absorbed, we chronically fall short of even our own best ideals, and while being “creatures capable of God,”1 we still routinely settle for less. 

Perhaps an angel sees this pairing and asks, “How did he end up with them?” 

And to add irony to this already unfathomable mismatch, he is the one who wants more out of this relationship.  We, on the other hand, are the ones who keep our distance. We are the ones who so often rebuff his overtures. It is beyond ridiculous.

We catch a glimpse of his heart and his gracious overtures in today’s assigned scripture readings. The passage from Hebrews speaks to us of the newcovenant relationship the Lord desires to have with his people. Furthermore, it depicts the remarkably open invitation into his holy presence. 

The passage from Isaiah, meanwhile, captures a part of the inequity of this relationship.  We esteem him not while he suffers for us. We have gone astray, yet our iniquities are laid on him. We are the ones who are guilty and sick, yet he is the one stricken and striped. At a glance, we would think this is all the stuff of injustice.  But, no: it is grace.  

And the extended passage from John, of course, tells the actual story. Isaiah foreshadows it and Hebrews explains it, but John narrates it. And it is the story of the one whose love for us does not wait for us to come nearer to him: he comes first to us. He comes to us and lovingly provides the way for us to come to him — for us to be with him forever.  

How did we end up with him? This immeasurable mismatch is only by grace. 

Alternative Application(s)
John 19:38-42 — “Disciples of a Dead Lord”
What are we to make of Joseph and Nicodemus?

Joseph appears out of the blue. Nicodemus we had met earlier in the story.  But it seems unclear what we are to think about them.

Nicodemus hardly distinguished himself in his first appearance.  He comes to Jesus by night, the symbolism of which is unflattering to him. And while Jesus engages in a very fruitful back-and-forth with the Samaritan woman just one chapter later, his dialogue with this “teacher of Israel” seems to have been a failure.  Nicodemus doesn’t appear to understand what Jesus is saying.  He is consequently unresponsive.  And we never actually see him exit — let alone go off evangelizing like the woman we meet next.

Joseph of Arimathea, meanwhile, holds a sentimental place in our hearts because he furnished the garden tomb that was used by Jesus ever so briefly.  We love him for his hospitality. Yet the detail that John gives us about him — that he was “a disciple of Jesus, but a secret one for fear of the Jews” — raises eyebrows. 

In C.S. Lewis’ The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Lucy is startled to find out that Aslan, whom she is soon to meet, is a lion. She asks if he is quite safe.  And Mr. Beaver quickly retorts that, no, of course he is not safe — he’s a lion!  But then Mr. Beaver adds that he is good. 

Lewis makes a fascinating — and clearly a deliberate — choice to represent Christ with a creature who is not safe. I’m sure that reveals something about Lewis’ own Christology.  And it challenges us to examine our own. 

How many church folks prefer a tame Jesus to the Christ of scriptures? If only he always only had the children on his knee.  If only he weren’t turning over tables, crying “woe” to the hypocrites, preaching about judgment, calling us to forget ourselves and take up crosses, and insisting on being our greatest love. 

I wonder to what extent Joseph and Nicodemus serve as the patron saints of a great many church folks? For those two men, it seems, knew better what to do when Jesus was dead than when he was alive. After Jesus had died, they came forward with their gifts and their procedures.  But while Jesus was alive, Nicodemus was all question marks and Joseph was nowhere to be found. 

These would-be heroes of Good Friday afternoon are unsettling characters for us to consider. To what extent do we see ourselves when we look at them?  To what extent are we more comfortable with a dead Lord?  He is, after all, much less demanding that way.

After some joint community service sponsored by a number of the churches in the area, I saw a number of emails go back and forth among the participating clergy. They were reflecting together on the service — what had gone well and what could be improved in the future.  One clergyperson apparently felt very positive about the service, and she wrote in her email, “The Lord would be so pleased!” 

“Would be”?  That sounds rather like the way I have heard people refer to how we imagine the deceased would have felt about their own funeral service. It is not how we talk about someone who is alive and well.  And yet here was a clergyperson referring to the Lord as though he were not alive and well.

Perhaps with Joseph and Nicodemus before our eyes this day, we might call our people to a new level of courage in their Christian living. Let us have the courage to follow Jesus as he is. Not an exemplary character from the pages of history, but a living Lord who commands our daily allegiance. Not a dead man whose teachings we follow, but a living Lord whose person we follow. Let us eschew all the sentimental spices for the corpse and live robustly with and for the Lord. 


1 Charles Wesley, “Sinners, Turn, Why Will You Die,” UMH #346.